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Connor Reid Apr 2014
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2012
Not for every one heavy religious thoughts expressed

This is my declaration of war know it or not we are in a battle life is a battle and when you are the one
Getting stomped on you are in distress and hard pressed to make clear decisions by divine entreaty
We are called onto love one another and that means coming along side and bearing your burden and
Fighting with and for you your life is of many different situations I see mine as a battle field medic and
One who reports on the fighting I am like my friend in the service who came back from Nam before he
Was a medic but the Cong fixed that now he fought fires along side with the the rest of us but we were in the
Bathroom cleaning up after a fire he had his shirt off and when you were in his prescence his nature
Was more than just fragile he was damaged in a life altering sense now I understood as I looked at
Several bullet holes wounds on his chest and back that had to be fixed by skin grafts it mapped his love
Of country and when boys his age lie wounded and dying they holler medic and then before dying they
Gently weep calling on their precious mother far away that always is mending their hurts but this time
Jesus and His angels rush in to stand by and guard with their love and by lifting up this tired and finished
Warrior wrapped in old glories beautiful red white and blue taking him where a flag that stands in the
Center of glory land it emblem is a lamb slain on a cross blooded and wounded from his love of his lost
Children tears from here to heaven float in the great blackness of our universe perpetually it goes along
With this Quote from Keats they never end either his lines says “A thing of beauty is a joy forever its
Loveliness increases it will never pass into nothingness” another is two hearts beat as one if you think
I’m insincere my tears just fell writing these lines causing hurt again for my wife that must listen but I
Rush to your bleeding wounded hearts on a spiritual battle field my bandages are tear soaked to wrap
Your wounds as you have cried help medic I cry Jesus in this scene depicts from Daniel Gabriel had come
To Daniel’s battle field after Daniel had prayed and fasted twenty one days this is a familiar your story to
Most but his is what I want to share it says I heard a man’s voice from the Ulai river calling Gabriel tell
This man the meaning of the vision and it goes on to say this was an angel of higher rank come to assist
This is another item in my medical bag to help the unknown comes into view in the army there is a chain
Of command it is true of the army of God as well you lay wounded God flashes your call of need through
The spirit world in your case who is reading this you see me only but as the prophet of old faced an army
Of men he feared nothing as he looked on the mighty host of heaven arrayed and fully armed for battle
He was the only one that stood between the deaths of these enemies who as you and I only see the
Immediate through writing beautiful words and revealing unseen powers I’m going to give you the
Power to not be afraid not just words but heavenly beings as your vanguard from your knees alone the
Enemy will be put to flight this still comes from looking down a familiar street and in my mind’s eye
Seeing your pain and suffering at that moment I was alone in the dark car but worse I felt helpless
And alone the thing I did right through great tears and pain I cried and asked God to help me to help
Others this is a first in a series to do that very thing one last thing I offer another angel encounter
This my own at home in California I lost my Job for some reason I had to go to the bank what fun
Money becomes scarce as meat on a skeleton and I go where it is stacked sky high well as I walked
Outside and set on the bench away from everyone and everything a man walked up he looked familiar
In this since his clothes looked the way I felt they had seen better days and the special thing he was
Caring a book just a paperback but it looked like the one I carried I never go out without a book and
Lot of times I carry a bag full of them he was friendly easy to listen to he told me that he lived in
The hills our towns entry sign and letter head from the city depicts hills the highest Mission Peak
As he talked my pressure and wild thoughts settled though we were setting in the sun I felt a comfort
You find setting under a great oak I’m not flipping and I’m not advocating hugging trees but I feel
The angel was said to speak from the river not a stretch everything in this world is controlled by God
First his word alone holds it altogether but beyond that with the extensive reading I have done it
Clearly shows angels are first in charge of your lives and your safety but all living things are under their
Charge and in a minute I’m going to include two pieces that speak of hill and a great Oak well as all
Things do our visit ended and then I knew the person who I had been talking wasn’t a man after all
When he said he stayed in the hills meant a lot more I come to this conclusion because this man
Interested me in my turmoil he pops up and leaves me with a feeling of well being and then the facts
Bare it out we were sitting by this building that sets by itself at a good distance you have small trees that
A rabbit couldn’t hide behind and every direction is open country well I fiddled with my book
For the briniest moment I guess I was thinking about his I look up and he is gone someone comes into
Your life and touches you well one last look would be nice I didn’t run but I briskly walked to the end
Of the building I was already at this end he was nowhere to be found shortly after this I wrote this
Piece about our church and the church yard just up the street the hills flank the length of the city
See if you think his presence lingers and flows on to the page on last thing because of an affliction
I am only allowed twenty minutes at a time on the computer legs and feet problem I spent five hours
The other day no sleep that night so elated all day and my wife made care giver gives me a taste of
Ireland as she screams for me to get off I ran over an hour and a little try to write with the scream of
A banshee behind you this was supposed to be a small piece I never write twelve hundred words I said
That to say can’t check for errors you can have fun finding my mistakes will fix on my next allotted time
You can’t take this to the bank to the bank but I think I suffer from another common malady it’s called
Being hen pecked but it the good kind of hurt here is the church piece then the Oak

Shadow of Eden
In this savage land we call home
There is a pastoral valley that has the richest texture of heaven
This treasured sheep gate beckons tenderly says welcome
These hills and slopes the repository of our hopes
The savior poised in their gentle steeps, for the city weeps
Sweet spirit that fills this natural expanse soft as the breeze
Each tired weary soul you refresh with a quiet hush
We are shown the wisdom of not being in a rush
Unseen pillars tower revealing your mighty power
Written on the pillars at the world side is come unto me
On the church side seek the lost at any cost
The Devil expresses defiance the church makes Heaven her alliance
Wayward souls tormented seeking an oasis dying of thirst
Today we fill these pots of clay and determine to go out of our way
Seeking those that hunger and thirst by this Christ we manifest
To the world the church is ghostly not completely visible
It shimmers as though it isn’t real blindly they feel about
In your life they find solid ground clear of the mist
They finish a terrible journey now they feed from all their needs freed
No longer exhausted from continually milling about
The Sheppard stands holy watch and cast a confidant shadow
In this respite feeding and richly nourished they grow strong
Gladness quietly cascades from spiritual hills of splendor
By angles man sees more than just the coarse and obvious he sees the heart of all living things
That reveals the heart and Genius of the one that made it all a great package that each newborn
Finds he tears a way layer upon layer of wrappings love joy hope possibility of dreams that await
And so much more your I just added this you’re never too old to go back to that place where
Wonder still remembers you its polite to revisit in fact it is required for good health and a
Positive mind where is it now where else would human birth occur except at angel central

Lost Friend
This is just a few lines written to celebrate the generations of one Paso Robles family, and their parallel existence with one of nature’s monarchs that was destroyed in recent storm.
You will always remain in my mind.
I can’t remember when you weren’t watching.
Tall strong, graceful shade the bewitching kind.
Long ago a fellow relative started your stately reign.
This our home place he surveyed.
His eye, the land did fill with awe.
From this bond through a lowly seed he prayed
Bless this spot; many a day has he spoken from the oak.
Grandeur over stretched grandmother’s dwelling.
We could only marvel at thy great strength.
From your great silence serenity you were telling.
Shot and blasted against the sky, fireworks of wood.
Clothed in rough hardened bark
what comfort and wisdom you inspired.
Who understands the wonder, my soul you did mark
your size triggered the greatest gift, curiosity.
Branches the wind passing through what mournful cry
Nature’s tune sublime given to delight as only a sad ballad can evoke
Nothing else should try
To match violins in the sky.
My eyes see it in a grand sweep
The ground brought forth a stately wooden crown
Of blackest oak to stand tall and steep
A gentle giant to greet the wayward wind.
Two divergent seeds the ground did divide.
One of wooden grain the other flesh and blood
their branches throughout the community do abide
as charming as church bells ringing, touching all.
And just one more in case you need it friend if you don’t get it
I have lived through some hell in my live now I think it’s time to return
The favor I’m going to give hell all the heat I can that is white heat of love to the suffering
And oh so awful to him but his fire is going to gage on these pages like the fires I used to
Fight in the service as a servant to my country now I’m your servant and I’m fired up I fought
Bullies all through school now I plan to fight the biggest one for you

Sorry I think you could use some granite in your fight

Vaulted sky
Shaded canyon breathtaking heights does the angry wind speak if so in a whisper the granite peaks austere and bleak seem to frown on the trees and lowly grass lands with their fertility and ease of growth. While he the monarch bristling with his cold barren armor of granite invites the stares the awe inspired gratitude of nature and mortal man he knows there dreams and thoughts how many have stood at the edge of wonder on his brow with fainted hearts. Their thoughts drift out and away ever upward reaching the clouds filled and clothed with mountain air brightly they are displayed in these untamable rays. Voices of the ancient ones still echo their wisdom still resounds in the summer thunder they visited and released many a tortured soul. Before Blind they stood before the closed door of their minds knowing there is a path but where can it be found. Riches unbound await the searcher who will go to any and all lengths to conquer unbelief freedom his guiding star he walks in great shadows. Mountainous men Jefferson Lincoln his stalwart companions stand with grandest stature takes from the mountain those teachings not found in musty universities. Thoughts born on creations morn formed and laid on this rocky foundation now for centuries they have bore the weight this colossus purified they are words more noble than gold. Share them invest them in the borderless world of human kind that circle the globe. Moses was familiar and consorted with mountains the angel made one his sepulcher. Waste not the golden hours they are the thread that sows life’s most exquisite moments together making a life. Turn aside seek the heights they will give you respect and honor words will flow that are uncommon they will fit any and all circumstances filling the empty void where hearts bleed without ceasing. Your voice will be like the cool mountain breeze soothing filled with substance and comfort.

Well three hours must I tell you in the dog house and no feathers left it was worth it for me
I hope for you too

Where God passes
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
Q Jun 2014
King come down
The King come down
There's not a single frown
As the King come down.

The people run just like they die:
With a sudden silence
And a cease of non-existent existence
That ends the accepted fiction.

King come down
The King come down
Not a single frown
Oh, the King come down!

Nine, nine, nine
Two, four, zero
Two and eight
Pause. Wait.

Ignore the grafts.
Don't speak or make sound.
Ignore the grafts.
The King come down.

King come down
The King come down
Your people do not frown
THE KING COME DOWN.
I'm honestly not sure if I want this to be understood
I

Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.

The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.

II

In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.

They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.

III

Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.

The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.

IV

This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.

For we shall be a shouter like the ****,
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
st64 Sep 2013
we are witness to atrocities
committed by regime
over its peoples
over time



1.
we are witness..

shattering glass of reality arranged into chosen shard-feeds
like omni-gov surveillance into meticulous mind-grafts
spluttering eternal-stats for public mind control
spewing mini-truths of perpetual war raids
disillusionment of history forever *rewritten

control supply-and-demand
create dark-cloaked dilemma and monitor shortage and famine
make-believe elements so well played to auto-frenzied latch
thinking is degraded and actions.. well, less said



2.
diligent and loyal yet harbour secret-hatred
feed visions stilted by politrix
deception and manipulation
propaganda is the oleaginous-game by wand-over-mind
totalitarian is the kingpin-holder of cards
and yet, who is really being played!

eternal marionettes on a conveyor-belt
can't even play with yourself alone
your ****.. your ****.. your every move..
watched - surveyed - and studied
by that ubiquitous-bulge eye you cannot escape
right opposite your low hard-bed
you're broken into popping-parts
that YOU won't recognise!


thoughtcrime-police is gonna accost ya
get up, comrade.. get UUUUUUUUP!




3.
we are witness
life-tube covered in darkened vapour-swirls

we are witness
children conditioned to watch their parents.. too closely

we are witness
truth so smothered, now re-fed by repeat-metaphor

we are witness
dictata.. dictata..

we are witness
austere existence in a tacky one-room flat

we are witness
subsist on black-wheat and imitation-repast

we are witness
regurgitate the party-dialect on and on and on
(after a while, we end up half-believing.. )



only the clock which strikes thirteen
can smell the charred-reality
as leftover-truth is shoved
into incendiary obsolescence




tick-a-****-tock
and that would be..
one



S T - 26 sept
two.. three.. four..

who's really subversive?

afraid?
yeah, maybe we oughta be!
(ooh, mind.. don't think too loudly now..lol)

oh, and I wonder if anyone dares to hate this poem..
(anyway, it matters little - life's too short to give a rat's **** 4 that :)







sub-entry: Witless


2.
it's for the greater good
believe it!


1.
thus
we are witness..
(my broken nose tells me.. I won't be decimated)

and
we are all witness..
(heartless control reeks sidewalk-cracking dents)

then
we are witless
( .. .. .. )


0.
hack, hack, Neanderthal
hack, HACK!


-1.
brr
it's cold..

no..!
no..!
no..!
not me, please!

(primal fear sets in
see how
we stigma-sell each other out)
Paul Morgana Feb 2013
People held hostage, always living in fear,
The barrel of a weapon, is always near.

Riding the train, a blood curdling scream,
A deafening noise, and a bright light beam.

A violent shock wave tears open your flesh,
The lucky ones, receive skin grafts with mesh.

Your arm torn off, artery bleeding is profuse,
A dying thought is, what was the use?

What was the purpose, to **** all these people?
In the name of Allah, perched on a mosque steeple.

Radical extremists don't care about life,
By murdering people they increase human strife.

Wasting resources, bringing the Earth gloom,
Look at faces on a plane, many filled with doom.

The last thirty five years I don't understand,
Middle Eastern countries, together they band.

Bringing terror and hatred towards cultures of the west,
We accept the need to feel your ways are the best.

Pray all you like, cover up a women's face,
Stop trying to change America's philosophy and place.

Once the oil is gone, and the land again bare,
Back to living in tents, flowing robes you will wear.

Your tactics are old, soon you may feel,
The burning of skin, this inferno is real.

A nuclear explosion will end years of frustration,
No longer putting up with terrorists indignation.

Revolutions reveal, the world ending in flame,
Enough with this nonsense, put an end to this game!

Visit poemsbypaul.com
jerard gartlin Feb 2010
your heart pumps kerosene
to your matchstick veins,
& maybe i imagined things,
but i remember your eyes as ember rings
& i can't wipe my memory clean
of the dingy debris--
the delicacies of your legs & knees--
this fire's not extinguishing!!
those ashes you disguise as eyelids
won't keep me from the iris
i know i'll find inside them

& i'll skim past your skin grafts
to your smoke-smothered stomach
then plummet to your flame-engraved pancreas
((scarred from swallowed promises)).
these propane x-rays
can't scan the barcodes
on the charcoals
that the holes in your heart hold
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
Warista

Not for everyone heavy religious thoughts expressed

This is my declaration of war know it or not we are in a battle life is a battle and when you are the one
Getting stomped on you are in distress and hard pressed to make clear decisions by divine entreaty
We are called onto love one another and that means coming along side and bearing your burden and
Fighting with and for you your life is of many different situations I see mine as a battle field medic and
One who reports on the fighting I am like my friend in the service who came back from Nam before he
Was a medic but the Cong fixed that now he fought fires along side of the rest of but we were in the
Bathroom cleaning up after a fire he had his shirt off and when you were in his prescience his nature
Was more than just fragile he was damaged in a life altering sense now I understood as I looked at
Several bullet holes wounds on his chest and back that had to be fixed by skin grafts it mapped his love
Of country and when boys his age lie wounded and dying they holler medic and then before dying they
Gently weep calling on their precious mother far away that always mending their hurts but this time
Jesus and His angels rush in to stand by and guard with their love or by lifting up this tired and finished
Warrior wrapped in old glories beautiful red white and blue taking him where a flag that stands in the
Center of glory land it emblem is a lamb slain on a cross blooded and wounded from his love of his lost
Children tears from here to heaven float in the great blackness of our universe perpetually it goes along
With this Quote from Keats they never end either his lines say “A thing of beauty is a joy forever its
Loveliness increases it will never pass into nothingness” another is two hearts beat as one if you think
I’m insincere my tears just fell writing these lines causing hurt again for my wife that must listen but I
Rush to your bleeding wounded hearts on a spiritual battle field my bandages are tear soaked to wrap
Your wounds as you have cried help medic I cry Jesus in this scene depicts from Daniel Gabriel had come
To Daniel’s battle field after Daniel had prayed and fasted twenty one days this is a familiar your story to
Most but his is what I want to share it says I heard a man’s voice from the Ulai river calling Gabriel tell
This man the meaning of the vision and it goes on to say this was an angel of higher rank come to assist
This is another item in my medical bag to help the unknown comes into view in the army there is a chain
Of command it is true of the army of God as well you lay wounded God flashes your call of need through
The spirit world in your case who is reading this you see me only but as the prophet of old faced an army
Of men he feared nothing as he looked on the mighty host of heaven arrayed and fully armed for battle
He was the only one that stood between the deaths of these enemies who as you and I only see the
Immediate through writing beautiful words and revealing unseen powers I’m going to give you the
Power to not be afraid not just words but heavenly beings as your vanguard from your knees alone the
Enemy will be put to flight this still comes from looking down a familiar street and in my mind’s eye
Seeing your pain and suffering at that moment I was alone in the dark car but worse I felt helpless
And alone the thing I did right through great tears and pain I cried and asked God to help me to help
Others this is a first in a series to do that very thing one last thing I offer another angel encounter
This my own at home in California I lost my Job for some reason I had to go to the bank what fun
Money becomes scarce as meat on a skeleton and I go where it is stacked sky high well as I walked
Outside and set on the bench away from everyone and everything a man walked up he looked familiar
In this since his clothes looked the way I felt they had seen better days and the special thing he was
Caring a book just a paperback but it looked like the one I carried I never go out without a book and
Lot of times I carry a bag full of them he was friendly easy to listen to he told me that he lived in
The hills our towns entry sign and letter head from the city depicts hills the highest Mission Peak
As he talked my pressure and wild thoughts settled though we were setting in the sun I felt a comfort
You find setting under a great oak I’m not flipping and I’m not advocating hugging trees but I feel
The angel was said to speak from the river not a stretch everything in this world is controlled by God
First his word alone holds it altogether but beyond that with the extensive reading I have done it
Clearly shows angels are first in charge of your lives and your safety but all living things are under their
Charge and in a minute I’m going to include two pieces that speak of hill and a great Oak well as all
Things do our visit ended and then I knew the person who I had been talking wasn’t a man after all
When he said he stayed in the hills meant a lot more I come to this conclusion because this man
Interested me in my turmoil he pops up and leaves me with a feeling of well being and then the facts
Bare it out we were sitting by this building that sets by itself at a good distance you have small trees that
A rabbit couldn’t hide behind and every direction is open country well I fiddled with my book
For the briniest moment I guess I was thinking about his I look up and he is gone someone comes into
Your life and touches you well one last look would be nice I didn’t run but I briskly walked to the end
Of the building I was already at this end he was nowhere to be found shortly after this I wrote this
Piece about our church and the church yard just up the street the hills flank the length of the city
See if you think his presence lingers and flows on to the page on last thing because of an affliction
I am only allowed twenty minutes at a time on the computer legs and feet problem I spent five hours
The other day no sleep that night so elated all day and my wife made care giver gives me a taste of
Ireland as she screams for me to get off I ran over an hour and a little try to write with the scream of
A banshee behind you this was supposed to be a small piece I never write twelve hundred words I said
That to say can’t check for errors you can have fun finding my mistakes will fix on my next allotted time
You can’t take this to the bank to the bank but I think I suffer from another common malady it’s called
Being hen pecked but it the good kind of hurt here is the church piece then the Oak

Shadow of Eden
In this savage land we call home
There is a pastoral valley that has the richest texture of heaven
This treasured sheep gate beckons tenderly says welcome
These hills and slopes the repository of our hopes
The savior poised in their gentle steeps, for the city weeps
Sweet spirit that fills this natural expanse soft as the breeze
Each tired weary soul you refresh with a quiet hush
We are shown the wisdom of not being in a rush
Unseen pillars tower revealing your mighty power
Written on the pillars at the world side is come unto me
On the church side seek the lost at any cost
The Devil expresses defiance the church makes Heaven her alliance
Wayward souls tormented seeking an oasis dying of thirst
Today we fill these pots of clay and determine to go out of our way
Seeking those that hunger and thirst by this Christ we manifest
To the world the church is ghostly not completely visible
It shimmers as though it isn’t real blindly they feel about
In your life they find solid ground clear of the mist
They finish a terrible journey now they feed from all their needs freed
No longer exhausted from continually milling about
The Sheppard stands holy watch and cast a confidant shadow
In this respite feeding and richly nourished they grow strong
Gladness quietly cascades from spiritual hills of splendor
By angles man sees more than just the coarse and obvious he sees the heart of all living things
That reveals the heart and Genius of the one that made it all a great package that each newborn
Finds he tears a way layer upon layer of wrappings love joy hope possibility of dreams that await
And so much more your I just added this you’re never too old to go back to that place where
Wonder still remembers you its polite to revisit in fact it is required for good health and a
Positive mind where is it now where else would human birth occur except at angel central

Lost Friend
This is just a few lines written to celebrate the generations of one Paso Robles family, and their parallel existence with one of nature’s monarchs that was destroyed in recent storm.
You will always remain in my mind.
I can’t remember when you weren’t watching.
Tall strong, graceful shade the bewitching kind.
Long ago a fellow relative started your stately reign.
This our home place he surveyed.
His eye, the land did fill with awe.
From this bond through a lowly seed he prayed
Bless this spot; many a day has he spoken from the oak.
Grandeur over stretched grandmother’s dwelling.
We could only marvel at thy great strength.
From your great silence serenity you were telling.
Shot and blasted against the sky, fireworks of wood.
Clothed in rough hardened bark
what comfort and wisdom you inspired.
Who understands the wonder, my soul you did mark
your size triggered the greatest gift, curiosity.
Branches the wind passing through what mournful cry
Nature’s tune sublime given to delight as only a sad ballad can evoke
Nothing else should try
To match violins in the sky.
My eyes see it in a grand sweep
The ground brought forth a stately wooden crown
Of blackest oak to stand tall and steep
A gentle giant to greet the wayward wind.
Two divergent seeds the ground did divide.
One of wooden grain the other flesh and blood
their branches throughout the community do abide
as charming as church bells ringing, touching all.
And just one more in case you need it friend if you don’t get it
I have lived through some hell in my live now I think it’s time to return
The favor I’m going to give hell all the heat I can that is white heat of love to the suffering
And oh so awful to him but his fire is going to gage on these pages like the fires I used to
Fight in the service as a servant to my country now I’m your servant and I’m fired up I fought
Bullies all through school now I plan to fight the biggest one for you

Sorry I think you could use some granite in your fight

Vaulted sky
Shaded canyon breathtaking heights does the angry wind speak if so in a whisper the granite peaks austere and bleak seem to frown on the trees and lowly grass lands with their fertility and ease of growth. While he the monarch bristling with his cold barren armor of granite invites the stares the awe inspired gratitude of nature and mortal man he knows there dreams and thoughts how many have stood at the edge of wonder on his brow with fainted hearts. Their thoughts drift out and away ever upward reaching the clouds filled and clothed with mountain air brightly they are displayed in these untamable rays. Voices of the ancient ones still echo their wisdom still resounds in the summer thunder they visited and released many a tortured soul. Before Blind they stood before the closed door of their minds knowing there is a path but where can it be found. Riches unbound await the searcher who will go to any and all lengths to conquer unbelief freedom his guiding star he walks in great shadows. Mountainous men Jefferson Lincoln his stalwart companions stand with grandest stature takes from the mountain those teachings not found in musty universities. Thoughts born on creations morn formed and laid on this rocky foundation now for centuries they have bore the weight this colossus purified they are words more noble than gold. Share them invest them in the borderless world of human kind that circle the globe. Moses was familiar and consorted with mountains the angel made one his sepulcher. Waste not the golden hours they are the thread that sows life’s most exquisite moments together making a life. Turn aside seek the heights they will give you respect and honor words will flow that are uncommon they will fit any and all circumstances filling the empty void where hearts bleed without ceasing. Your voice will be like the cool mountain breeze soothing filled with substance and comfort.

Well three hours must I tell you in the dog house and no feathers left it was worth it for me
I hope for you too

Where God passes
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking if *** were lacking, or if the moisture of the
   right man were lacking.

*** contains all, bodies, souls,
Meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
   milk,
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, all the passions, loves,
   beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in *** as parts of itself and justifications of
   itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of
   his ***,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
   are warm-blooded and sufficient for me,
I see that they understand me and do not deny me,
I see that they are worthy of me, I will be the robust husband of
   those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
   retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right- they are calm, clear, well-
   possess’d of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women,
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
   others’ sakes,
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women, I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable, but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for these States, I
   press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually, I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
   within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls,
   new artists, musicians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
   inter-penetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
   count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
   immortality, I plant so lovingly now.
Though loth to grieve
The evil time's sole patriot,
I cannot leave
My buried thought
For the priest's cant,
Or statesman's rant.

If I refuse
My study for their politique,
Which at the best is trick,
The angry muse
Puts confusion in my brain.

But who is he that prates
Of the culture of mankind,
Of better arts and life?
Go, blind worm, go,
Behold the famous States
Harrying Mexico
With rifle and with knife.

Or who, with accent bolder,
Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer,
I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!
And in thy valleys, Agiochook!
The jackals of the *****-holder.

The God who made New Hampshire
Taunted the lofty land
With little men.
Small bat and wren
House in the oak.
If earth fire cleave
The upheaved land, and bury the folk,
The southern crocodile would grieve.

Virtue palters, right is hence,
Freedom praised but hid;
Funeral eloquence
Rattles the coffin-lid.

What boots thy zeal,
O glowing friend,
That would indignant rend
The northland from the south?
Wherefore? To what good end?
Boston Bay and Bunker Hill
Would serve things still:
Things are of the snake.

The horseman serves the horse,
The neat-herd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'Tis the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind,
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.

There are two laws discrete
Not reconciled,
Law for man, and law for thing;
The last builds town and fleet,
But it runs wild,
And doth the man unking.

'Tis fit the forest fall,
The steep be graded,
The mountain tunnelled,
The land shaded,
The orchard planted,
The globe tilled,
The prairie planted,
The steamer built.

Live for friendship, live for love,
For truth's and harmony's behoof;
The state may follow how it can,
As Olympus follows Jove.
Yet do not I implore
The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,
Nor bid the unwilling senator
Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes.
Every one to his chosen work.
Foolish hands may mix and mar,
Wise and sure the issues are.
Round they roll, till dark is light,
*** to ***, and even to odd;
The over-God,
Who marries Right to Might,
Who peoples, unpeoples,
He who exterminates
Races by stronger races,
Black by white faces,
Knows to bring honey
Out of the lion,
Grafts gentlest scion
On Pirate and Turk.

The Cossack eats Poland,
Like stolen fruit;
Her last noble is ruined,
Her last poet mute;
Straight into double band
The victors divide,
Half for freedom strike and stand,
The astonished muse finds thousands at her side.
Prabhu Iyer Jan 2015
He lives in his farm house by the hills, his
quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Oh he’s a scientist, and
he grafts his poem trees; Beautiful plumes do
they grow for flowers, which fly out eastward
every morning; Well now he does, the sweet
fruit of these: eat poems to live? Silencing
those who asked him once. Oh and some of the
plants can talk: beyond our hearing, ultrasound.
Penetrating objects our eyes otherwise.
see not: stones; metals; oh don’t we carry
venoms of hatred in metal tubes of
veins crossing our hearts, conveying darkness
across the seas? These poem trees, talking, can
see through. And tell, when some leaks out, causing
fires, and deaths in a school or train station.
Quiet life of contentment, seeking, creating,
discovering; Living in his farm house
by the hills. His work at http://dreamtube.stream
Dream resume is a surrealist technique where the protogonist's 'achievements' in the lucid-reality world of dreams are revealed, mixing elements of the real with the surreal.

I owe the word construction 'poem trees' to my wonderful twitter friend Sheri Lynn Pritchett, @poemtrees
Going home from visiting a friend
I have walking this same path
Walked this way, countless times
Up a slight hill of a lonely street
To a desolate alley in summer darkness

But I need to take a call of nature
So I start to relieve myself
To **** against a unyielding wall
And I am blind to those behind me
Two youths of eighteen or nineteen

I feel the liquid pouring down my leg
Then in seconds it is a ball of flame
My left leg, burning in pain, agony
I turn and they are running and laughing
Leaving me alone and I feel the skin burn

I kick the right shoe off my foot
And intend to take off these burning Jeans
But the foot is a ball of orange flame
The liquid had not travelling down the leg
It had gone into my shoe, burning from inside

I am shaking, in my shorts in night summer heat
I try kicking this fire out against the wall
The agony has taken my mind, insanity takes the pain
Unknowing, three toes snap as I continue to kick
But the fire burns on, with the smell of burning flesh

No one is there to help me, I only want to sleep
Concrete steps keep me from reaching safety
From this alley up to the waiting maisonettes
So I hold the rail, and force myself to climb up
And still the left leg burns and the pain returns in fury

I make it and there is someone in the kitchen
The first maisonette that stands on the corner
He sees me and he sees the flames that hurt me
He looks at me in horror, and then there is screaming
The screaming is coming from me, I can not stop

The man comes out with a bowl of water
He throws it over the burning foot and I pass out
I awake and there is a neighbour holding me
I see people all around me and I try to remember
The pain and memory come rushing back

Firemen are there now, hosing my leg with water
I hear a crackling and realise it is the leg
The screaming starts again, and it never stops
Coming deep inside of me, for this madness to end
And again darkness takes me as my mind shuts off

I am in an Ambulance, but I do not feel safe
They are out there and could still come for me
Why did they do this? What did I do?
I never even knew who they were
And the horror etches deep into my head

That was years ago, and I still carry the scars
The leg was saved, full thickness burn
Skin grafts rebuilt it, but it still breaks down
Three toes amputated, the big toe and ones next
Yes it still haunts me now and it always will
copyright Chris Smith 2010
Brian Oarr Feb 2012
The Saturday night crowd, all here to see Dave Van Ronk,
sit huddled in the fashion of Antwerp diamond cutters,
sipping cinnamon/marshmallow coffee at the tables.
Caffe Lena is Saratoga's happening place in the 60's and
we're here to forget the war and civil strife in the ghettos.

Sister Mary Katherine, sans frock, is the warmup act,
but no one really gives her any mind,
as she struggles to seat herself upon the stool
intended for the six-foot plus Van Ronk.
Joan Baez prepare to eat your heart out!

Without so much as introduction, she
breaks into a high soprano Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.
Heads pivot like synchronized swimmers toward the stage.
Her silken voice emits notes blinking
into reality from quantum fluctuations in space/time.

Every quivering high-C grafts the audience together.
She's spinning veils of sound,
the like of which our ears are unfamiliar.
The quavers in her throat match the tremors in my coffee.
In the back of the cafe a drunken Van Ronk passes out.
A true incident which occurred @ the Caffe Lena in 1968
Shortly thereafter Sister Mary Katherine left the convent
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2013
For Veterans day


Will briefly pay honor to yesterday’s heroes it is good to think about our boys I think this will help first to a place that was home for
Eight months Fritichie air field over in back of fort Ord by Monterrey it was small but it had about three giant hangers and some of the
Guys had those roadsters the long one’s that they use parachutes to stop them they tested them on the tarmac then the Walters
crash truck this behemoth carried a driver and six man crew the tires were six foot high it had a water cannon on top swiveled three
Hundred and sixty degrees a four inch nozzle that shot water and with the flip of a switch a mixture of foam two hundred feet
And you would empty fifteen hundred gallons of water in fifty nine seconds but we turned it into a snow maker you had this back
Drop of California climate palm by the fire house fanned palms in the yard but we pulled up in front at the side and cut loose starting at
the farthest point in front of the wall that housed our sleeping quarters mixed with foam we laid foam four feet deep all the way out to
The tarmac there you go white Christmas it didn’t last long in the sun and heat but for a little while we had Christmas it was cool.

Our first hero was a returned medic from Nam this was after I was transferred to Hunter Liggett we were in the barracks he had his
Shirt off what I saw told the story four nasty bullet holes and the skin grafts it took to close them one who runs out in a fire fight
To tend the wounded and hears just kids crying out mama as they are dying the cong didn’t honor this medical angel of mercy just kept
Shooting him he was the same but he wasn’t he was damaged goods he had a quietness a sadness you couldn’t reach the real person
He used to be, he is part of the wounded brother hood I never suffered as the day now out of the service and back out in California I
Read a piece about a homeless vet living in Golden Gate Park next To Height Ashbury it cut me deeplyit was hard to get it out of my mind he couldn’t hold a job depended on family then the cold streets of Frisco and I knew the other hundreds hiding in Washington state in the forest their children with
Them I knew this because of the stories of how and what their children did to them if they this innocently walked up behind them and
Said daddy. This will give you a deeper knowledge of how long and deep this haunts all of our heroes after getting out of the service I
Stayed in Monterey worked in the church and worked as a painters apprentice in the painters union a painter was at the Presidio right
Above fisherman’s Warf this facility has many functions but one in particular is the study of linguistics so this naturally had many
Nationalities coming and going in this story Japanese was the problem one painter I guess bored walked up behind an older painter
Poked him in the back with his finger the older man whirled around with a four inch brush the metal part took half the guys front teeth
Out afterwards the old man apologized profusely he gave this even more scary account he told the man all day I have been back
In world war two fighting **** this is now nineteen sixty nine the older man said you are lucky you didn’t come up behind me two
Minutes before I was scraping with a six inch putty knife I would have cut your throat the man lost teeth he could have lost his life. This fighting for our freedom Doesn’t magically stop when they come home from battle fields please honor them and again the greatest warrior whose birth we
celebrate this month extol him and know we can never know how he suffered our hearts are not that big but he defeated
out mortal enemy we owe him our lives. Christ our great captain
wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace  a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE
Jake Espinoza Oct 2012
Today I felt my skin turn to bark as I leaned against a tree. I felt a warmth spread through me as I reveled in joy of hidden things. I watched people pass me by, had a conversation with a few people perceptive enough to notice my fringes.
    They said hello. You are difficult to notice.
    I nodded silent thanks.
    Why don't you speak?
    This is how I thought. You're asking a man nearly imperceptible why he stands so still.
    At times the bark or grass fell from me replaced with concrete or off-white plaster or the likeness of another. I stood and watched as I smiled, talked, acted, convinced, spoke from the heart, and not a souls suspects.
    When I feel like hiding, this is what happens: I become everyone. I become no one. I am tasteless, odorless, bland. I become no one, but not the kind of no one that gets noticed. I see that the truly homogeneous hide twofold, sixfold, eightfold. I hide that I am hiding that I am hiding that –
    Continuum. I become a vacuum of character, perfectly unremarkable.
    This is whenever I feel like it.
    Whenever I want it, my outline becomes harsh, sharply black against white against black leading to my deadened surface made vibrant by desire, by necessity, by conscious appraisal of the path of least resistance. Feeling clashes with wanting, the cacophony is maddening where such fragile melodies had once been harmonic. All of a sudden it is clear that I am hiding. I can no longer conceal the bare bones sprouting from my shoulders, clumsily fashioned into bare outlines of wings. All of a sudden I am laid bare, and the unfinished construct is revealed. Everything looked wonderful, immaculate, meticulously attended, even upon close inspection, until the keystone shook loose. Can't find adhesive that lasts more than a few months these days. My fragile creation appearing bold and strong, emanating vitality such that it can be gleaned with proximity, fell.
    All I can see are my feet or darkness.
    I cannot produce sound more substantial than murmurs.
    I cannot clothe myself but with scraps of cloth that fall with the most gentle breath of wind, but still I toil.
    The spectacle as it has become is made piteous by the clarity with which I am seen. My futile attempts to recover myself incite anger and pity. They fade, and sadness remains. I am in plain sight, as if illuminated by some unseen light, and I am understood. It is understood that I will continue affixing the fragile scraps to me until they stay. It is seen that I am undaunted by such a seemingly insurmountable task. After eons of exposure to the eyes of all, a scrap grafts itself again to my bare flesh. My lips spread slowly into a wicked grin – for it is known. It is known that those witnessing this disgusting degree of satisfaction at my own partial concealment will soon forget the fissured and sickly creature they now behold. They will soon forget what stood in the place of the great statue now erected around me.
    Inside, I stand in fear of the day when again I must build myself anew.
    Like a bird constructing its fragile nest, I take everything I can use. My toil is patient...careful. I refine tirelessly. The light turns hard and flat, but still I am great and formidable in my fragile, meticulous, manufactured splendor.
    One who remembers sees this, and knows that this is my true love.
    One among them all remembers.
    He is the closest thing I have to a friend.
jerard gartlin Jul 2010
2 years of separation
leads to reunions & dissections
of the shared heart we once betrayed
split symmetric down the chamber veins
& drained into a vacant maze
of muscle-coated misdirection:
from a gory war of self-destruction
to a boring morning-long discussion
on the proper functions of affection,
a lecture on the subtle pressure
of stitching missing years together.

so we descended through the memories
of manipulation tendencies
& our blended lungs breathed in relief
at our splendid self-discovery:
you're a different you & i'm no longer me;
thick skin grafts & habit transplants
transformed us to an image abstract
from a former siamese attachment,
our blurry split from commitment
carried independence infinite
& we soared more weightless through the clouds
with our orphaned organs on the ground
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Military times
Will briefly pay honor to yesterday’s heroes it is good to think about our boys I think this will help first to a place that was home for
Eight months Fritichie air field over in back of fort Ord by Monterrey it was small but it had about three giant hangers and some of the
Guys had those roadsters the long one’s that they use parachutes to stop them they tested them on the tarmac then the Walters
crash truck this behemoth carried a driver and six man crew the tires were six foot high it had a water cannon on top swiveled three
Hundred and sixty degrees a four inch nozzle that shot water and with the flip of a switch a mixture of foam two hundred feet
And you would empty fifteen hundred gallons of water in fifty nine seconds but we turned it into a snow maker you had this back
Drop of California climate palm by the fire house fanned palms in the yard but we pulled up in front at the side and cut loose starting at
the farthest point in front of the wall that housed our sleeping quarters mixed with foam we laid foam four feet deep all the way out to
The tarmac there you go white Christmas it didn’t last long in the sun and heat but for a little while we had Christmas it was cool.

Our first hero was a returned medic from Nam this was after I was transferred to Hunter Liggett we were in the barracks he had his
Shirt off what I saw told the story four nasty bullet holes and the skin grafts it took to close them one who runs out in a fire fight
To tend the wounded and hears just kids crying out mama as they are dying the cong didn’t honor this medical angel of mercy just kept
Shooting him he was the same but he wasn’t he was damaged goods he had a quietness a sadness you couldn’t reach the real person
He used to be, he is part of the wounded brother hood I never suffered as the day now out of the service and back out in California I
Read a piece about a homeless vet living in Golden Gate Park next To Height Ashbury it cut me deeplyit was hard to get it out of my mind he couldn’t hold a job depended on family then the cold streets of Frisco and I knew the other hundreds hiding in Washington state in the forest their children with
Them I knew this because of the stories of how and what their children did to them if they this innocently walked up behind them and
Said daddy. This will give you a deeper knowledge of how long and deep this haunts all of our heroes after getting out of the service I
Stayed in Monterey worked in the church and worked as a painters apprentice in the painters union a painter was at the Presidio right
Above fisherman’s Warf this facility has many functions but one in particular is the study of linguistics so this naturally had many
Nationalities coming and going in this story Japanese was the problem one painter I guess bored walked up behind an older painter
Poked him in the back with his finger the older man whirled around with a four inch brush the metal part took half the guys front teeth
Out afterwards the old man apologized profusely he gave this even more scary account he told the man all day I have been back
In world war two fighting **** this is now nineteen sixty nine the older man said you are lucky you didn’t come up behind me two
Minutes before I was scraping with a six inch putty knife I would have cut your throat the man lost teeth he could have lost his life. This fighting for our freedom Doesn’t magically stop when they come home from battle fields please honor them and again the greatest warrior whose birth we
celebrate this month extol him and know we can never know how he suffered our hearts are not that big but he defeated
out mortal enemy we owe him our lives.
You’re an arsonist, baby.
You’re an arsonist, dabbling
in the arts of fire.
And love is your fuel.
My heart was inflamed.
You left me to smolder
But I stoke those flames
because I’m a pyromaniac.

Your flames licked at my flesh.
And I kinda liked it.
The heat, the burning,
I thrive off of it.
You’re an arsonist, baby,
and that’s okay.
Because I like the fire.
You lit me up, ignited
my thirst, my hunger,
my passion

I inhale your smoke.
Taking you in.
The smoke left me in a haze.
My vision, my thoughts,
all left unclear.
Your fire left nothing untouched.

You scorched my heart.
Consumed me. Refined me.
You sought to finish me off,
burning for you from within.

I tried to hide behind others.
Beneath their skin.
Not even grafts can hide
the damage done.
You left behind your mark,
on me.
Branded me with your ashes still visible.
Dose me in your precious love.
Open the flame. Light me
Up. I’m a dancing tongue of fire of your creation.
Watch me burn for you.
Watch me perish because of you.
Watch me love you with
Everything I am.

You’re an arsonist, baby.
And I’m a pyromaniac.
What’s the number for 911?
I need a firefighter.
Madison Brooke Jan 2014
I want you to rip the messy sutures from my stitched-up heart and
I want to love you with my chest wide open.
I want the icy air to whisper across my bared arteries and scoop the black from my lungs
I want you to kiss me so hard blood runs down my teeth.
I want to taste the salty crimson on my tongue and know
I am still breathing, that
I still have a pulse.
I want your eyes to burn holes in my skin & the cauterized nerve endings to emit a single sharp scream
I need your sweaty palms to take away the sting.
I want you to wake me from this gray unending dream.
I know meteorites always hit the sun or crash to earth, but
I want our comet to blaze through the night sky for a few bright seconds before the freefall.
I will ignore the craters you'll carve from my bones.
I know
I will end up lying in a hospital bed with skin grafts and bleeding bandages, but
I want the rose-tinged words that will leak from my eyes like saline-tipped blades.
I want to slowdance with cyanide.
I want to tiptoe on a razor-littered sidewalk.
I want to swim with sharks;
I want to dip my hand in fire;
I want a gradual descent from a cliff with a tattered parachute;
I want to toss my heart into your freckled arms.
I want your fingers around my neck before
I realize it.
I want you to destroy me.
I want your smile to eat me alive.
12:47 PM
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2013
For Veterans day

Milatary fire Milatary times



Will briefly pay honor to yesterday’s heroes it is good to think about our boys I think this will help first to a place that was home for
Eight months Fritichie air field over in back of fort Ord by Monterrey it was small but it had about three giant hangers and some of the
Guys had those roadsters the long one’s that they use parachutes to stop them they tested them on the tarmac then the Walters
crash truck this behemoth carried a driver and six man crew the tires were six foot high it had a water cannon on top swiveled three
Hundred and sixty degrees a four inch nozzle that shot water and with the flip of a switch a mixture of foam two hundred feet
And you would empty fifteen hundred gallons of water in fifty nine seconds but we turned it into a snow maker you had this back
Drop of California climate palm by the fire house fanned palms in the yard but we pulled up in front at the side and cut loose starting at
the farthest point in front of the wall that housed our sleeping quarters mixed with foam we laid foam four feet deep all the way out to
The tarmac there you go white Christmas it didn’t last long in the sun and heat but for a little while we had Christmas it was cool.

Our first hero was a returned medic from Nam this was after I was transferred to Hunter Liggett we were in the barracks he had his
Shirt off what I saw told the story four nasty bullet holes and the skin grafts it took to close them one who runs out in a fire fight
To tend the wounded and hears just kids crying out mama as they are dying the cong didn’t honor this medical angel of mercy just kept
Shooting him he was the same but he wasn’t he was damaged goods he had a quietness a sadness you couldn’t reach the real person
He used to be, he is part of the wounded brother hood I never suffered as the day now out of the service and back out in California I
Read a piece about a homeless vet living in Golden Gate Park next To Height Ashbury it cut me deeplyit was hard to get it out of my mind he couldn’t hold a job depended on family then the cold streets of Frisco and I knew the other hundreds hiding in Washington state in the forest their children with
Them I knew this because of the stories of how and what their children did to them if they this innocently walked up behind them and
Said daddy. This will give you a deeper knowledge of how long and deep this haunts all of our heroes after getting out of the service I
Stayed in Monterey worked in the church and worked as a painters apprentice in the painters union a painter was at the Presidio right
Above fisherman’s Warf this facility has many functions but one in particular is the study of linguistics so this naturally had many
Nationalities coming and going in this story Japanese was the problem one painter I guess bored walked up behind an older painter
Poked him in the back with his finger the older man whirled around with a four inch brush the metal part took half the guys front teeth
Out afterwards the old man apologized profusely he gave this even more scary account he told the man all day I have been back
In world war two fighting **** this is now nineteen sixty nine the older man said you are lucky you didn’t come up behind me two
Minutes before I was scraping with a six inch putty knife I would have cut your throat the man lost teeth he could have lost his life. This fighting for our freedom Doesn’t magically stop when they come home from battle fields please honor them and again the greatest warrior whose birth we
celebrate this month extol him and know we can never know how he suffered our hearts are not that big but he defeated
out mortal enemy we owe him our lives. Christ our great captain
Natty Morrison Dec 2013
Glance and write.
Apparently this is technique
of a writer.
Glance and write.
My type-
writer,
hear it roar.
Hear it clatter.
Glance and write hard;
write hard and write always in the same font.
Write yourself rules like wait for patience,
wait for ideas, don't wait. Ever.
Wait, don't ever wait for ideas ever,
or don't buy ****
never stray
from the same font.
Rules are ideas about font and stray dogs carrying **** or waiting on
a patient waiting about font and stray dogs and waiting.
Many things seem to go
in circles.

Glance and write.
Feel inspired by
invisible thread. This is meaning.
This is meaning something else.
Store-bought
meaning.
It's a ******* string.

Glance and write.
Find the truth before it's base,
let's smoke base. Let's smoke base and let's be happy that we got it.
You are important cargo.
You are cover up; pants
a forever scenario.

Cover up with
skin grafts. ****** faces.
Crabcake faces.
Mike Essig Aug 2016
Word salad. Everyone a poet. But use the correct fork.
Sometimes you’re the road sign, sometimes the weary traveler.
Woke up craving attention again. The cat was unimpressed.
Pay no attention to my browsing history. I’m a writer, not a serial killer.
Women never want much, only everything you are or will be or can’t.
He said he would stuff my taco unlike any man before him,
and boy did he! So full! I’ve always wanted a man who could cook.
Some day’s, you just know that the jail time was worth it.
Dementor support group meets Thursday evening at Starbucks.
Cows who give milk for free only meet lecherous farmers.
Australia’s Oldest Man Knits Tiny Sweaters For Injured Penguins
Relearn the dying art of thinking before you ******* speak.
I scream. You scream. We come. Police come. Awkward.
Jumpin’ jizzimy Jehoshaphat. Sticky patrol cars. Safety catches.
Thought it was a loofah, but it turned out to be steel wool.
A few moments of pleasure. A full year of skin grafts.
Onan’s Handy Man Service. No job too small. Try me.
Sixty is the new 40? Try getting your ***** to believe that.
Often lost but never alone. Handy to have a hand handy. True love.
You meet the love of your life and find out she puts ketchup on pizza.
I never flirt with danger but danger just keeps on insisting.
Life hits like a girl. Thing is, like a girl that hits really hard.
She almost put on ******* today, it was a clothes call.
She lost me at: Forgot the safe word? Excellent! Here we go.
Her ad slogan: my greatest satisfaction, awakening your passion.
She dumped me because I just stood there with my moves drooping.
Watching Internet *** is like ******* without arms.
I bet that pride of yours doesn’t enjoy snuggling like I do.
Sobriety, never as delicious as an exquisite bad lifestyle buffet.
Ask your doctor before beginning the ****** and whiskey diet.
You don’t have to be desperately lonely to tweet, but it helps.
Yep. Something is happening. But you won’t know what it is.
The only fact is that you’ll never understand anything at all.
***** anything you like. After all, only everyone will see it.
Sleep children. Sweet Dreams. Dreams of angry cassowaries.
Nanny will be here to sweep up the pieces in the morning.
I wrote you a poem, about why I'd write a poem for you. You caught me one time trying to tame my mind with lines of rhyme, when I told you it was about a woman we both knew you said, next time... why don't you write about me? I said because you don't inspire me. The easiest excuse for writers block... I need to be inspired. I need to be hotwired into a matrix of men and women who are driven by every feeling they are giving. I need rhythm and words. The pen is a decipherer and the page a treasure map where we will write our way to gold. We sold ourselves on the belief that we could... write smiles onto people...

So we write. Muster our might and write light into the dark times. Stitch beauty into the scars of the harmed,  arm ourselves to the teeth against those who act beneath what is considered humane. With ink in our veins we write like we fight. Unafraid of a broken bones because the next blow we throw will be through our throats. We are mouthy poets, and the most powerful weapon in arsenal is our battle cry. And should one of us die on the field we'll uproar, we'll outcry, we'll encore and we'll breathe life into what remains of our fallen and give them the best ******* send off ever.

And when we finally reach home after our time together ... We'll keep writing. We'll write worlds out of words. Write instructions to the sky and orders to the ground will write love notes to sound and have this all down before the next sun swings around, with metaphors abounding and similes astounding we don't clown around with the words we've found.

We write in skin grafts. We talk the hollow into wholesome entice oppressed into the inspired and paint the lonely as lovely. We fill in the gaps. We are the ifs the ands and the buts following the 1 word answers to the big questions. Do you love me? What are you angry about? How do you feel?
And we'd say, yes! If I was terminally ill and have the doctor prescribe me you, because you make me feel more alive than I've ever felt!
We'd say, everything. Sometimes I just feel trapped in my own skin like the society that we live in has made jail cells out of my skin cells!
We'd say... Okay. I feel like his smile told me, he'd catch me if I should fall. We write so we can say it all.
We write in passion and love, we write an apology, we write in admiration, and affection. We write in absolution as much as uncertainty. We write in purpose as much as apathy.
We don't write because we should. We write because we can and It's everything we are and everything I am.

This!.. Is why we write.
Slam poem. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOuMJYuGfQ8
Matthew James Feb 2017
This repetitious revery is fluffy and flowery but LOVE is REAL...

It's formed by us and fitted to our forms. By us. But its form is defined and real.

It may have started off as fluffy as the air we breathe, filled with light and butterflies. But now it's mostly solid. It fits to me and fits to you and it doesn't float away when you blow it. It has weight and substance.
I think real love is a practical thing. Love is a miner, not an artist. It works hard. It grafts. It digs deep into you. It gets ***** but it keeps going. It's honest and straightforward but at the end of the day it still wants a cuppa 'n' a cuddle wi' its Mrs.

Love does change. It grows... but like a bramble, not a rose. A rose gives up too easily. A bramble pushes through, even on hard ground. It works it's way into every nook and cranny until you feel totally loved. It may die back in a hard winter, but it always stays strong and true and bears enough fruit to make a good pie at the end of a hard day's graft down t' pit.

Love is a feeling but it's more than that.

It's knowing that when I'm a stress head, you're concerned but not stressed.
It's knowing I make you smile.
It's when you text me in a morning and say exactly what I say to you.
It's that even though we're miles apart and haven't got a *** to **** in, we still make do
It's when you watch me sleep... and don't complain about me snoring
It's knowing you want tos duck me as much as I want to duck you
And our kids...
Our kids get along. I think yours are ace and my kids like you.
But it's even more than that...
I don't feel scared now. Not now I've got you love. Not now I've got you.

Because I love you **
Shadow Paradox Sep 2014
Ink wounds sketched on her wrist
Prophetess unfurled her diamond proboscis
Hungrily ******* the pollen muse from the lyrist flower
She bounces her piety on the edge of her eyelids

Her azoic eyes flashing
Like a chrome apochromatic
Phonetic voice spinning a tune
Stylus fingertips dancing on a spinel canvas
Outlined on her metal stomach

Though eccentric
She is sterilized with intelligence
Tilting diagonally on insanities thin line
She is straitlaced
Self absorbed
Cryogenic

With upside down crosses imprinted on her throat
While her proselytes unthread dreams
From her coliseum heart
Bowing down to the collage God
Sacrificing sacrifices

“Pull more, pull more!”
Proselytes cried
Sunbeams painting their ash faces
As they pulled more dreams
From between the Prophetess lashes

Her hips becoming a petal chakra
Her vertebrae evaporating into bone butterflies
Fragments of every churchy elements
Pinning themselves to her skin

Her leather wings flapping a nursery rhyme
She spins out of control
Her musical clavicles creating a glassy chemical

Which shimmer and shake
Tattooing her pearl bones
Infusing her thoughts

She grafts herself on the minds
Of her Proselytes

They worshipped her life
They worshipped her body
They fed on her lies

Until one day

Error religion snatched her out her skin
Turned her into sacral fiber
Planted her whispers deep in a field of shredded dreams
And stretched her moon soul
Across the sun stained sky

For all to see
Her star spangled faith
Misshapen into unbelief

She had become her own religion
Her own personal god
But without any meaning
I read about death and violence

I proof read,
and top up
and eject
and print
and scan
and hand in
and sometimes I get full marks.

Mark.
Marks
Marks on the body.
Mark my words.
(Mark my work.)
Karl ******* Marx
The communist who launched a thousand memes.

My oh my.

//

The necropolitical is like a funnel
a filter,
a sieve.
Like baking,
only you didn't forget to put the oven on
and people are inside the oven and so are you.

It's not like with the toaster
when ur mum tells u to scrap the black crumbs into the drain.

It's not like you can unburn the burnt.
Oh and the skin grafts?
There's a waiting list for that.
The waiting list?
There's a form for you to get on that.
The forms?
You need to print them out.
The printer?
OUT OF ORDER.
Buy your own.
OUT OF STOCK.
Your bank balance?
FUNDS INSUFFICIENT.
Your bank?
Sorry you have reached us out of outside of our operating hours.

Outside
Outside of our
Outside of our operating
of our operating hours
operating hours
and hours
and hours
and hours
Thanks for holding! A representative will be with you shortly...

[Dave Dobbyn music continues playing through the phone]
university and study link and banks and institutionalised violence are all ******* ridiculous and need to stop
Yenson Apr 2019
The hatchets swings from right to left
cutting sway in magical arc glittering acidic polish
labourers strive in whimsical grafts and melliferous distune
the gods in Olympus stand akimbo watching meddling mortals

No demigods in hazey disquietude sees
for those the gods forsake wear the laurels made for Pompeii
time will tell come the days of transmogrification in Cosmos Paths
the oracles files litigation before the gods against impostors vile

The seven tongues of the seven headed dragon
flicker between the dawn and dusk, between mist and flames
salacious visions mired in morbid delight cooked with arsenic dew
a cauldron boils for givers and takers, a chalice of retribution awaits
Kopter Zero Mar 2014
I walked into a cave,
And I felt as though my fears
Were like living parasites,
Strange biological grafts,
Growing, pulsing, slimy things,
With Gross and hideous shapes.

Yet affixed to my back,
Dug into my very spine,
Like murderous lichen,
Or grotesque gothic primordial ooze.

Rising, Creeping, Slithering,
Wrapping mouths, eyes and tentacles
Around me,
Weighing me down.

These things,
Grafted on to me,
Hissing, belching and moaning,
Daring me to look at them.
Megan Sherman Jun 2018
On golden wings of blazing fire
Burnished with colours of desire
The angel Lennon grafts, aspires
With beauty suffice to be sung to lyres
I let my mind swim with golden sight
Climbed his wings, took nascent flight
Skies burnished with colours of delight
Aura in the sparkling night
To stratosphere I swooped, sweet soar
With that boy irresistible to adore
Ferried to seismic heavenly shores
As inspiration from the ether pours
We twisted, twirled beyond stratosphere
Where earthen angels rain their tears
Untainted by bludgeon of times years
Immortal dears soothe mortal fears
All four John Blake Buddha and Ganesh
Hearts with luscious light enmeshed
To them all pray in their distress
For mercy, pity, peace and bless
Upon a light beam we met angels of the sky
Chasing light that follows where those bonny angels fly
Mesmerised as they pirouette resplendently
Sirens snaring mortals to hear sweet eternity
Trumpet my arrival as I stand with Shiva, God
Pensive at the font of time, his wisdom I applaud
The true divine creator hidden behind religious fraud
Of his sublime divinity I, pilgrim, am assured
Then to cosmic churning to hear divinely truth
The music madly burning with its beauty rare forsooth
Transcendent destination borne of sultry spiritual path
And now the wisdom of heaven I in earnest surely hath
The churning music sang to me:
NO YOU, NO I, ONLY ONE HEART, WE
Embroils with my mind seismically
As truth knell out resplendently
Ascended from that churning ocean
In all its glorious commotion
To Kali dance in incessant motion
Ending my hearts trepidation
Vesuvian woman in golden O
Hath me mesmerised rapt in throe
She the deva see how she go
A heavenly rainbow to and fro
The golden O the Buddhist crown
Of enlightenment in which I drown
The snub of which the sages frown
A knowledge heart not head to own
Zoomed back to earth to take my place
As ambassador for angelic race
In us the light of love apace
A force to vanquish evil disgrace
Nirvana came a state of mind
Lucid gorgeous and refined
Time and love both intertwined
As in its clime I to the Bodhi tree bind
This my tale of an eternal door
Shown by boy irresistible to adore
He is a legend in modern lore
Sang end of war, could love no more
Saved me from a devils hand
On oppressed shore and oppressed sand
Helped a fallen spirit stand
Fixed her with his wanton wand
Lennon is the friend of sages
With wisdom felt not read from pages
Vanquish hell transcend the ages
Unlock the dark satanic cages
gmb Jun 2017
you walk your bike on the sidewalks and ride in the street
the asphalt calls to you. i'm not dumb,
and i know the skin grafts have gotten to you.
you scratch too much.
(are they bruises or just skin discoloration? are you hurting yourself or are you rotting from the inside out?)
this hurts more than it is supposed to (is it supposed to hurt at all?)
i can feel it in my stomach, i can feel it crawling down my spine and it rests on my hips
maybe this is my fault
i never grew up
and i walk like im delicate
2019 edit: i have no idea who this is about
West of a mutilated day, wormwood salts are scattered for some wild-chinned Controllers on a high pinnacle with viva vox in the Mandrake, Vernarth's house of Orion:

Saint John the Apostle says the proverbial Psalm: “In the lofty Cage, Gregorian sylphs, with skillful gestures and mania for cheering, are graced for coming to the Way of the cheap and venerable souls that are made up of the bodies of the evil-born on their railing. , in quagmire of swallowing spittle where the cold winter is banished, to jump from the cold oriental, having to walk with the elbows, and with the daring screams of the Sylphs that shake themselves among the foggy and fleshy tangle with rags and fur cloths flying smoothly through the tops of the oak trees in smoke to purge for Vernarth! Gospel, gospel in the barn of the delicate humus was felt, and that it was refracted in the refined forest with philosophical sacred love. Lord, all of us who are because we are, are you Lord ..., all in my exercises of loving gaze, are channeled by the indexes of my thumb to the little finger at the bottom of the sea, and float again from the little finger to the bottom of the surface. Waving in the transience of the world and holding back, Father God thunder, this with laryngitis when he outlines himself with the vast earthly sight, he covers with his right hand, the phlegm of ***** that made him drive an empty tremor, in my lack of security he testified by singing thousands and millions of choirs at this auction. The first ring of the profile will be carried by Jesus light, rubbing his back with some eyelashes of a drunk beetle, while the beetle will collect water between its extensions that will wail real needs of every morning albi - rosaceous that will travel in a circle towards the auditory of the Last auctioned saying: "As I have not to be where I was and was ..., if at night my beloved morning row impulsively and goes against it so as not to stumble into the night ...". Each cut piece of the dermis will have to be auctioned, I had Faith and the screenplay, encapsulated and embedded in each hope of the ramshackle flock, the impiety-weary ogre needed to stow his empty viscera with the cloth of the celestial kingdom, which at auction was beginning to squeeze and vanish when regurgitating smoothies and disintegrated spaces of belonging of the devotees of Vernarth. The writing is signed with lupus, this Lucia emanated from the morning resentment of skin envy, and from the massif drenched in anarchy and city archeology, lying hesitantly ..., as if the forest gave it some indication of rebirth, under the shadow of twinkling doubt, from the high front where they were nuanced over the engendered banners of truth, elucidating the forbidden and true matrix.

Adelimpia, Vernarth's grandmother, was squatting cutting the drool from the dwarf tree that lost a forage, at around 6:30 p.m. on the 39.9th day of a supposed 14th month of another dimension, almost winding up in a tangled series of productive hesitations and rituals, taking her victorious chariot in Lent where the teacher without felt traction, weave sprinkles of forgiveness on her distributor, starting her shaft and not her running engine, she already knew herself as a commoner with the wake of a ship without knowing where to go. Those who did not see themselves more backward intrigued to be part of the central bar of the rocker of the nymphs in their stadium, with a yawning lip where no one was invited. Mega-watt snitches go to the sacristan, breaking speeds of intangible entities that abide by her law, as a sage vilified in her secular realm, even in nowhere, the atmospheric larynx hissed widening through the flakes of the auctioned field, Joshua leaping with her. Cranky black horse Equus, with his anthropomorphic hooves, accelerated with action that put him among the lost belongings of the plateau, whose east limited him to two half-quarters of each other, and two-thirds slowing the sunset from ruby to ruby, brightening in the shades of green and green. Vernarth  Bernardolipo's father swallowed crops, from whose movements were born out of place gestures of residence, parturient fairies appeared emerging at once, or perhaps not emerging, the afternoon crushes the unplayable sun, Hugh and Anne covered their supra orbital eye areas, more towards a hillside where thousands of repertoires were being knocked down, and copious tableware with caked sugar, which seemed to reduce the acoustics from the beginning in what seemed solidly to fade to postulate in new shades of the weary rubbed rainbow, like thousands of shades doing the times of zascandil  in a curled comb, re-sprouting certain storm deities in the natural bow of the wind entangled in each stratus, sprinkling on the hectares of Possessions, standard deeds, sales orders, mutual funds, bonds ... the coffers and the earthly decomposed. Before each onslaught, a highly dense fog arose, highly ignored, anti-critical, and more disparaging of amassing a high scarcity with a local, in his quintals of his last bread for the flock. Lashes that exceed the grammage, foliage from leaf to leaf, from today until tomorrow, in a traveling satyr of dry leaves, "The Sphincter of the World will need Purgative ...".

Marathon of poisonings,… Lord, you have looked me in the eye; with your boat I will follow you, to your privileged perspiring cinnamon dock with various vociferous songs. What fared more than seven zeros, now they will be eaten by rodents, Lord attend my prayers, the pink mast has been sailing at several knots from the north, and it is rapidly losing its polar location, between verbs never traveled or driven, I dared to show off that the path of the gospel in small distant fragments will abound in infinite space, only the one that predominates will glide over my forehead with an accumulation of everything seen and that today in this sale; where everyone you own and care for, like a baby in front of a dissimilar kinship of good adventure and progeny that will leave your hands. "  

Etréstles says: "Soft and mellifluous presumptions ..., where do I have to look if nothing is heard? What is proposed and permeates the law of possessing and not, perhaps the strap reaches an infinite house, where the sun breaks down ..., the spout of my minimal rebirth slowly turned it into my reoriented defined cell. My grandfather Joshua fertilizes the new sales every day with his hooves bandaged with hemp, the sebum stones since they were so are already spirited circles, the hand of the maker is being compared with his tactile sense, Kaitelka's lungs, full of phosphate residues and sulphated, for the first time they milk in medium drops on their udders, although saying and what they prefer to assert of a worthy Down! If it were not, for his regal model of cetacean ostentation, he would not be in the Horcondising taking from today, towards the end of the curtain in the regular blushes, to create the great detachment, so necessary for the pulsating plain and purge his master Vernarth . The night covers it with sulfur oceanic satin, with the spauto of its jet and a magical moving game. Everyone was distracted when she circled over the routines of well-magnetized charms. More than two subjects were deprived of their well-placed jaw, when the overtime ran not crossing in the entire field in which she lived. It was time to unmask the interveners, the boatswain of the alfalfa field had been eating almonds with oil from the sole of a Joshua bototo shoe, she folded her wings at halftime to take a modest breath, to resume weak paths, deprived of confidence and not. To know who they would obey and to whom they would yield the fruit of their old and stock market work in the garden. Chaos for them, light of Lights, for those affiliated with the ruler who is Joshua, who will live behind a makeshift Patagua tree, erecting  aquisus tents and the dogmas of tomorrow. The magnificent concessions in the Horcondising massif continued to fall precipitously; some rummaged through their accounting almanacs, distanced and squandered their exquisite profits. The stagecoach is moving away, and the barrels of water were scarce, the aroma and tastes of roasted beef comes out over the bushes, the stores sway in a naive wind of blooming daisies, the sales were coming against the owners themselves, the taste of the laughter degraded their own present absence, the paraphernalia of the little birds on the carpet of the mountain plateau were, they began to do mercy of the tip in the exposed beams, the hundred feet with calluses came down from the semi-incinerated poles. Nothing smelled of pride anymore, just the last shadow of Joshua's Chief Sheriff; Vinicius, who thinned out the spotlights of the semi-strongmen still trying to collect his heavy wealth, now that among clouds of heavy cargo they went to give him only one habit to try to fit his body, just to wear his outfit. They looked, looked and kept looking at his octogenarian tearful sapro- genito dream, where the first dream ends, and his exile begins. Vinicius, locks the door, and starts drinking mate tea; while screams of those bad jackals were heard fighting for their inherited evils, in manners of not conquering those who lose a dream of their patriarchal courting-love, under the shadow of the most powerful bush for the rest of their lives in groves. Crumbs come off the beards of Joshua, his galvanized knife cuts multiform slices, to feed everyone equally and continue the purge of Vernarth "

The most desolate deity came; he walked in full sun, shelled and unattached, full of elongated bridles and with haste in his eyes. But not in its strides, thousands of years passed, and it brushed with my lost zeal in the quarrels of the Argolica, in the salinized and rotten feces of Eurymedousa, with its snowy and tricolor feet, hooded with its goods! , therefore, unable to sustain its own air from its nasal socket, dropping it likes brave foam that fell in the fired distance. Bad cooked fruit, with the flavor of a sleeping cinnamon stick, mitigating in its kind balsam, frayed wind yielding 360 and so many more suns, before the last one that I carry on my limbs ends. The end of the End began, in the seven ends adorning my steps. The obscene deities came, with their rebuilding geo music, breaking endometriums of goddess’s mobs and their almost massacred Pillan Mapu, among thousands that were, thousands of nowhere they are ..., in a today already anesthetized. He lies in the stench of the corrugated floor, in the wooden handles and rods stacked on the floor gesturing; the god Pillan Mapuche, under a generic vault of sleep falls into lethargy on the faces, leaving his unintelligible hollow free; and its unbalanced environment, crossing the basaltic moraine that circulated one day from the placenta of the fatigued cemetery. Dreams in kilos everywhere of pressed ducks, with dense covering and grasses on the hooves of bucephalos, crucible, living trident and extraordinary flowers ***** in floating skirmish, with dosing globules, thirst that is born from the whiteness of the first day in confessional liberation, cell of white with a looted look, shields of osculation, like icy air that transpires his ninth life and that is born from his ninth death, splinted in the face of death that mutilates his fingers when crossing his genes of perfidious and monkish plot of a life bypass. I sing or I do not sing, I lack my throne from where I observe the glances with time and impudence, possessing everything behind the back of the macabre time in counter-steps of tender golden plague, in foreign skin growing on my right blanket, from so much passing lights with cracked night outings, walking towards me, between roads and between Monday nights with faces of long and sinuous unctuous branches, with great step and size. Now I have to draw the curtain, on light lying in the shadow of an opening scattered in warm beets. With sincerity ..., and mistake there is no will to germinate in them, I will be born without being with them, to be meaningless without them ..., and that it is above other absences, with great eloquent and numerical weight on absent.

They are still plastered, washed out and with the frizzy pigments of a parnassus Paradise, where it has been intervening over its bloodless headers. Joshua walks thousands of steps on with his Equus skull, like a meridian slipping off certain rods of decay. Thus they all floated in the cephalous porous airs, with great airs of Cain collapsing on Abel recomposed in reserves of a millennium that fell twisted and stunned, captivated by an ominous word. Sendal covered themselves in bandurrias that covered the melodious icebergs of exulting individuals and swollen with passion, with their rummaging and thunderous noises going along with their flowers to the sea dissipated. My paternal grandmother was delimited; she paraded from the openings with cough-covered mounds of the frozen volcano, growing reflective slits of dense gradation in the nervousness of the overhang and angry sighing heat, in all the vertiginous and venerable spirits numbed by the darkness of so many sorrows on their bluish heads. Eurymedousa, already ill-fated to continue in Rhodes, appeared on stilts and with agonizing lights and yielding to the crossbows of the centaurs gagged by the Beauties; they consisted of their seesaws before the agreement with the Master, who gave us her Hellenic manifestos, and no less to others. My uncle King Arthur carried news of the locked consonants of his string and with a riding crop for his steed, tangled in rows that tore his face into small abscesses on his face, which were superimposed on those capillaries of the sweat of Heaven. Blessed Lord, the knee had grafts of golden steel, the horns of the radio sol brego that were broken in its metaphysical pregnancy, and its food collector that had solid gold baths towards a tabernacle fussing through its mucous orifices of alfalfa with the a flavours of irradiated cattle . He paraded with his loving mount flying down his track and kept clueless, at times he ran so swiftly that he crossed evil omens with Joshua, he was seen as weak and white in insulting slanders, Tamayo; his friend, who was a Talamite native, followed him on horseback, his son rode the sheep every summer, passing wool of pure holy insignia of a healthy man.
Along the banks of the reeds, he came riding on a donkey, Edward my paternal uncle, the third of Adelimpia, came three steps before his donkey, and he counted three times before riding him with provisions for good waters, wrapped in an energetic fire of Saturday tobacco in his mouth in mourning, who lovingly watching over himself, looking at today towards a peak for his sheep, looking at them for a manger of borders and tiny hunching phrases of black song about legends of the offender, which tempted to show off invading their fields. He is to the right of his mother Adelimpia, and under the rib of his father Bernardolipo overflowing, giving sugar to the colt Dolly in the sunsets, bequeathing affection with syrup, and a thousand compliments in December of 9,900 AD, Joshua, I remained in shreds of pageantry and endless lives, I always said, my lady, here I bring you a peasant's soup in flower of primed twisted canvas, in this three-year period I must call them to dinner in past lands with sweet potatoes to eat and candlesticks of flying seeds, with eager candies of a crack and their thirsty mouths. Gentlemen, I am Edward, their son, I want to sleep in your arms, after escaping from my worst perfidious toothless bite that still hurts inside. After eating great cholesterols from all over the world, amidst the tools of my children I am, always putting a tobacco leaf caught in the scrawled pieces and in great coinciding strokes, in circles dancing to throw away the bad and broken places badly thought and done. When I get to the end I will cling to the Joshua habit and shout not to leave me alone in the middle of this world, without toasted flour, cheese and tobacco. I am not a malignant man, I am only like those of us who are far below, feeling footprints on my spine, and I do not tell my wife Molly, so that she does not lack chickpea flour for our children wrapped in regrets and ***** with hunger and light blue in goodness, like saints and media, but in the end with clear blue water in my glasses. I invite everyone to my table to dine on oceans and worlds of clear celestial light, because with this hand I break this piece; I am the Son of Adelimpia and the supplier. They brought me in anemone branches when the Lord's headache invaded him, when he felt nails in his hands, to the east of Eden, without steps or turgid edges and a rough runaway palfrey”

The Horcondising massif turned into a great mountain, Edward was in the limestone of some potters and followers of Joshua molding him, they began to bait the rope that merges the mountain range, with the valley at the foot of all the mapus, mud flowing from the monastic floods , here they polisonated in the stony atonement of each lamentable trunk. They say;… faramalla  demonion, would be with a Silfife facing the mass of the vital obstacle, with faded coffee fiber, smeared in wine and bread, with eternal vintage vine. Luccica, Vernarth's mother, tackles familiar corners, with anointed frames of fiction in irrational ergonomics…; in numerous steps that will reach your distinguished heart. An ocean of doubts has fallen due to the inheritance that has precarious injuries, of battered egos and scrubbed by undue ignorance. Mountain delusions and manias, which run through the fibrillated vigils of some soft ropes and their abundant bristles like the choppy of an echidna escaping as it tingles by my twisted temples ”. The Horcondising  tam tam modulates through its crater and its pale face of a perpetual cell. Towards the forgiveness of the primordial ones and the commiseration of the orb burying itself in creation, this sacred and over the pale Sudpichian region will rest, in the roots growling in capillaries of the carbonated earths and in its badly wounded footprints. Horcondising is in quarantine, the elevation of the constellations are hyperillusionible, they migrate Along with Albalalhue and Carnivorous, the succeeded nymph that extracts exudation from a flushed match in the palm of some ideas on rollers, higher up and on angular from other right angles. Toiling with her hands, and rubbing possessions with her mazote and her patronage full of rakes.

Etréstles says: “Beyond all metal of hatred of every god not heard, beyond all evil of timid hatred I have not heard. I hold the playful phrasing of Edenic song, which calls us in voices full of long journeys, especially on this day fading. Through the hollow, belts and picket rings breaking the timid lights of the last sunset.  Cardinals in envelopes of fragile strengths, mountains with borders and deposits in the last voluminous plagues on the mason's eye.  Binding themselves in a pile, with saffron nails in their ears, with moths that run through the unforgivable morphologies. Do not lose life, abandon all noisy fight in coalition with the uninhabited *** of coins, there are forty days left to say goodbye to the god Faramalla, who lies with closed tec, limps to his lost pupils, and the sky swirls over his day when nothing not fit for any drinkable air with light bulb. Horcodising loses millimeters within minutes and rising, towards harvests to harvests, they lose merged schedule of a time without a past, reviling themselves from a present of consanguineous evil with an abstinent future. Luccica; Vernarth's mother, she is a sylph dragged by the tempest moraines, being detached to a contemplation and intake of life. The membranes of the accordion burst, and between brittle passageways crying without union, succumb to the teachings of foolish fate, Luccica as a portion owes its origin to the sea, taking its physiognomic bark from a seal specimen of aqueous flattery, to frize it on a similar surface umlauts on the "u", with phosphorescent and indeclinable forges, making it a beautiful maternal nymph, like the beautiful female picking up a moon in her arms, clinging to a new hallucinatory satellite to engender. "Live and talk with your peer, her dazzling sneaks in and laughs at this prominent queen, to exhale on those who observe her."

End Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichian
Transversal Valley  the Ferments - Parapsychological Regression
Mandrake, the Wild Auction
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
you begat it all wrong with your genesis story: i don't think i'm hot ****, i doubt that i am, hot ****.

when i cite communism i don't imply:
a redistribution of wealth -
me? i'm happy with a good night's sleep...
i mean capitalism has lost the essence
of work -
         in that: there is no respect for labour...
such a trivial "thing"!
god... this sounds oh so awful -
      and in "career" one always ends up
sounding a crude as a lumberjack's echo
in a forest - chop chop - gunner on the tilt -
crude writing that comes when one has
ingested too much of foreign opinion,
via audio, and not via reading...
            i have to find myself apologising
for this outpouring -
       but then again sometimes the most
mundane "things" have to be said,
for *per se
reasons, than for any vector
purpose culminating in a reached point (b)...
when people trivialise work is the worst
kind of times...
          when so many trivialise work by
contesting in karaoke sundays in england,
or "masterchef" kitchens on mondays
tuesdays through to fridays...
  how about honing in on the immediate
concerns, the near-breathing-aching-tomorrows
of these closest to you?
   how a father will complain to a son
that he made him too much lunch food:
what? it would be easier to complain had
there been too little, and that you didn't have
to throw excesses into the bin?
i had to outthink heidegger in his "fetish"
of dasein... it was too remote for me in
the end...
      and since i've never come across
a philosophy book that utilises grammatically
categorical words (e.g. noun, verb, adjective etc.)
i feel a veil has been lifted...
  the curtain of sleep -
and when i see how heidegger took to stressing
dasein: being "there" - i think of
journalism first, and how to excuse the world
and turn to hermitic ways,
  for there is a there, as there is also a "there",
i.e. there isn't any!
but that is much more an allocation of
counter-verbalising events -
      there's no talk of adrenaline when speaking
of a terrorist attack far far away,
       there's only the word: tragedy;
the terrorist is immediately felt,
but the post-scriptum is but a "loser" in
the descriptive allocations -
would you fancy facing this "loser" face to face?!
i envisioned heidegger's dasein to be
more procreative, more centred to
       a fickle coordinate of media attention...
   more the engaging "plotline"...
less a case of demanding aristotelian
post-etymological correction facility of nouns
i.e. calling things by their proper names -
and more engaging, always engaging,
even if by a centimetres' worth of engagement...
that old shambles of tornado in the west,
a butterfly in the east with equal event impressions
complimentary...
    of all places, my grandfather managed to
visit auschwitz three times, upon the third
he resigned from the encounter with the gas chambers,
but i somehow always seem to be trapped
in these barbwire confines, given that i've never
visited: romancing h. h. holmes earth...
    but i took to this **** philosopher like
a fish takes to water: the reason?
        defunct complexity of the prose
     in other writers...
                        notably aristotle;
i had to chop up history as some sort of
inheritance, that had to be kept for reasons
of posterity, rather than nostalgic romance:
for one, i hate history to be kept for
reasons of posterity,
   achilles or homer was not kept to this day
for reasons of posterity, they were kept
out romantic reasons...
      history as posterity belongs to scare children,
in the classroom...
      and nowhere else,
  but authentic history: desires no teacher
and no pupil...
           it just has the authenticity that becomes
ultra-history... myth!
   therefore my gateway to the ancient times
resides with heidegger's dasein
with? zusein -
         and yes, not being a native german speaker
i can understand the "mistake" of
this sort of "nuance" -
             again in inverted commas,
for lack of a better word, or a desire to open
a thesaurus (rex) -
           in auschwitz 2.0:
                     respect work, to be free -
it is this, in the concentrate form that's most
demanding: toward being -
     in a cubicle, in a tightly knit tartar patchwork
on a kilt...
     we're not going anywhere if
work, esp. manual labour is not respected,
or is frowned upon...
              when work becomes all software,
and little if no presence of work as hardware;
i guess that's one of the reasons
   i'm on comfortable terms with the supermarket
staff at my local...
  i go there so often, i'm so *******
predictable with my purchases i am almost like
the one ready to become part of
the flying dutchman ship... immersed in
my everyday recurrent predictability...
no qualms with the staff, just the frankly friendly
            'alright mate, how are you?'
'fine mate, how are you?'
    'oh, not bad.'
          'good good.'
i know i can be the most pompous ***** on
paper from time to time,
  but then my writing is one thing,
and i know there's an umbilical chord of segregation
between the hungry foetus of a blank page,
and me binging on pickled gherkins and
     raw herrings in a cream sauce with this
blah, as every over blah, turning into a blur
the moment i wake up the next day;
and in grammatical terms (i.e. categories) -
i have already given dasein a name (a noun)
in that i call it an offshoot of journalism -
whereas in the instance of zusein:
i invoke the notion of some act (i.e. a verb
dimension) - i.e. the acquisition of action
through non verbal involvement -
beyond the hier & the da...
        something that becomes a mongrel
of the two positions, to a non-relativistic
  compendium...
      and if we all assembled ourselves,
or simply had the ambitions of simple verse,
or complying to simplifying language
in order to "appear" simple -
well, what would happens to those of us
who wrote to attain complications -
and thereby remain the simple brutish folk
of easily understandable manners,
   and tactful hushes -
                and the awry grafts of hubris?
the worst enemy of staying awake is
the enemy of all of us: the simplified &
therefore overused craft of using language...
i am not writing a ******* lullaby!
       josé! pronto! yalla, imshi!,
i don't write for either children or for rhyme,
i have my reasons for this being
more than true...
        simple language is repugnant to me,
it just serves the purpose of itemising
the person who writes it as:
    well, **** me for trying to understand
that sort of writer for a year,
  i can sniff a rat with one line of verse,
neurotic, despotic,
      cleverly encrusted in homogeneity,
******, under-fed, just *******,
       language is there to be mishandled,
complicated, diversified, turned into
an amazonian cocoon,
                   something out the blue -
  something lost in space -
  opulent, high on fibre -
             i can't stomach reading works
that are nothing short of a geometric
precision & predictability of drawing
a circle, or a square...
  which is why, whenever i watch american
films i get bored...
   because i managed to integrate this
knack of seeing past the already recurrent
plotline predictability...
  so much for those "creative" writing courses.
Cole Cummings Feb 2023
A ninety mile per hour fastball
Straight from the pitch
An oncoming pair of headlights
The crunch of my bones
As she shatters my walls
I thought I worked so hard to build

My blood on the pavement as I pour out
My battered and bruised heart
In all of its tiny pieces
She is needle and a thread
The stitch in my veins
The Paramedics won’t be here anytime soon

The last choked bit of air I’ll breathe
Will be full of you
A song I will never finish singing
But love the notes I’ve heard time and time again
They will call a time of death upon arrival

The road was your kiss and I wanted to be all over it,
So the rash is worth it
The skin grafts, my mistakes from previous times
I am patchwork at best, half a man, more parts to be used than a full package

My lungs were blackened from the smoke, but I’d give you them anyways if you asked, tear me limb from limb as you tell me you love me, brutally and with such cold tone

The metal twists my insides as I connect with the hood, my legs off the ground, kind of like how I feel when I’m with you, floating through the air, waiting for the fall.

The last cigarette in my pocket will never be burned, I never got around to telling you how I really felt. I knew the words, like a vice, would be poison to your lips

Sirens will line the street, the sole witness to a love letter unspoken in the rain, my blood washes down the ditch and soaks the grass. No one saw it coming
Megan Sherman Mar 2018
The fire and brimstone in their pall
Are the cloak and cloth of sin
Whose tyranny the mind appal
When it fathoms deep within
And o'er those gates so rancid wrought
With blood and flesh and iron
When after that fate one, we, hath fought
We turn up still, all hope be gone
The stench of death dank, all around
Suffuse the climes from sky to ground

The King of Hell who seldom grafts
For anything, yet seldom stops
His command to torture, down the shaft
As to every level hops
Spreads black wings and glides above
His victims as he, gruesome, gloats
Anathema to turtle dove
Who on divine zephyr of heaven floats
His presence ever torturous still
When reign dark from ******, lordly hill

He sees the scuttling victims run
Away, cruel let loose for game and chase
A beautiful mirage of sun
To taunt the soul abased
Hells hills trees grow putrid leaves
No mortal could brace the sulphurous stench
Under canopies the victim weave
As they shiver, shudder, blench
As torturer catches up, apace
Him testament to time's disgrace

By his vainglory employed
That ******* of the angel boys
Treats people, world, as things and toy
Seduced to do his bidding, ploys
But justice, freedom will uproar
Angels of Hell link arms, uprise
For Heaven they have wanted more
Than sooty, oppressive, obsidian skies
**** the devil, his ****** lies
Hear us rise, sing God's reprise
POSSIBLE Nov 2017
Consciousness overwhelmed
by Astral formed lightning swells

Gamma ray
sent fone alarm
Tone torn to apart

too much light in the well  
Armored up, shoulder helm,  
You hear that music as it swells

In the well worn wardrum  wrecking wrath
In our forlorn eardrums shaking grafts like hell.

The walls turn to lattice-like
Vision tell me prophetic sight

The whole world ; We all together
Wearing our give-a-**** hearts

bright against That neon orange
Trump wall just  tryn-ta-rip-the ***** apart

But No idea based in hatred
can flesh the good

No, Understanding is an art,
Operate clean, never landing
poison darts

But Next
I’m a poison frog to those
who **** Got my bois in the bog
ready to retaliate

But an for an eye makes the whole world blind
Such that cliche points stale rhymes.
Julian Jul 2022
How Does History Really Work?

The enantiodromia of parallax founded as a predicated fulmination of retrograde incident precluding accidental consequent is a natural referent of a bypassed bridge that through tip-lipped coercion resorts to the nature countenance and visage of the holiest creator of our majestic universe bolted to the linearity of patterns of trigonometric spelunkers seeking a sub-Pythagorean orbit of granular generativity that becomes its own amplivagant vessel and simultaneously ampitheater that is a fission of magnetized smog mobilized in ulterior provenances of heightened parlance for impavid labtebricole secrets marauding with visagists that cloak the heavens in the elective cardiac synergy of a saturnine swindle wandering listlessly with jive-talking smooth-walking creatures of cerebral habit jaunty with legacy but bounded by the strict cloffins of the lambent source of journeymen into the sojourn neither of regaled destiny nor whispered prophecy but more on the lines of a conflated flux dispersal of entropies competing in space time to wander endlessly through the diaspora of the living hallowed graves of the Potemkin Village of the silentium of the protectorate behind McCauley Culkin’s agoraphobia. History rotates upon a transdimensional supercalendrical access point beyond which there is  nothing but terminus even in the absence of pointed aberration because the milk of even the lactose inferior mettle of scurrilous witwanton bludgergrumbles of the wednongues is a hallowed wassail only to the degree the counterfeit becomes moribund by the rickety cringes of logical deceit becoming tinsellated surfeit that the stars appetize for but because they are installed with a degree of reticent amnesia it grafts a gridlock of paralysis from which the hostage situation humanity has prevailed through despite velivolant winds to the contrary is capable of plumbing abyssopelagic transportation only in the moments when the material world and the numinous intersection of the seminal ingeminations of orderly demarches in the folksy remedies which bandy their temptations on the borrowed bibliopolists who in gingerly Canada Dry secrecy burrow the furrows of the sulcate grooves of waxen miracles in the glabrous limelight of the gallywow diversion that earns leverage over the meager rather than spars with the promethean pataphysics of a time that is becoming so prolific with fulgurant streaks disguised by smog that even  the most well-paid firefighters can never stop the rampant conflagrations from infiltrating cantabank muses upon alighted destinies. We are at a centripetal point in time among many others but because we witness the transdimensional bypass with such geopolitical clarity it becomes an obvious zugzwang for those who try chryselephantine gambits and gimcracks in the ginnels of backwater boondoggles to enforce the hibernaculum of blackguard engraved in the literate apostasy of man from the true origins of the dynamos that all decided together to ensure the vitality of the syndicated enterprise of the very transgressions and felonious against the “Space Cops” to the extent their overflush of ostentation in their gingerly mannerisms becomes itself the guarantor of an ascertained future clouded by murky residual charnels in the nemorivagant chase for the shining beacons of the brains that siphon unprecedented influence in order to cleanse lavaderos of the ***** grime of egestuous obolary poverty of the pastorauling and the aspen groves that lurk with pernicious impertinence above sandapiles of sadly deceased souls journeying towards neither an eternal conflagration nor a vacancy of substance but rather that substantial determination of magnanimity. The myths that perplex humanity were clothed as a parvenu IQ test for the people who sizzled with the saute of keen acumen foisted upon a thought loop of lunatic subversion of ultraviolet genius beyond the detection of the lens of prismatic fortunes gained by reversing photons in time to regionalize the spectral reality into the elaborate alveolate ploy by the elite to assume not by arrogation but rather by thaumaturgy that all witnesses become contributors in the modern age and therefore this funnels the continuum and spectrum of a radiological race girded by the futtocks of jetsetting analysis to bifurcate planes of trajectory that at first diverge widely because of raconteurs grafted with numinous fictions of the facade of man in a Potemkin Village like Manhattan which saw its population decline by nearly four-hundred thousand people in three months (All of the Boroughs) to invest in enclaves where their furtive fruition would be recognized. The very invention of time travel is an epigenetic alien configuration of races that outlived us and sought sidereal mysteries in boosterism that granted us parceled notaries that spell doom for democracy but bonanzas for the autarky found in inalienable rights such as the pursuit of happiness most importantly configured into the realms of persuasion to become a meddlesome hypestorm that few tempestuous mercurial sailors would dare to journey beyond because the early grave is reserved froward in the momentary amnesia of videos of accidental leaps that frogmarch us into a more clever ascertained future micromanaged by a collective syndicate of outfoxed limiculous creations drowning in cesspool swamps of money to bury the bridewells alive because essentially we are now entering the pivotal crux of  history when one man’s barnstorm becomes a collectivized enterprise to radically reform the conditional antiquity inherent to time and to gouge funding for armadas fought by warriors that lapse between milliseconds in order to deliver calculated payloads with extremely precise mathematical precision. When someone patented the Theory of Relativity he postulated that the condensation of matter is fungible and flexible plasticity rather than a benumbed sopiter race of grumbling groaks that become costermongers for comatose sleeping pills and mandatory heart monitoring. There are a few moments in history capable of jump starting the generator not of myth but the progeny of priggish mathematical facts lurid in their prurience of permanence to ensure that neither mythomane nor sophist can clamber into an artificial alcove of the celestial paint of enhanced perception predominating over a century obsessed with perceptual enhancements of prosthetic invention emigrating from distal orbits among the lunisolar accord as well as around the regional taxes of Saturn and its cove of troves of bohemian impertinence. Analyzing history in the alpenglow of the donnism of hedonistic impetuous importance is a yield and cloveryield to an optimism of guarded shibboleths easily duplicated by laboratory investigations into the microbiological elements of the functioning human society upon which percolations of reality drawing ever near the icebergs of certainty that the ship will eventually sink in Africa and that sad welter should appall us all but because one person who owns the master of destiny cognomen capable of surpassing the largesse of the frissons of glamour becomes the swift parvenu of an anointed bludgergrumble extorted by powerful puns in this society of fashionable violence to enforce codes of silence by tampering with individualism and individual flavorks that demassify to preselect by artificial implements that the predestination they heard was a warbled echo of a now extinct future aborted as the time line converged upon the antipodes of fission and friction to exert filagersion in geotaxis to ensure that the sworn blatteroons of bloviation endowed with such great fiduciary importance that when exact events are hallowed in history movie dialogue memorializes those moments at the very second they are observed without being an underminnow of lip syncing. Some primary examples of pataphysical conundrums exorcised from time is how the whiskey bar aloft in the heights of the stratosphere could find direct knowledge of the future live on camera in movies like Twister to memorialize the thaumaturgy of sartorial shoes mixed up in time and how in Lost’s final episode of the first season the entire cast was elated by their renewal of knowledge or the introduction of the inseminated creed of the mysterious bottle that was kicked and then dematerialized. Physics is a funny science but the belabored tropes of game theory existentially altered the trajectory of humanity from a docile ploy of slot machine slaves into a society that engraves its superstitions upon pervious minds to the salubrious decorum of a whittled henpeck of privilege that whatever is broadcast automatically becomes preeminent because it is so widely spread even among piebald audience of sebastomania and lunacy can be cordial with poorly kept secrets secreting the jaundice of self-reference and milking dead organs of surgical pride for the stomached emasculation of the humane virility undergirding civilization. Right now and starting in early September 2020 and much before that if you study the Earthquakes created near Hawthorne, Nevada the meterologist suddenly becomes the kingpin because his Big Lebowski antics are a sardonic rift on the rafts of publicity to reprove the agentic force of a discarnate inanimate evil of a being that lacks sensory capacity so thereby seeks to disincarcerate its own obligatory tether to the vacuum of warbled tilts of information to domineer with a degree of captaincy catapulted by the future dominion of historicity compounded by the dearth of energized rebuke flabbergasted venom of deceitful charlatans of yobbery complicant   on contraplex bromidrosis of ergasia flapdoons emigrate from the citadel of veridical truth.
William Lodge Jul 2016
Can you smile
And be a proud man?
Can you cry for the guilty
And look him in the eyes?
Plastic patches, and grafts,
And still, a real man

Enemy, my enemy inside
Do you need death?
Pain, the punisher brings
The hands of the man
The hateful heart
And I am not immune

Flowers die, in time
Flowers fall, in failing
But this is the high summer
Of a true king
Judgments made, judgments bringing
The punisher to earth

I speak of a river
And of moving its path 1,000 miles
Water to the desert floor
As a lake will become a desert
Flowers now grow in the dryness
On the lakebed, a forest burns

Changes
Echoes
Rain
Dust
Tears
Of a proud man

— The End —