Not only sands and gravels
Were once more on their travels,
But gulping muddy gallons
Great boulders off their balance
Bumped heads together dully
And started down the gully.
Whole capes caked off in slices.
I felt my standpoint shaken
In the universal crisis.
But with one step backward taken
I saved myself from going.
A world torn loose went by me.
Then the rain stopped and the blowing,
And the sun came out to dry me.

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving
Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the lizard; examine this region
Of short distances and definite places:
What could be more like Mother or a fitter background
For her son, the flirtatious male who lounges
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
Extensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop
To hill-top temple, from appearing waters to
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard,
Are ingenious but short steps that a child's wish
To receive more attention than his brothers, whether
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.

Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged
On the shady side of a square at midday in
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think
There are any important secrets, unable
To conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
And not to be pacified by a clever line
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds,
They have never had to veil their faces in awe
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys
Where everything can be touched or reached by walking,
Their eyes have never looked into infinite space
Through the lattice-work of a nomad's comb; born lucky,
Their legs have never encountered the fungi
And insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
With which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
So, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works
Remains incomprehensible: to become a ****
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice
For effects that bring down the house, could happen to all
But the best and the worst of us...
That is why, I suppose,
The best and worst never stayed here long but sought
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so external,
The light less public and the meaning of life
Something more than a mad camp. 'Come!' cried the granite wastes,
"How evasive is your humour, how accidental
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death." (Saints-to-be
Slipped away sighing.) "Come!" purred the clays and gravels,
"On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both
Need to be altered." (Intendant Caesars rose and
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
"I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free. There is no love;
There are only the various envies, all of them sad."

They were right, my dear, all those voices were right
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,
Nor its peace the historical calm of a site
Where something was settled once and for all: A back ward
And dilapidated province, connected
To the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
Seedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite:
It has a worldy duty which in spite of itself
It does not neglect, but calls into question
All the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
Admired for his earnest habit of calling
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy
By these marble statues which so obviously doubt
His antimythological myth; and these gamins,
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
With such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature's
Remotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.

In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

I

I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels,
Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator
Laying my ghost in metal,
The scales of this twin world tread on the double,
My half ghost in armour hold hard in death's corridor,
To my man-iron sidle.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels,
Bright as her spinning-wheels, the colic season
Worked on a world of petals;
She threads off the sap and needles, blood and bubble
Casts to the pine roots, raising man like a mountain
Out of the naked entrail.

Beginning with doom in the ghost, and the springing marvels,
Image of images, my metal phantom
Forcing forth through the harebell,
My man of leaves and the bronze root, mortal, unmortal,
I, in my fusion of rose and male motion,
Create this twin miracle.

This is the fortune of manhood: the natural peril,
A steeplejack tower, bonerailed and masterless,
No death more natural;
Thus the shadowless man or ox, and the pictured devil,
In seizure of silence commit the dead nuisance.
The natural parallel.

My images stalk the trees and the slant sap's tunnel,
No tread more perilous, the green steps and spire
Mount on man's footfall,
I with the wooden insect in the tree of nettles,
In the glass bed of grapes with snail and flower,
Hearing the weather fall.

Intricate manhood of ending, the invalid rivals,
Voyaging clockwise off the symboled harbour,
Finding the water final,
On the consumptives' terrace taking their two farewells,
Sail on the level, the departing adventure,
To the sea-blown arrival.

II

They climb the country pinnacle,
Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture,
Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral;
They see the squirrel stumble,
The haring snail go giddily round the flower,
A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral.

As they dive, the dust settles,
The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily,
The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel
Turn the long sea arterial
Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy
Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall.

(Death instrumental,
Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey,
Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and ******,
The neck of the nostril,
Under the mask and the ether, they making ******
The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral;

Bring out the black patrol,
Your monstrous officers and the decaying army,
The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles,
A ****-on-a-dunghill
Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity,
Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil.)

As they drown, the chime travels,
Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift
Rings out the Dead Sea scale;
And, clapped in water till the triton dangles,
Strung by the flaxen whale-****, from the hangman's raft,
Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial.

(Turn the sea-spindle lateral,
The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning
Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table,
Let the wax disk babble
Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping.
These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still.)

III

They suffer the undead water where the turtle nibbles,
Come unto sea-stuck towers, at the fibre scaling,
The flight of the carnal skull
And the cell-stepped thimble;
Suffer, my topsy-turvies, that a double angel
Sprout from the stony lockers like a tree on Aran.

Be by your one ghost pierced, his pointed ferrule,
Brass and the bodiless image, on a stick of folly
Star-set at Jacob's angle,
Smoke hill and hophead's valley,
And the five-fathomed Hamlet on his father's coral
Thrusting the tom-thumb vision up the iron mile.

Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble,
Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored
The stoved bones' voyage downward
In the shipwreck of muscle;
Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle,
Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels.

And in the pincers of the boiling circle,
The sea and instrument, nicked in the locks of time,
My great blood's iron single
In the pouring town,
I, in a wind on fire, from green Adam's cradle,
No man more magical, clawed out the crocodile.

Man was the scales, the death birds on enamel,
Tail, Nile, and snout, a saddler of the rushes,
Time in the hourless houses
Shaking the sea-hatched skull,
And, as for oils and ointments on the flying grail,
All-hollowed man wept for his white apparel.

Man was Cadaver's masker, the harnessing mantle,
Windily master of man was the rotten fathom,
My ghost in his metal neptune
Forged in man's mineral.
This was the god of beginning in the intricate seawhirl,
And my images roared and rose on heaven's hill.

In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?    

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

The path strewn with hurdles and gravels
40 years is a long way to travel
Two souls sewn with love and peace
Two hearts dipped in bliss
Two minds not always in same strength
But determined within to walk the length.

40 years of building the nest
Patience and endurance put to hard test
Before one day the saplings become a tree
Heart upon heart two becomes three
Through fall and rise and sun downpour
Years flew as the three becomes four.

It's no easy work to raise a family
In all sadness live strong and happily
Blocks are thrown doubts are cast
Moments of life try to break the trust
But we didn't bow continued the thrive
A grownup family now, we number five.

A bouquet hung in afterhour pantry,
A bell to ring the starved noise,
Two spirit's gathering extraterrestrial information,
A stairway chalked by toys!!!

A damp moistness to bleed out ourn Laugh's,
No docteretic sources,
Just serene gleams of minds alike inbathed!!!

Abundance of sizziling swelter,
Bogged heavy in due rain heat,
A voisterous composition,
The crow polishes ourn two's feet!!

I tasteth her plum need,
She gravels our toes,
Fulminations children breed,
In translucent clear clothes!!!

We wither in feathered juiciness,
Where fences are none to find,
Wherein camera's we make to shiver,
We break back's on massage oil chyme!

She reaches over to take mine fears,
She maketh me a warmsome bed,
Different valley's in singular astronomical view,
Both alive, yet so dead!!

Ourn peritonium's hunch in closer,
As ourn cartilage gets renaissance,
Were two alike, a Shakespherian Poe poster,
A darkness and light of Dupont!!!

Puzzles with missing pieces,
Though we ourn selves fill the gaps,
Where none can enter between us,
For ourn chapters are ammophilously wrapped!!!

In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?    

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

.
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

Show me your wounds
The blood at your feet
The fear in your eyes
The scars cut in deep.
Scream your pain at me
Tear your lungs in despair
Lose your voice in the world
Leaving you without at care.
Fall to your knees
Smash your fist to the ground
Gravels digs into your knuckles
A familiar taste you have found.
Rain pours from the sky
Eternal clouds of gray overhead
You feel no cleansing in its touch
You're simply washing away with the dead.
Look to your side
Turn your eyes so to see
You're not in this alone
You will always have me.
See the bloodstains on my clothes
The scars cut in deep
The tears in my eyes
The pain that I keep.
I'll wash away with you
I'll share in your pain
I'll carry your burdens
I'm here to stay.
Share with me your struggles
Share with me your suffering
I want the cross that you carry
I want you, entirely.

L'heure verte

The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine *******. Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.

At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.

Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.

I am Heavy-lidded tonight,
Heavy-lidded
and inscrutable in my childhood.

My childhood that was spent hysterical in airing cupboards,
Where I wept unashamedly to the fixed God
And the stained glass, rose-hewn Angels of churches
That reeked of oak and holy water.
Where I sat in the trees, high on life and vanila-blue ice cream
And with knees skinned by the ****** pathways of woods
Or the safe gravels of playgrounds.

Where sunbursted mangoes dripped with musky-sanded chlorine
And the sun-hot metal gates clanged shut in the holiday winds.
Where rocks were thrown by fated children
And paper-cheap candy wrappers filled up plastic trash cans.
Where strange, money-minded housewives gaggled and giggled
With their ******-white teeth
And reflected my mother' s bipolar poverty
In the lenses of their plastic sunglasses.
Where my self-hemmed summer dresses were stained
With green and brown and red finger paint
As the days outside grew warmer
And the inside self grew older,
Colder.

Where I was punished for expression of the self
And confined to the sanatorium
Or the offices of Moloch's servants
On a sun-stippled day in May
Where my scrap-bruised hands
Were bandaged by the words of the Real World
And threatenings of expulsion.
Where I hid behind felted display boards
On a landing somewhere near Neverland,
And lay and listened to the friend-fuelled ramblings of lost boys
Who sat and smoked in dormitories
And hallucinated Peter Pan.
Where I wrote self-indulgent fuckery in toilets
And drew crude artistries on mirrors with lipstick
And contemplated
Amo
Amas
Amat
As I sat and stared at my own disassociated hands.

Where paper aeroplanes flew and were thrown
By hungover kids in threadbare jumpers
With chewed cuffs and prefect badges,
Where holy Evian was poured over my head
After a long last day under a white marquee,
Where I disassembled pencil sharpeners with iron-smelling razor blades
and violated erasers at an exam hall desk in a stormy June.

Where I contemplated death;
Sang hymns in the darkness of my bedroom,
Took a blade to my flesh
Like the soulless piece of meat
That I believed myself to be.
Where I fell in love;
Hurt myself
More than anyone else ever did.
Where I read,
Where I wrote tear stained elegies
To my idols under the earth
And prayed that I
Would last
Just one more day.

Small memories that make my chest ache.
I'm still working to identify why some of them do.
Maybe they don't need to be defined or recognized.
That's okay, too.
I imagine them being insignificant from an outside perspective... seen as mere moments passing, sights only slightly seen in between other *******.
Queue flashback.
Burn cruising down residential streets, Lana Del Rey's song "Ride" and everything else on that **** mix cd, late autumn, my "old but new" golden SUV making the first tracks in freshly fallen snow... foggy eyes... ******... alone... but it's okay, I enjoy my company.
Desperate for something bigger than myself... beyond myself.
Queue flashback.
My old bedroom.
My parent's driveway, sneakily smoking a midnight bowl and coming back inside with frosty fingers ready to make more art.
A little buffer, you know?
A lot more simple of a life among all the drama, the past lovers, the drugs, the adventures.
Queue flashback.
The sunlight on my skin on a country road looking for abandoned houses with my friends.
Passing around a joint and screaming along to the same songs over and over again.
Finding magic within decaying walls and gravels roads.
Being set free when I'm creating for me.
I see my art as something beyond a hobby, because it's a deep part of me.
It's nostalgia wrapped up in between the sheets of my empathy, apathy, and curiosity.
Nostalgia is my addiction... it's dancing with some ******* friction.
My partners are the past and my reality in a surreal scene.
I create my lovers and they create me.

We are us

Who are we?
We are the waters that create the seas
No need for modernisation
Civilisation oversees
United on the same path
Individually rare roads
Through bushes and gravels
We are the history that begins
We are the heard of new ideas,
That showers from forebears
To conquer now nature declares
Born with flares
All of us,all of us all of us we are one

Stumbling in failures
Triumphs directly delivers
We soon to stand like creepers,
Brothers and sisters
Learners to teachers and doctors
We are us

Or morning from dawn
Bravery at spawn
Flexible tongues to questions
Scary responses for answers
Who knows who are we
We are us, we are us
We are the Youths

Written by Kabelo Mthembu

In a sallow field,
Leaves wearing shorts,
Splash in a tiny stream,
Water sleeping in its bed,
Gravels full of sheen,
And peeping out,
Heat upticking,
With the sun in its elements,
He, aloof from his family,
And contracted with dryness,
Desirous of guzzling,
Drew back his gaping mouth,
And stood for  a while,
As the herd of dear
Came and ended up drinking,
And he, watching like a Shepherd,
Waited and waited
Till they drank enough
And left very little
And he, glad to get his turn,
Glistened his throat
And raced towards his house,
Neighing like a jovial lamb!

lost ardor, long hidden beneath these initial wastes
pinpointing the mines and matters, estimations and worth
your excavation operating on the surface of my bereavement
without any evaluation of its dolorous costs or the extent
of these ductile veins, rivers through our subterranean natures
your shadow requirements, eroded and befouled

now, neither my eyes nor I much love your dark
epicardial secrets, projecting deposits of debris, the chloride fragrance
of our secrets, hidden fires underground; your love, all and away
digging, mining proposed new lovers out of us both; gravels and
pain and gas; ferrous exploration; uranium reclamation anew via
caustic layers of ore and deposits of once-flowing love

alloys of dead flowers and waste form my rocks
seething into scabrous life like bantling cacti after a lover has risen
such risks always require a proportion of love be livid, recoverable;
threads of passion dissolved in the complexities of the body
grains of unconsolidated minerals evoking love and potash
yes, secret metallurgists like you pose acidic dangers
to my soft endocardial things

He asked me why I liked him
I've never been asked that question before I thought
I just stared out the window quickly reflected but my words never rejected
♫♫♫♫♫
I wanted to tell you
I loved your persistence you never made me feel the distance
I wanted to tell you
I loved your taste of music in the morning I never thought you were boring
I wanted to tell you
I loved how you'd get excited to see new gravels I wanted to go with you on all your travels
I should have told you
I loved the way you kissed me upon that rock I never felt more free
Then I thought why does he even like me?
♫♫♫♫
© Brittney Hibbert 2016

If I fall from seven stories, would you touch my mangled body?
Would you always be the last one every day to touch my cheek?
If I drown and I am floating, will you pull me out and hold me
--Wet and cold me--
Though my blood has stopped, my neck is limp and weak?

And should a fire consume me, would you watch the smoke blow off me?
Once I'm dragged out on our lawn and I'm nestled in wet grass
Would it be too much a trouble that you give my hand a last kiss
To look into where my eyes were--would that be too much to ask?

And if I rolled out of a car door, would you drive the roads to find me?
Would you pick the tiny gravels from my freshly-tender skin
Could you press your still-warm lips to mine and whisper you still love me
Claim my body
Be the one who tells my friends and all my kin?

And if somehow I exploded, would you think how to collect me?
Would you look for all my pieces just to put them back in one?
And if ailment were to strike me, could you watch my figure crumple?
Will you stay as I get thinly and my hairs fall one by one?

I love you every moment and would do all of this for you
I won't want to have to do it, but if someone, here I am
So, darling, as I'm weeping, will you press myself into you
Ever-New you
Say you love me and will love me as I am

Life is a lot like a river
The tides either help raise you up
Or lower tides can drag you under.
One false move
as you swim these emotionally
sensitive  energy currents....
Constantly keep  the emotions in a   balancing science..

Which helps the waters from turning "tsunami"  into wonder..
"How to Keep your head above the waters"
and "away from the gravels below?"
Strength and strict compliance to this ritual are always a skill..
A ritual..
A battle which always must be won..

Moods and unchecked thoughts are similar to a loaded six shooter.
You twirl the bullet wheel  and point the barrel to the head
Providing an answer on to the scene to where this "play" shall take you
or the rough waters shall take you through.
Memories of the past turning to obsessive weight
Kicking the stress of life's load to weigh one metric ton.


You must become like an Olympic swimmer and Albert Einstein rolled up into one character.
Smarts help you figure out a better equation instead of "Russian roulette"
and becoming a strong and skilled athlete can help one wrestle
their control over the tides wishing to
overthrow "this alpha male."
You become the victor through all of it.
Becoming a controller instead of being "controlled"
Energies kept in check.
Don't give in.
For one moment of allowing one's self to be overwhelmed or give in to
the energy effect of exhaustion
Can make your reactor
Powering your life's force
Blow as the Chernobyl Reactor blasted into lifelessness
You do not have to revisit history to know what and who such energy took down with it
So stay with the times
and never neglect yourself,
Never throw up your hands, and act out the phrase "forget it!"
The future is a brighter light than in the past.
Chose the right role in your life
and you shall win your Oscar
Thanks are due to the character in which you are bright to life
and as a director
you are a true actor.
in which you cast.

I’m setting sail out to sea
An oceanic storm of fractured pavement and unleaded gasoline
Because when you’re trying to break free
Of unwavering routines
You take the high road to a new life
And the road feels timeless
With its own mind
In an instant
Your world can change from calm to madness
Like being under water
Can’t break through the surface
reaching upward
Which one are you drinking:
The water or the wave?
And you think -what brought you here?
Trapped below the surface
Because although you can’t get out
The water is still clear
The gravels hardness
And the oceans fluidity
Out here you are alone
No friends no family
And you fear your ship is sinking
What would you do?
You guessed:
Surrender to the sea?
Because there were never any life vests  
The salt in the ocean
the salt in these cuts
Unwavering pressure
Of this heart pumping blood
I’m lost out in the infinite sea
And yet it’s softly rocking me to sleep

Somewhere along the narrow path,
I dream of what I cannot have.
Lushes and blooms fill the gravels
whisking away at scared ankles.
Skies scream of consistent mellows,
drowing about my broken trebles.
The winds of change play their harps,
but I am singing past their darks.

I stopped by the children playing,
The enjoyed their game so much,
It was nine halls on the earth,
Each filled with three gravels except two,
The two lied on the diagonal, and were named bank,
Turn taking in play was perfect ,
Every time before moving any gravel,
The counted halls ,
They showed delight when they won
They were disgraceful when they lost.

This brought me a lot of thoughts ,
Life is like a game,
Sometimes we win,
At times we loose ,
But since the children never stopped to play,
We do not have to stop living ,
We have to steer the wheel and keep going.

Life needs savings ,
So the children's game had a bank,
It needs strategy and skills,
That is why the children had to count  the holes before they play,
All these and more made my day,
I kept it for life,
And
I will use the gravel to educate.

The children were my teachers

We are no saints why expecting others to be  angels,
This is no perfect world, no heaven on  the gravels.
We  will get hurt by others for sure,
We just got to find the ones worth suffering for!

Late at night
One can see a light on
In my home
As I invent and also daydream
Inventions to renew a worn out world
Helping those who have limited ways
In which to find their ways
I  am a "kind scientist" getting lost in my brightest of schemes.
In my dreams
I see a much more advanced and a much more united people in the future
As I enjoy the astral travels
To different moments and places in time
I become inspired
By such brilliant visions
Another diagram and invention to plan out
Spreading brilliant ideas abroad to foreign gravels.
I donate my "smarts" and "data passed ideas"
over wireless lines
To work hard to see such astral predictions come true
I raise a glass of soda to my reflection
"A toast to the future, the moment, and a design for
a successful and more united  world...
in creative designs."

I am a pebble, stare at me, then judge me
Mock my brittle edges with your sharp gaze
And tell me how I look unattractive
That I look foolish and insane

Dried leaves carried me
Away from other gravels, whom
I wished to recognize these, I--
Should be belonging in their reign

Disregard my trembling fingers
For my derisible names
Because the norms would often tell me
I am probably not missed

Still, I see myself in that table
Beside pretty ornaments
When my money can only afford
A linen coaster of paper planes

At night I pray to God
That maybe they are right
But I will still be faithful, someday,
My longing will come to life

In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks by feminine consciousness, compassionate re-election in each flash in a striated calculometry, before which it attracts magnanimously to represent them in each speaking light and lightning when represented where the queen judges the king in Consummatum Est, with little difference in culinary artis and the extremely dense genre that generates and does not degenerate. Here is the coriaceous aspect of bluish faskéloma or exasperation of hands that move the indigo in occasional sub-vibrations, melting into the lustrous mark of the sessile columns inconsistency of their flimsy receptive spread and the unexposed masculine consciousness, lacking in what subconsciously thrives in regular damp sparkles cooling imbibition... creeping by thousandths of enchanted parasitic and superior ego.

I wonder after a long way and from a sacrilegious Para-celestial science in Lochnith, who, what and where could have supported him in such a ****** and in such cervices rising in gravels and beams that make a whole for all Menthe ?, where the mystery goes when breaking into the seventh external love..., in glades of magenta lights, on ultraviolet relief rounding out..., here is where everything lulls from Eleusis adverb, where a consonant fires that suffocates in spite of Pseudo Vernarthiano, in what and where it will go without exception disrupting threads of hesitation, not leaving us in hybridization, more if returning from loaded Cibatus or barley in the northeast that flattened in ultra winter, blinded until its pouring glacial azuloid water in arrhythmic thickening of fast secrets, in thirds of vox to call you borderline in a pair of trios and symbols of the subsoil reborn and flashed from a lifetime sheathed in its plain course and ministerial concealment that departs like a shadow from the himself and the end of the world.

Striking where nothing germinates from dreams, I waited for thousands of those like Me with senses of Anthesterion or March, leading me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified, even not resigning to love or stinking in the singular aborted and desolate uni-lunar, in venerable fulminations of his annoyance and the branch of the bakchoi, whistling for an Aulos that is remade generic when restarting from a day fasted, rebuked and rewarded in the emaciated hands of the Cibatus, like grasses lights polarizing and outgrown when recovering in resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous hue an aroma in super-machined life, and of the metallic oscillation of the ****** with fires and hyper-navigated rites in his aromatic and of the psychoactive fireworks in Lochnith, nauseating him at night in flowing enigma and rictus, glimpsing as he yearned to ritualize his graceful plumes in feasts that honored their Canephore by pouring mead into the psychic adept Bakchoi, revealing themselves as masculine on e the aquous feminine in a positive bed and of supra negative redemption, fading into sharp matter and its cared for, while the world in which it would live for more than forty-one stratagems of love was created, its eminent Truth being praised before me.

I myself... being your own tyranny..., who re-establishes who classifies him sacramental, is fixed in the palustrious lack of control of the barbarism of flashing, when I still pursue the darkness of my purging, still falling and not having where to do it, however falling into his final and in thunderous guilty glances... but..., what more public decree do I wish? for more rituals near you when feeling sharp minorities of the aftertaste, although in double life and in double shadow, your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte, more than a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and a dark haze. Meanwhile, of so many Omphalos of the micro center and of the micro ego distanced from mine, a lost and tarnished throne that hallucinates lost, knowing that it is a plausible sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in a fraction of cereal and sacred ritual to illuminate in tables that have of dwelling all the times that they revive in the bright red and purple sky of the clairvoyant mystery debtor, seeing itself in revealed luminescence, which casts itself in ornate nickels and acid rales at midnight that falls on a positive particle devoid of yours returning towards mine, preparing himself in praise to flash that makes him pigeonhole in lame theory, fallacious and previously suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnitt's capitulation and enchantment suffer in radiance towards his beloved, placing his phalanxes on the circle of angular waves on the milky virtual river of Eleusis caressing her face and her radiance.

Me Lochnitt, I was on the cliff with my Canephore Aerse, near his agrarian fatherly Athenian, I was going to say goodbye to the carelessness of myself, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from the ego and myself, knowing that Aerse would not choose to Me of Me, less to my Superior Ego. In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Léucade, which perhaps without my district that would insult me with reputation and snoop on suicides, on cliffs that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion in life serials and cities of the incongruous space in dramas where an anti-drama does not fit in the hamper that carries my priestess Aerse, flying over acropolis structures, and not yielding as a deity that prophesies where the world in which she and I can inhabit does not fit.

Lochnith, jumped behind her when she was falling through the Frontispiece of the Acrotera..., She looked at him as he fell..., forbidding him to skew gestures to approach her, so as not to fall where the wind is softer and more virginal, intervening in saurian thought Pashkein, and entangling them with snakes in their hair in a heroic way and in the evanescent reckless temptation of their suitor, catching the Onpahlo that he wore tied to his neck, transferred and shining with didactics, before childish confinement of the adventures and flower shops of spring next to Persephone's ragged serpents in the Kashmar and floating lilies of Aerse, on cliffs and cliffs, possessing sedimentary dolomites that emanated through her veins before falling on the side of the escarpment, over waterfalls of prayers for her knowing that he would always love her in her arms, on a singular excavation and enchantment base, as she looked at him smiling before falling. In the last forty-one seconds in which he fell..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Onphalo of his neck, by a plume of lofty winged love imagining in the mediocrity of a positive bleeding love of the mystery flashing Eleusino, by the ***** game that took them as they fell from the outrage of a sovereign world, in series of images of Aerse and the prehensile sacrifice of Lochnitt's cold hand as they fell together among themselves, polarized and vivid as they plunged one another and towards them, Lochnith knowing that he was going to survive him..