Together they were the perfect team.

She was tired of perfection long before she met him. Constantly having to put up a successful front was exhausting, but her barrier of bravado was faltering.

It's hard to find imperfections in an idyllic world.

He didn't want to live in the life of his reputation anymore. The tornado that his life had become was beginning to ruin him and he wanted nothing more to find some quiet.

It's hard to find solace in the storm.

No longer did she want to create masterpieces; she wanted to wreak havoc. She had a taste of the life she wanted, but once you take the first few steps on the path of self-destruction, you cannot turn back. The whisper in the wind becomes seductive. Like a drug, she needed it. She made a U-turn, a complete diversion from the road that had been paved for her. She felt a rush from the change of direction, and fell in love with it. He was her change of direction.

It's hard to find fault in someone that provides the mess you've been searching for.

He wanted nothing more than some peace in his whirlwind of a life; maybe that's why he gravitated towards her. She gave him the comfort that he had desired for years. She made him feel as if the rollercoaster, designed as a downwards spiral, that he has been riding since birth was starting to calm down. She became the sense of calm in his brutal life.

It's impossible to reject something you have been seeking for years.

Together they were unstoppable. She lost herself in his chaos and she took it on herself. She was an angel who lost her way, blinded by desire for imperfection and love for a boy that finally made her feel again. He was a hurricane that found the solace in her that he has wanted for what felt like an eternity. He revelled in the peace she brought to his life and he loved her more than he could articulate.

She found her demon; she became a fallen angel, the devil reincarnate that took the chaos out of his life and put it into hers.

He found his angel; he became a quiet rainfall that gave his tornado to the girl that craved the destruction it created.

Together they were the perfect team.

THE STORY OF SARA

Ayad Gharbawi


CHAPTER 2: UNIVERSITY

  
  Well, I did study and, I did pass my exams, and I did succeed in ending up in a decent, upper class school!
  How did I pay for it? I hear you ask me?
  I didn't: I got a scholarship!
  And, what a new world I faced!
  What a totally different society I saw!
  I felt that I was in another country, for I never knew that there existed, from my own people, men and women such as those I encountered!
  My studies in psychiatry really excited me: I thought that I would be able to 'solve' anyone's mental problems.
  All I had to do, was to study and study as feverishly as I could.
Studying furiously, and with love and passion, was the key to success.
  Study, and then you pass your examinations, and then you become a doctor in psychiatry - and I would thereby become successful.
  I would then be someone important.
  I would be respected by everyone.
  My life would have a purpose and a meaning because I would be going in the correct path.
It was simple as that!
  And what was the alternative?
  Not to study?
  And what would I do then?
  Go do a menial, low paying job?
  That was anathema to me!
  It made me sick, to even think about that!
  Why?
  Because, I came from a poor background, and I lived in poverty, and I saw the culture and the people who lived in poverty, and by God, I don’t want to ever live in those circumstances ever again in my life.
  What was poverty to me?
  Your house is ugly; your neighbourhood is ugly; your neighbours are the most indecent people you can imagine.
  The area you live in, swarms with people who live their lives in ‘anti-social behaviour’!
  And what’s ‘anti-social behaviour’?
  That means your community is one, where most people are drunks in  public, where fights, with guns and knives, are an everyday occurrence; where the most filthy language is the norm in public; where ******* covers large parts of the town; where vandalism and damage to cars and property is another daily occurrence; where people play ear-deafening music in the streets and there’s nothing you can do – because, if you call the police, they’ll obey, but then they’ll come back and make hell out of your life – in other words, the gangs rule the community.
  Aren’t those enough reasons to get out of poverty?!
  And, then for me, there are other things that are really important to me.
  For example:
  I mean, who is going to respect you, if you have a menial job? Who is going to look up at you?
  Who is going to listen to your words, when you speak?
  And, most importantly, are you yourself going to be happy with your self and with your life, if you had a menial job?
  Of course not!
  To be a fully satisfied human, you need to live in respectable surroundings with a respectable job.
  Otherwise, there cannot be happiness for you.

  Once I joined my university, I encountered mostly upper class students.
  That’s why, I say it was like ‘another world’ for me, because I had never encountered people like that before!
  Their dress was different; their accent and they way they spoke was different; but what interested me the most, was the fact, that their intellectual interests were extremely varied, as opposed to the people that I had grown up with and knew – those people whose only interests, were getting drunk, practicing promiscuity, crime and drugs!
  Now outside classes, I got began to get involved with different groups of academic students – each group held differing ideas about the world, politics, economics, philosophy of life - and any other subject you can imagine.
  I was never interested in what I called the other 'superficial' groups; that is, those who discussed what I considered to be the stupidities of life, such as fashion, make up, cars, sports and so on. No way; not for me, were people like that!
  For I was far too serious for such mind-wasting people, and, frankly life-wasting people.
  No, I wanted to learn; my God how utterly hungry and thirsty and deadly serious about acquiring more and more knowledge on every 'serious' subject I was - so that, one day, I would be a useful and productive human to society!
  If I was not in my classes, and if I was not listening to those intellectuals, I would sit on any desk and search the internet and read endlessly, on any and every 'serious' subject.

With respect to my classes, as the months rolled over, I began to feel, and think, that my professors were not all that smart at all. I began to feel that they were, in fact, quite ordinary, dull people. But then, I grappled with next obvious question: if they were 'ordinary' and 'dull' people, then how come they were professors – and by 'professors', I mean that they must be far from 'ordinary'? Surely, any person, who is able to be a professor, must be intelligent?
  And yet, the more I listened and took down notes from these professors, and the more I analyzed their words and ideas, the more I became convinced at their emptiness and stupidity!
  My God, you must believe me, for they were talking utter *******!
  Well, who exactly, 'made' them professors?
  I began to dislike them.
  Then, the obvious consequences took place in my mind: the more I disliked them, the less I paid attention to their words and that, in turn, increased my boredom in class!
  No, this was a complete and utter waste of time for me. Yes, I would still need to read the text books given to us by the university, and I would need to understand these books in order to pass the examinations.
  But, I was also determined to do my own independent psychiatry studies, in order to find the ways and means of solving people's emotional problems.

I found it really thrilling to see so many students having so many ideas about the world, because, for me it was so utterly unusual to see young people actually caring about so many issues in our lives!
  You had the conservatives; socialists; Dadaists, existentialists, communists of every shade you can imagine; fascists, socialists, liberals, Nazis, monarchists, Hare Krishnas, Hindus, Budhists, yoga-followers, animal rights campaigners, environmentalists, religious fundamentalists, anarchists  - the list was quite endless to the point of absurdity for, within each group, there were sub-groups, that ranged from the so-called 'left' to the so-called 'right'.
  However, in all this confusion and chaos, there were, at least two things, that you knew for certain: and that was, firstly; that no group agreed with any other group, whilst secondly; every 'leader' of any group sincerely and passionately believed that, yes they, and only they, had all the answers to all the questions that faced our dear Humanity!

But with time, it dawned on me that that most of these intellectual students were not quite what I expected of them.
They would passionately discuss any subject and in excruciating detail!
  To me not every subject was worthy of being discussed!
  Everything was criticized in university.
  Everything was questionable.
  Nothing was certain.
  On the opposite these students believed that they had a duty to deeply philosophise and intricately analyse and scrutinize from every angle every subject and issue in our planet!
  Nothing was accepted and nothing was taken for granted.
  And it was exhausting to listen to them!
  I say ‘exhausting’ because after every meeting, I would actually feel emptier!
  I simply did not learn or gain anything from all these endless discussions!
  So they would analyse issues like: what is the soul?
  What is the difference between the soul and the spirit?
  Where is the soul located?
  Where is the mind located?
  What is the difference between bravery and foolishness?
  Are mathematical facts like 1+1=2 discovered or created by mathematicians?
  What does the word ‘the’ mean?
  What does the word ‘a’ mean?
  Who has a right to create rules and laws?
  How much taxes should each adult pay?
  Is the universe finite or infinite?

  And so it went on and on until your brain became numb with the deafening boredom and pointlessness of it all.
  What irritated me the most was that with these groups of students, was that nothing was sacred.
  Nothing was certain.
On the opposite, everything was completely uncertain.


  As for myself, I gradually gravitated to the leftists – that mixture of socialists, communists, anarchists and other such-like groups.
  Why?
  Because to me their philosophy was more or less simple.
  There wasn’t all that endless series of critiques and analysis that so nearly damaged my brains!
  Their idea was simple: we had to removed the oppressors.
And the oppressors was anyone who had power and influence.
  And what kind of society did we want?
  A purely egalitarian one where there would be neither master nor slave.
  Simple!
  Here I found that much needed sense of certainty!
  Here was an ideal, a philosophy that had strict rules that we were meant to follow in order to achieve our sacred aims!
  

  I was immediately attracted to one student leader, Tony, who passionately urged his listeners to use any means necessary – except violence –in order to achieve our goals of total equality within our society.
  He was a tall man of average weight, with short hair – actually, let me immediately stop myself here - because actually there was absolutely and totally nothing remarkable about the way he looked; but what really made him so attractive was in his personal charm, and the way he spoke, with such a theatrical ability, that made you unable to move as long as he talked.
  I can still see him, as he gracefully gesticulated in such an animated manner, giving further power and reason, to every word and idea he uttered:
  "Can't you see and feel what is going all around you? My friends, listen to my words, because we are living in a society that is dominated by greed and ultimately misery and death on an everyday scale. Why is the dustman paid any less than a doctor? Aren't we all human beings, born free and equal? And, so, if you, my friends, agree with me that all men, women and children, are equal, then it should make obvious sense to you that we should all live equally. Do you feel what I am saying to your hearts, or not?!" he would thunder at us, with his face contorting from the passion, and with his ability to be so majestic and, yet, so utterly humble at the same moment!
  Yes, I began to think more and more about what Tony had to say.    Why was there poverty in the first place?
  Where was Humanity?


  Indeed, aren't we all equal human beings; so why this discrimination? It seemed so sensible to me; and yet, what was I, Sara the Nobody, doing about this problem?
  Nothing, of course.
  Yes, I was just a student – but I was not actively working against the dark forces, as Tony was always talking about.
  Tony would mesmerize his listeners, which were usually held in the evenings, at around eight o'clock.
  He always managed to talk to you directly – or so it felt, despite the large number of listeners.
  "There are people who make millions in minutes – did you people know that?  While most people in our society struggle and sweat not only tears, but, I tell you, they sweat blood – yes blood" he would scream at this point, "day in and day out, and getting paid next to nothing, you also have a minority who make millions in minutes!   How can you, yes you, tell me that that is fair? Why do you, my listeners, why do you lamely accept, that we live in a society that allows conditions, whereby the majority, and I say the vast majority of human beings, men and women, have to bleed to death just, to pay their never ending bills, while a minority lead an easy life overflowing with money, glamour, power and luxuries that are indescribable? I ask you again and again to answer my questions: is that fair? And if it is not fair, then what should be done about this sick situation? Well, clearly, we must use violence to take our rights, because no democracy will allow our party to succeed in any election and obviously the rich will never voluntarily give up their oceans of wealth; therefore, if you ask me, what is to be done, I firmly tell you as my response, that we must fight for our eternal rights, and by using the verb 'fight', I mean we 'fight' with every weapon at our disposal – be they words or bullets!"
  I was simply exhilarated by his symphony of words!
  And yet, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something ‘missing’ in Tony’s personality.  
  He just didn’t have that supreme self assurance that others had.
  I guess that was what was ‘missing’.
  I couldn’t understand why he did have that degree of insecurity – because, it seemed to be a contradiction when you are living your life for an ideal, and at the same time, you have insecurities within your heart!

  It was also at university, that I first met Sanji.
  He was a tall, dark wavy haired man with a dark complexion.  His beautifully oval eyes had a deeply pensive look, and at the same time, they were always somehow mired within a sorrowful gaze.
  Even when he would talk to you, Sanji's eyes seemed to be far away, deep in thought, about God knows what subject!
  Gracing his eyes, were beautifully arched eyebrows and the longest, thickest eyelashes I have ever seen, that beautifully complimented those seemingly lonely eyebrows in perfect harmony.
  He was a quiet, soft spoken gentleman, who was the most polite and sincere man I had ever met – I would forever ask myself, how can this man, be so gentle and compassionate, and without seeming to get distressed, angry or anxious?!
  He had such a depth of serenity in his personality – and that trait was something that made so utterly envious of him; I was constantly wishing and trying to have a millionth of that serenity of his.
  He was utterly sure of himself – and not in any arrogant way. He was completely happy and secure with the ideas and principles which guided him throughout his life.
  He had a complete knowledge as to what the purpose of his life was. As a result he knew exactly where he was going with his life.
  There was no sense of being lost with Sanji; for he knew the endless, twisted, meandering number of Paths of Life ahead of him - and more importantly he knew which path he wanted to tread on in his life’s journey.
  He would never use foul language; and would always listen to you with interest as you talked – which is rare in our world.
  And he had that most beautiful ability and talent to be so extra careful in choosing his words when he spoke, for he always wanted to get his thoughts and ideas properly across to you, so that people would understand him well, and so that there would be no confusion as to what he stood for.
  That's why he was so pensive and why he spoke so deliberately; there was never any impulsiveness on his part; he intended exactly every word, and exactly every phrase, and every sentence he used; there never was any carelessness on his part when he would interact with you.


  I never met a man who was so wholly and totally considerate for the feeling

On the nights I accidentally sleep through the evening and wake when the sun’s long
gone,
I can’t help but think about how it feels like falling for you.
I say
this because it always shocks me, leaves me trying to figure out what’s going on.
It
gives me a loss of gravity, as though I’ve lost contact with the world for a while.
With
my being used to being alone, hearing your voice through my speakers brings
a
smile to my face. I can’t place the exact feelings. I have trouble wording it.
Shy
was never a word to describe me. But you’ve somehow shut me up, your
grin
alone catches my full attention. Whenever I talk to you, I feel grounded.
I
feel like gravity returns. That’s just it, I’m gravitated to you. Somehow, it’s
almost
like you’re the Earth itself. Perhaps I’m your stars, hoping you’ll make a
wish
on me. Take a chance on me. Perhaps, I’m even your moon. Maybe
you
look up at me when I’m hardly even here, a sliver. I do that a lot. I hate that I can’t be
saved
from rising and falling every night, because I worry you get tired of the cycle.
Me
and you together feels like a storm rolling in. The calm is long gone, the winds coming
from
the east coast, rolling through Wisconsin like a force only you could bring. By
myself,
I’d be intimidated. But knowing it’s you bearing the force brings no surprise. If
only
you knew your worth. I understand your fears, seeing as if I am the moon, and
you
are the Earth, I will inevitably leave your side for at least a while. But know I will
never
leave you. I revolve around you, and although I am not your sun, know that
even
when I’m gone, I am yours. Know that no matter what happens, I
**tried

.comes the floundering over foul language, like it's a sin to speak with a cascade of oath taken words, to: never mind the beat and rhythm, that will continue, as long, as long you play the solo... never you mind keeping-up-appearances, why be distracted, better yet: why talk during ***? isn't that worse than saying ****, casually, in a conversation of: pardon my french? i will tell you, it's far worse dragging "god" (words) into the "satanic" pit of actual procreation, than it is to say **** and let it be treated as a conjunction, akin to: and... since what words are sacrificed on the altar of *****-*****? bad, boy, who's your yummy, mummy... who's your daddy... i tell you: **** in between some jane austin snippets, and those prunes would be on, fire, should any words be uttered from their mouths having been staged completely ****... no... foul language is free language with all the chanel and gucci to attire you with away from furr-skins... but talking, uttering words, while procreating? that's just plain scandalous! i bet those prim goodie-two-shoes care more for: pardon my french during conversation, yet they probably squeal like about to be castrated pigs in a slaughterhouse come the synagogue of ******... ******* never wish to accomplish syllables or vowel cubism with contorted mouths during ***... but they say: brush your teeth while speaking... if hey-zeus saw hypocrisy in the jewish sects... full circle... who are the modern day pharisees? somewhere in h'america... beastly contortions... if not pedophiles, then at least the sort of pedantic hypocrites that could share the same tier of Dante's inferno... why talk, during ***? why not eat the ****** during the zenith? wow, don't you think? because bukowski might call me a star-gazer... well... if you look up and see what i see? you too would be looking up... but just in order for you to get a feel of what i feel? three song summary when i look up at night at the sky:
   penta - come in,
     gloOMy PhAntOM - only the beginning,
Matutero - pure evil...
             hell... a fourth song: matutero - exorcist...
i'm no ******* copernicus...
   or a galileo...
                              still: to keep one's mouth clean
is to not utter god: words during the wedding
of "satan" to his shadow...
                                 to keep one's mouth clean
is to not speak during *******,
     *****-stars know the deal...
   tell me what you want, and i will not give it...
don't tell me what i want: and i will surprise you...
even after the act, she said...
'this has only happened to me once'...
when she was paid,
   and didn't expect to reach ******...
                    2nd man in...
  1st man with a hydra in his mouth for paying
an extra 10 quid to perform oral ***
on a *******...
                      good... evil...
well: good is as good as it gets,
but good can also imply: the purity of evil...
evil of the highest quality is in a position
to move down an incremental path toward
good: as spectator...
       as a tease of what is itching the incremental
path toward evil: the omniscient, omnipotent etc.
god...
      oh sure... night sky *******, romance my this
that and whatever *** looks more like:
pork chop cleopatra meets
   cherry 16 tight trim of milk and quicksilver
reflection teasing...
                      you'd be gagging for the goosebumps
and the prickled tiny hairs... performing...
what plant-speciments do with their...
   phototropism...
                                    against all: stereotypes...
            this, lunar base of imagining, not otherwise.
so this is to be my antithesis Golgotha?
for who stands on Har Megiddo
certainly not the skull-baron of the crucifixion...
   blitzkrieg imagery: and suddenly...
   the words... become...
   s               a
h             r                                       l
                   p                   e
                           n      
simply?
      for the supposed foul language used
as barrier between flow and conjunction
necessity... a rhetorical tool of the modern use
of language: no one is standing in any
oratory pulpit speaking to the "masses"...
      but... if i could invent an inverted niqab
for the tongues of christians during ***?
reduce them to moans, groans,
exfoliations of an onomatopoeia...
               less daddy please, who's the naughty boy
*****-***** *** tantrums of:
having ****** so much, the next ****
acts like an anaesthetic to numb what's already
become a numbed pain / pleasure non-differential...
well!
                like i really might need to venture
into the dark-web...
   i'll just bring myself to the party on the "safe" web...
and some poo'em i wrote once,
which doesn't even compliment what i just,
just now: pulled out from my bowels...
again: there's zero-net-worth of feeling in the heart...
emotions? bowels...
   the heart is too preoccupied with rhythm...
akin to how:
    the brain was a metaphor for the soul,
even though the soul is a sigma,
of all known organs and its preoccupation with them,
or not...
    given the current explanation of the brain?
coordination and what not?
evidently the soul is, equivalent to a metaphysical
and biological definition of an *****,
given: the brain doesn't entertain the existence
of thought...
       so... if the brain is not responsible for
thinking, then nothing else in the body is...
                  so soul, or the sigma "conundrum" /
is a metaphysical *****, or whatever you want it to be...
brain = fatty sponge... that can die...
when attacked by killer proteins in the light
of Alzheimer's... like a sort of inverted anorexia...
weird... starvation? fat goes first,
then the carbohydrates... no, wait...
carbohydrates first, fats second...
and then... proteins cannibalise themselves...
that's starvation... in Alzheimer's?
the proteins attack the brain sponge-fatty-blob...
so the brain is not involved in thinking...
so... well, mein gott: god i guess...
   some external source of "inspiration"...
motivation, will... oddly enough?
that coincides with both the + and the - of
such a source of thinking...
             both sides: theistic and atheistic have it
covered... right now? chosing the middle ground
is the only sensible posit to succumb to...

what's the difference between
a polyamorous society
and a polygamous society?
  well... there's not much
of a difference...
   i've been a subject to the former,
and the "covert" latter...
suddenly prostitutes are
above priests and psychiatrists...
well...
  either being sold the body,
or being bribed with
prayer or the pharmacological cocktail...
only because:
i was...
         "being uncomfortable"
for the rest of society...
    polyamorous societies
descend into make-shift
polygamous societies...
             the whole incel problem...
that's really representative
of a polygamous society....
  20% of men get 80%...
    sure... lesbian frolicking
in a harem,
    strap-on-******...
     and eunuchs are missing...
but...
akin to a manic street preachers'
song:
   the walking abortions...
   in all honesty...
the top-down influence
of a polygamous society has crept in
and created
the polyamorous society buffer zone,
so shy right up to now,
but:
before the **** hits the fan
   waiting game...
and how much
of the madonna-***** complex
is currently true,
and how much of ******* dysfunction
is due to...
  being pulverißed
by overtly sexualißed material
exposure?
                 hell...
  if i'm always going to be stitched
into a frankenstein hard-on
potential...
when it comes to the actual deed?
why wouldn't the answer suffice
mostly associated with a *******
and not a woman on her third date?
because i'm pretty sure
that erectile dysfunction isn't
a problem with my experience
of prostitutes...
    but it is... with "free" women...
given that i'm no psychopath...
  and when *** is staged,
it follows that there's a case for relationship,
intimacy...
           a ******* hard-on
is an objective fact...
which is why prostitutes rarely
fail to "conjure" it...
         the violence is simmering...
it's... titillating, nibbling at the toes
of Venus like some
sado-******* fetishist...
        **** me...
   the nazis dropped less bombs
on London via the world war I
zeppelin raids than
how many ****** insinuations
leave me quasi-limp-**** / ******...
   well... not so much ******...
***** just keep bulging with
goosebumps,
   i sometimes forget the ******...
which isn't even associated with
the actual *******...
   it's neurologically associated
with tingling sensation
            of the shaft...
    ***** has nothing to do with it...
    should have asked
me when i was 8...
                  "self-harm",
or...
                 what others rarely see...
no wonder i gravitated to
reading marquis de sade in my early teens...
but like chuck rhodes
said in billions...
             truth...
            if it's not comfortable,
and if its not a wager...
a shadow compensation...
  if its not the intellectuals'
demise of truth being treated
  as a fluctuation,
  a perpetual change,
   bias one minute,
        critique another,
                         a noumenon,
                                  then... what is it?

oh i'm pretty sure
that the current society,
the current:
polyamorous society
is a direct consequence
of a polygamous society's influence...

i don't even want to begin thinking
that man,
was the pinnacle of all lifeforms
on earth...
   notably in this region of "debate"...
because there's no "debate"...
is there?
     not with the elevated mating
norms of... say...
swans... how you actually can...
find widows and widowers
in the swan populace...

          with man having evolved
from monkey:
  well no surprises...
swans have devolved from
dinosaurs...
   the feathers are the fake...
but like lizards...
  born from an egg...
no?
                 swans understand
monogamy...
           humans?
    not so much...
         well... if you're lucky...

but i'm pretty sure:
oh i'm pretty sure
that the current society,
the current:
polyamorous society
is a direct consequence
of a polygamous society's influence...

am i, bothered?
clue me in...
    revolting *****' song: *****...
could a **** ****
a ****...
         without a strap-on?

In days dead and burried in time,
In a very far away enchanted clime,
In the mighty kingdom of Nineva
Where there fairly shone forever,

There once was a strange lonely wood
That ever in fairest robes of green stood
By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl,
Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl.

For akin to the most effulgent yonder star
That forevermore scintillates from afar
In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster,
So thrice scintillated the gem's luster.

And 'tis for this that as we all truly know,
All mortals, I say, all mortals  of long ago
Gravitated from corners of distant lands
On the quest for riches by those strands.

Once, sweltering was the noontide
When upon a violent lonely rolling tide
A bunch of desperate pirates were seen
Nearing that wood of emerald sheen.

In a while, they'd gathered all they could,
Leaving not a single gem in the wood.
Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies
In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes"

So muttered all birds - all birds of the air,
All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair,
All leaves upon strange shadowy trees,
And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas.

But, despite the looming dark omen,
Swifter than plummeting drops of rain,
So hastily dashed every single pirate
Blindingly minding not about their fate.

They raised their silvery sails to take sail
But hark! All this - all this was to no avail;
For upon the skies no wind was seen
To render them across so wide a sea.

In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies
All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes."
From that moment on, all lost their sight,
Doomed never to behold the sun's light.

And now, upon those murky restless seas
They dost weep but no plea can please,
For they were doomed to rove evermore
In search of their long forgotten shore.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.

I passed by ---but I saw you. I stopped and looked back
  ---right then and there, I knew you are special.
  You came to me and asked for my name.
I was coy, I was shy..I am fascinated by you.
Your green eyes is telling me of your stories.
Such gentleness, such calm, and chivalriouness,
I defenitely learned the very meaning of "Swept off my feet".

I can invent a thousand songs and ways to tell our story---believe me I can..
Stories of how we were good _TOGETHER.

I will sing of the flickering Shabbath light in the midst of melee and chaos..
of sea of endless discussions of some complicated logics
and jest with your friends
all the while chasing for my hand, held it a little while
and crochet you fingers to mine.
I then would tenderly gaze upon you while listening to the clatter and clang
of silverwares and silent stares.
  I will then transport us to my days, where all is sweet and innocent..
of another epoch of where the Mothers I held dear, and sisters, and no-blood brothers
would sing the same exact hymn,, held the same flame
of timeless prayers of Shema Israel,
  Yeshoua, and Avenou Shabbat Shamaim,..

Of how Friday nights would pass by the door
And eavesdrop while we can laugh about The Dictator,
goose-pricked by Pia Jesu, or ransacked your refrigirator.
  Or sit by the talking box and be glued to it's endless chatter about
pots, frying pans, Birjaya University, or Emanuelle Stroobant.

I can paint our Saturday mornings with lazy hues and anchorings
thanks to Bernard Lewis, stumble upon,
our dears Kindle 4th and Kindle touch
with Jon Snow and Daenerys of houseTargaryen.

Zara will then invite us to her house of fashion
and oh! how I hate the prices and prefer to accompany you in
dockers or gaps and spencers. Same thing my love,
I have not coveted you for this, not at all.
I always, always love the sound of your voice
while you were explaining about the craftmanship and quality of tis and artistry in tat.

I will remind you,,.. of how we or rather ‘I’ banged the tables of Le Chateu?
and forks and knives flying to and pro?
  All because we agree and disagree about liberalism, Islam,
Catholic bishops, Religious Tolerance, and dogmas of Christendom.

Put on the cherry of the week in my O's ice cream.. SUNDAY.

We would stir and wake to the gentle nudging of the sunlight...
of mornings full of laughter and wonderful thoughts and prayers.
You would often ask me, why do I dance..
dance like a child or a crazy woman if you may..
In the middle of the streets as we thread the route to the Sunday market.
I dance because I am happy..because I don't care ,
Because I love to sway my hand and jump on my feet and hung at your neck..
and kiss you and tell you how even after eating to the nth time that same
Morrocan chicken stuff, I still love the taste of it. It's our SUNDAY RITUAL my darling!

QUE SERA SERA... you said…
We as opposed to time, is like a ticking bomb..                        
Reality is our friend, he would remind us by his tic, by his tac…tic..tac..tic..tac.
He would sing no matter how good we are together… Que sera sera..whatever will be, will be...
Oh how I hate the very sound of it…
I will fight it, claw at it, beg…admonish..placate..and scream!
I lived and breath by the PRESENT.
I wish you would stay.., I wish you would like me enough to love me forever.

I want to give everything without reservation, as love
Love is what I have, I am , and will be…
To offer and spread it upon your feet…
Behind my heart is a  prophecy..
We will build our long line of family dynasty.
Family that is gravitated towards God,
and molded into mine heart and your being.
A family where laughter is the main hearth of inspiration,
idealism, and warming love.
I want you to teach our kids to be good men and women,
I'm sure they would, as you are a good man.
So compact and resilient and gentle in nature...

You my darling is the person that I would love to get to grow old with...
The very person I have fallen inlove with and will always love.

YOU asked me to be BRAVE...
I said I am... as Always.

You fly...

I talked to the silver moon beyond the dark sky.
pour out my heart, wretched and wanting to die.

I roam the streets of where we've been ...
Drank a cup or two at Tea leaf and Coffee Bean.
I could not forget you and what could have been.
Sitting in that same chairs of what has been,
Mirage across my desert of sorrow would appear as if I am insane.
Somewhere across the Universe...of thousand stars and leagues.

QUO VADIS?
There my Lord... him at the end of the road.
A smiling and familiar face of a man.

My heart started to pound with every heart beat.
The steps I take are but a sing-song in my feet.
I will to run towards you,  but you do not believe it.
I am floating with each stride, an exhilarating excitement
towards whose smile I so love.

HEARTS on FIRE!
It is wonderful a feeling to be enveloped in your kisses
and be overwhelmed by your gaze – AGAIN.

Some things are certain.
Tonight the moon will rise only to be replaced by the warmth of the sun
again in the morning.
You're never as certain as the universe.
And even that could cease to exist at any given moment.

I keep searching for you in cracks in the pavement, in graffiti ridden alleyways
and in my most terrifying moments, when I cross the street looking behind me
instead of in front.
I keep thinking that you're going to be somewhere asking me to stay
or saying you love me or some other sentimental *******.

Truth is I'm a traveler. I don't stay in one place too long.
I don't make ties that can't be easily broken with the razor blade
that has become my only friend.

You don't understand and how could you?
You've been stuck in this one horse town your whole life
and you only gravitated towards me because I had tattoos
and silver metals sticking through my skin that spelt out rebellion.

You didn't see me as a flower, but a dandelion.
You wished on me, for a new life, a new love and a new thing to make you feel alive.
But all ghosts can do is make you think of death.

I'm a sad ghost of a girl I once was or maybe who I'm going to be.
And sooner or later I will find you in a crack in the pavement or over my shoulder.
And you won't ask me to stay, because you'll know better.
You'll tell me to look forward.

The Boy woke up at around a quarter to noon, and to his deep surprise, he found that he had not awoken where he had planned to the night before. Instead, he found himself in a strange bed, in a strange room, on a strange street, with a strange girl next to him. Of course, the girl was not so strange, as he had met her twice before, and the room, at least, he knew had to be somewhere in Ann Arbor, but that was certainly the extent of what he knew of his situation, basically, pretty much, that’d be what he told people later on, and would believe himself. He looked around, and he was shocked, and he remembered in a flash that this might not be very good boyfriending on his part, and in a fit of guilt, or maybe exhaustion or in forfeit, he leaned his head back once again and fell asleep for a while longer.
When the Boy woke up again, it had turned to one in the afternoon. He woke up this time with a mop sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes burning from the salt water. The Girl was now awake also, and she was brushing her hair quietly, on her roommate’s bed right next to where the Boy was now sitting upright.
“I should go now.” The Boy tried to say, but before he spoke the Girl smiled at him, and crawled over and kissed him softly.
“Good morning.” She said, and rested her head on his lap, looking up.
“Good morning.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Very. Thanks you. I hope you did too.”
“I did.”
The Boy touched the girl’s cheek and she touched his, and he knew he wanted to leave, but he was afraid, so instead, he and the Girl lay down together, and watched TV for a while.

I guess I made a mistake, thought the Boy. I guess this isn’t going to look too good. I should probably get back to the house, see Joe, smoke our cigar, think of a story that I can tell Melissa; but I shouldn’t tell a story, should I? It would certainly be safer. I should probably, for my safety. I should probably not for my conscience. Anyway, I’m not sure how to get back to the house. I’m not sure how I got here. I think I took a cab. I think I was at a party. I think it was last night. It may have been yesterday morning; for the football game. I think I got here without protest. I think the game was a good one. I don’t think I got in though. I don’t think we won either. My head should hurt right now. Why do I feel so good, and healthy, and spry, and energetic? This isn’t exactly just punishment for my actions. Her skin is so soft; I’d like to kiss it again. I think I will. Still, I do feel guilty. Melissa’s good to me. That was a good game, from what I can remember. I don’t think we won though. I think we lost. Ohio State won, but I got very drunk, and that was good, and then I danced, and I had fun. Then I ended up here. How did I end up here?

The Boy stroked The Girl’s hair and he kissed her again. In the light from the window she looked happy, and her smile was much whiter than his, and he liked that. She wore an oversized gray sweater, and without any makeup or any of the typical fixings she looked more beautiful than ever. Not surprisingly, this was a dilemma for the Boy, who wanted to leave so he could be done with this episode. Instead he stayed a while longer, didn’t pick up his phone when it rang, kissed the girl some more, talked about what they were going to do that day, forgot about Melissa. He felt guilty only for a moment, but more than anything, he felt proud, and that pride dug into his side and hurt him. Nevertheless, he didn’t want it to go away. It was his pride after all.
The Girl, on the other hand, seemed to feel guiltier than the Boy, but at the same time, she was tender, and welcoming, and she embraced what she had done in a sort of graceful manner that only girls with experience and class can do without seeming too self-confident. She too, had a boy back home, but she had liked the Boy, and that was that, and in the light on the day, to her, he also still seemed good to her.
Of course, what the Girl knew, and the Boy did not, was that as soon as he walked out of her room that day, that was the end of the episode in reality. There would be no more kisses, no more conversations, and when they both went home to see their others, she would stay with her boy because he loved her, and that would be that, and life would go on for the two of them as it had before; business as usual. Still, for the moment, things were as they were, and so she looked at the boy, and let him kiss her, and lay down on his lap, looking up at him and smiling.
“What are you going to tell your girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. Either the truth or a lie, I guess.”
“Don’t lie to her.”
“Won’t she be angry at me?”
“Yeah. But don’t lie to her. Trust me.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to tell the truth. But I’m going to leave some things out.”
“Isn’t that lying?”
“Not if you can justify it to yourself.”
“I feel like you’re confusing me right now.”
“You should tell your girlfriend the truth. She deserves to know everything, and if you ever want her to forgive you and stop being angry, then that’s what you need to do.”
“I know, but I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re still here; and that says something.”
The Boy looked at the Girl, and he wanted to respond, but he had nothing. Instead he lay down next to her, and held her.
“I guess you’re right.” He said, and then rolled over with a sigh.

I got in on Saturday, right? No. Friday. Yeah, it was Friday afternoon because I didn’t have class then. I remember now. I got on the wrong bus, and I missed the stop for Ann Arbor, and I ended up near East Lansing, and I had to take a cab back. Why did I forget that? I got so drunk that night, I got lost. I remember that. I got lost and my phone went dead, and I had to have a security guard from the school help me back to Joe’s house so I could sleep again. But that wasn’t last night. That was the night before last night. That was different. That was just prep for that.
Yesterday was when it started, really. I woke up early and had a beer. Joe handed me the beer, and I drank it because, why not, it looked like it tasted good. Then I had nine more. Then I had Jell-o shots and whiskey, and some more beer. It wasn’t even nine yet, in the morning; my camera barely had enough light to expose my pictures, what was I doing? It was a lot of fun. I got really happy. I remember now.

The Boy reached for his shirt, and he pulled it on, over his head. He had to go, and he knew it, and he was taking the initiative to make it known that he intended to. He reached for his pants and he put those on too, but he put them on slowly, in the hopes that the Girl might have stopped him before he did, but she did not. Then he sat back down on the bed and he looked at her.
“Are you going to leave now?” She asked.
“Most likely.”
“Ok. Do you know where you have to go?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll show you.”
“Ok.”
The Girl grabbed a map off of her wall, and she took a marker from her desk and drew a line from one dark block to another. These were her building and Joe’s house. She explained to the Boy how to get back where he wanted to go, and she handed him the map.
“I don’t need to take this, what if you need it?”
“I already drew on it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Take it.”
The Boy felt almost embarrassed. This girl had been nothing but nice to him, and now he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and hang out with her some more, and he wanted to forget about Melissa, and Joe, and his home, and his school. He wanted to stay, but he knew, finally, that he couldn’t. So he put on his jacket and he stood in front of the Girl, only inches away, neither of them touching the other, despite the very minimal distance separating their bodies.
“Thanks for the map then.” The Boy said, and the Girl giggled.
“Don’t worry about it, get out of here!”
“Ok then. Should we let each other know what we do?”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
They exchanged numbers.
“This *****.” The girl said.
“What?”
“Now I’m going to miss you.” The Boy’s heart broke a little bit. He smiled, but he didn’t dare say the same thing back to her. Instead, he moved his hand up to her face and stroked her cheek a little bit, then gave her a soft kiss on the forehead and opened the door behind him.
“I’ll see you.”
“Ok.”
“Let me know what you tell him.”
“I will. You let me know too.”
“Sure.”
The boy stood staring at the Girl a bit, and then he left and closed the door behind him. As he waited for the elevator to open up for him, the boy took out his phone and looked through his recent text messages. There was one from Melissa, asking him how he was doing, and if he’d been having fun in Michigan, but he deleted it reluctantly, so that it looked as if his last message had been from Joe. It read: Are you coming back to the house tonight? He answered now, a few hours later: I’m sorry. I’m coming back now.


The morning was pretty crazy. Game day, Ohio State, how could it not have been? But I was good during the morning, and I intended to be good. Didn’t I? Yes I did. I did look around, and I spoke to a few other girls, but I never intended to do anything with them. Only this one. I didn’t even get into the game. I tried to sneak in with a student ticket, and they didn’t let me in because I wasn’t a student. Instead I went back with Joe and we got ****** and watched TV and then I took a nap after we smoked a cigar together. At the parties, people stood on the roofs, and they danced around massive kegs, and I spoke to some people I had just met and flirted and danced, but I was good, and at Joe’s house, after the parties were over, we just got ****** and smoked cigars and watched the game and waited for phase two of Saturday to begin so we could rest.
Phase one was getting wasted. Phase two was rest. We built up our energy so we could go back out at night, for Phase three, and that’s when I met her, at some party Phil got us into. I had seen her before, back home, and we had spoken only a few times. Why had I been so angry at Melissa when I left New York again? Respect issues or something, wasn’t it? She had said something cruel to me while we ate dinner at that jazz club, and the lights made her soft skin glow so that she looked almost translucent. I reacted. I think it started because she had been flirting with a friend of mine. Anyway, I thought she had been. She claims she wasn’t. Then she got angry and she said something cruel to me so I got angry, and then she apologized a lot. She apologized so much, Her lips pouted. I wanted to kiss them. We had great *** that night. And I loved her. But I was still angry when I left for Michigan the next morning, and I was still angry last night, apparently. I guess that’s why I immediately gravitated towards that girl. She looked really beautiful that night also. And I always did have a crush on her. And I was still angry.

The Boy made it to Joe’s house at about a quarter to three in the afternoon that Sunday. He only had a little time left before he had to leave for his plane, but he spent it well. They smoked, and they got ******, and they smoked cigars and they talked about the night. Joe helped the Boy remember some of what had happened, like when the Girl’s friend got sick on the wall, and then the Girl had to leave to go help her, and when the Boy had broken a table by jumping on it too hard after Joe and some friends had challenged him. Joe barely remembered those things, but he remembered them better than the Boy, and the Boy was grateful for Joe then, who also reminded him of another thing:
“You cheated on Melissa, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did. I don’t feel great about it.”
“I thought you two had separated. I would have stopped you.”
“We were. We got back together about a week ago.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
The Boy thought about it. He hadn’t quite made up his mind yet.
“I suppose that would be the honorable thing to do.”
“Honor kills.”
“Not if I’d been honorable at the beginning.”
“True.”
The two sat thinking for a while, and they both could tell the other had plenty more to say, but they both waited for the other, and so neither of the two spoke a word for a little bit. Finally, the Boy took a pull from his cigar, set it down, and opened his mouth. No words came out the first few tries, but after a while, he got better, and then he spoke.
“I feel like my father.”

I couldn’t help myself I guess. It’s in my genes, this endless tail-chasing. Even though I had always thought I was the noble one, the one with honor, I’m still an animal, like my dad and his dad and his family before him. She looked so good, I don’t know how I held back for so long—she in her tight pants and that green shirt that made her eyes pop, and her long, beautiful, silky brown hair, and the way she moved her hips against me. I could almost hear her name in the music, like it was egging me on, like it was encouraging me to kiss her. I kept getting beers, just kept going to the bar, two more, one more, three more, until I was drunk enough to do it, because I wanted to because it’s in my blood. Then I kissed her, or she kissed me. I can’t remember how, but it happened, and not for a second did I feel remorseful. Not until this morning. I was too busy having fun. In a way, I kept telling myself a kiss was nothing, at least nothing to worry about.
Then I went home with her. That’s probably the part I’ll leave out in my story. Her bed was really comfortable, much better than the couch or the floor, which is where I spent the night before, and where my sides had picked up bruises from the beer cans all around me. She smiled at me funny then. She hadn’t smiled at me that way before. Her teeth were really white, and her lips were really soft.
I had seen her before, and we had always flirted before, so she made a joke about it being almost like fate that we ran into each other. I remember thinking that that was probably true, or at least that it would be my excuse for not stopping myself. Her skin was too soft, and her body was blessed with perfect curves and I couldn’t resist myself. In many ways, she felt like Melissa. I almost felt at home, like there was a comfort to it.
I, on the other hand; well I’m not sure how I got so lucky. I just had to be myself—even as goofy and as hairy and as drunk as I was, she still liked me for the night. And she didn’t make me feel like I had to earn her respect either.
But I’m being cruel. Neither does Melissa. Not often anyway; and I’m sure if I spent enough time with the Girl, she may have made me feel that way also. It may even be a girl thing, but at the moment, it felt like it was a Melissa thing, and this girl liked me very much, and I wasn’t even trying.

Now it was time for the Boy to go home. Even if he wanted to stay, even if he wanted to go back to the Girl, and spend the rest of the day with her, between her legs and in her arms, and smoke cigars with Joe whenever he wanted and get drunk Saturday mornings, and just forget about telling Melissa anything, it was time for him to go back to New York where he belonged. So he packed his bags and walked to the bus stop, and he put his hat on, and he got ****** with Joe one more time, and they both walked together, without saying a word, because they didn’t even have to.
At the bus stop, Joe turned to the Boy and said:
“Did you make a decision yet?”
“About what?”
“You know, you stooge!”
“Not yet.”
“Well let me know then.”
The Boy nodded. The two had a hug by the bus as it arrived, and then the Boy got on the bus and fell asleep on the way to DTW. The flight was short, and it was easy. Still, the Boy kept thinking about what he would do when he got to New York. Once back at Newark, he took the train, and on the way back to Penn station he sat next to a large man with hairy arms, a mustache and a trucker hat. The man wore very thick-rimmed glasses, and spoke to anyone that listened, with a heavy drawl from some unidentifiable location.
“What’s your name?” He asked the Boy.
“Johnson.” He replied, having decided not to give his real name.
“Well Johnson, let me tell you. Don’t ever travel without alcohol.”
The man reached into his jacket, and he pulled a 24-ounce can of beer out in a plastic bag. He opened it up and took a swig from it, and then proceeded to lecture the Boy about the struggles and pains of traveling and marriage. He had lost his wife only a year ago, after he’d

The TSA won't let me fly
It seems when airplane-jailed,
My muse sneaks aboard
Without paying for a seat.

Another airplane poem like 30B,
From a long ago flight,
Found dusty, in the poetry sewing box


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

with every breathe he tithes
a packet of whispered wishes,
a blended osmosis of
past and future scenes,
reviewed, previewed,
moments in time,
actual and dreamed

some received,
airborne plucked,
in his chest stored,
prepared for future
takeoffs and landings,
for ultimate insertion
in both
your recesses
and
your abscesses

some native,
combobulated, containerized
packets of seconds,
of joyous moments,
bytes of historical
hugs n' kisses,
as a child
to a child
from a child

those are vanilla frosted,
residual payments for the
good done and given,  
forwarded with all clear signals,
to his loved ones,
now resent, to you,
fellow travelers and sojourners,
intersectors of our peculiar
coded dots and dashes

thirty five thousand feet high,
composure lost,
he swoons as
Bocelli's voce del silenzio
releases tears so sweet,
which are by nature,
gravitated and transformed
into snowflakes to decorate
the Sierra Nevada's
breasted peaks and valleys,
over which his physical notion
is at rest, yet in motion,
within a Delta flying ship

Yet his fevered chest
beats rough,
for every flight seems
a time warp interlude,
a forced reflecting rhyme,
not of his choosing,
a lawful, thoughtful, imprisonment

having donated to you
his best, the remainders,
the man tallies, recalls:

ancient slights, scaled heights,
requiems for his forefathers
scored by cantorial choirs,
liberation struggle weariness,
offers taken and refused,
aces in the hole that proved
insufficient to save his soul.

goal line stands made,
onslaughts refused,
true lies and false truths,
moist lips and monster tears,
occasional A's and calcu-hell-us,
hand me downs received,
help me ups got n' given,
buildings pricked by airplanes,
death wishes granted
and nothing thereby gained,
children, found and lost,
mine, yours, ours...

The sums, always the sums!

engine noises and pilfered winds
are dulled and semi-silenced,
yet the silvered chamber prison
resonates from end to end
as each ledgered memory,
each packet of the
hidden whispered poems
he does NOT choose to send,
dents the man,
leaving claw marks,
screaming pay attention to me,
as if they were the priorities
of a six year old child,
refusing to be ignored

he does,
attention, he does pay,  
allowing rocking guitar heroes
to overtake weeping violinists,
just as newer transgressions
surfeit even his
most really *****,
ancient sins

No matter how he counts,
unable to master the additions,
no matter how many times
counts are initiated,
taken and retaken,
the tally's net net is
concluded, numbered
"forsaken"

his life's W-2 is black n' blue,
deductions falsely enumerate
and thereby underestimate
dues he has paid summarily,
earnings, distorted,
taxes paid never enough,
to satisfy the justice scales,
so wearily he
cries and enunciates,

The sums, always the sums!

THEN COMES HIS SHOUT OUT,
at his most vulnerable,
when a thin veneer of alumina
separates him,
from a fall inglorious
to an end most gorious,
a rapping beat moderne
insists that he go all out,
disallowing no
airy fairy poetry
to disguise that:

If the integers are false,
the entries of a life lived,
are sucker lies
black eyed flies
toxic shockers
that bust open
stinko lockers
where the B.S.
mocking stories
are kept

don't look close
at his documents
they ain't exactly
heaven sent
and the government men
be back on his track
their aviator shades
protect them from
burning light of the
man's furnace
where he burns their liens,
and the agent's ear pieces
drown out his screams of

The sums, always the sums!

God bless you,
keep and recall those packets of
whispered wishes, good tithes,
that the man bequeaths,
gift baskets of
expresso essentials
with God's love delivered

Tho his words,
amateurish and unvarnished,
silly and pompous,
nonetheless, they are the
return on his investments,
his yearnings for your happiness
are the savings accumulated,
though meager jewels are they,
they are ad valorem,
mixed into his confused murmurings

here then,
are his summings up,
what he wills you,,
the tally finale
the best wisdom is
found on coffee cups
at 2:47am.

Dance
Love
Sing
Live

to which he respectfully amends with a
Write.
(See banner photo)

ROBBED BY TIME

Once upon a time,
A friend in need at all times,
Time was such my best friend
And so we hopped till the end.

To my castle he'd come,
For he was always welcome
Any time he ever wanted to,
Something my queen loved too.

We'd ramble woodland paths together
As he reeled off one story after another,
All day long having a good time
Till when castle bells could chime.

Time was not of this world,
But a great war lord
Of a very far away land,
King unto the realm of fairy land.

He who had a novelty crown
Bestowed upon him by a fairy clown,
A crown not of gold but of palest silver,
A precious gem from the fairyland silva.

With lurve in the air one morning,
My friendship with Time died aborning
When he chose to do something frivolous
Just when the Sun's rays were so glorious.

Time emblazed my heart,
Something that didst hurt
When he smiled unto my wife,
Such a great shock unto my life.

He gravitated towards her after a deep sigh,
Like a whirlwind, my mind whirled high.
He thus gallantly asked her for a dance,
And was granted a golden chance.

Keenly I watched this flint-hearted boy,
Thought him skint but feared not nor coy.
With alacrity and in broad day light
Together they cwtched in delight.

He whom I always enjoyed with the wine,
There enjoying with a queen of mine
Whilst committing mischief;
This friend of mine such a thief.

Time whispered thus into my Queen's ear,
Whispers I could hardly hear:
Alas! He promised her the moon
For they'd eloped by noon,

To places strange I might never have a clue,
To where mortals have never dared walk to,
All the way to the realm of fairy land,
Such, such a very far away land.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
10th Aug 2016.

I live in a fairytopia in mind, drifting with wings golden brown. With eyes that see beauty in everything. With a heart that expands with visions to write.

I live in a fairytopia, dancing to bond with Mother Earth. To live peacefully in oneness. To celebrate all who have gravitated to earth.

I live in a fairtytopia, moving with open heart. With a human-like body that sends love compassionately. With a dream that all can awaken for peace.

StarBG © 2017

Sometimes I go into the city at night
alone.
Let the pavement trace the way without breaks,
get lost under the blue lights.
I go to the places we used to
and sometimes get a little drunk –
I don’t want to remember
but I have gravitated to these places
so maybe I should just honour
my cravings for you –
the sickly-sweet syrup
of your spit,
the saffron, sticky honey of your eyes.
We used to
do the same
together
as I am now doing alone –
let the concrete slabs
pave the way
without breaks;
going nowhere
and everywhere
all at once.

I don't know what I thought I was going to find.
All I knew is that you wanted me to come and I wanted go.
So I went.

I see it, now.
You look this cute all the time.
It doesn't matter how chaotic your surroundings are;
You remain adorable, and I am in awe.

Your heart wants validation, is desperate for affection.
I could give it to you; and in a way, I do.
But it's not my role.
You have gravitated to me because I can meet your needs.

But I can't, fully.
I can be a reminder that you still have it;
That you are beautiful and intelligent and all-around amazing.
But that's what I am; a reminder.

It's a delicate tension you have,
Wanting for yourself and wishing that I had someone else.
We can't be what we never would admit we wanted;
And what we are now is complicated, at best.

I adore you. If I could, I would make sure you never forgot those words.
But I can't; it's not my role.

I will treasure this time and will be what you need me to be.
That isn't what either of us want, but it will be what we need.

Arbela falls into the hands of the castes of the Etréstles of Kalavrita, plummeting like lightning and surpassing the scorched farmhouses of extraterrestrial Mosul, into its intrinsic compartments. On the other hand, there was the power of Maceo, his Syrian, Mesopotamian, Medean, Parthian, *****, Tibarian, Hyrcanian, Albanian, and Sacesanian troops were immediately found, they were scattered like Leviathans disturbed by themselves and their debased Titans, in all execrations not specified of this avalanche, so that they are carried by their leading dean, and donated to their physiognomy as limpid preys of misfortune to be foretold for them in the exile of their bravery. Later, once embedded in the crevices of its stenches, they would search in the foolish emanations of the Phosphorus (Morning Star of Venus), showering it with the glories of the morning and its distractions, exchanging the decomposed inert matter towards the Achaemenides, incontinent to be bordered with all the fascinating dawn. Those commanded by Maceo; the commander of Darío, brought a heart to be transplanted from a wise Dervish who had set out to install it after conquering the epic feat, and its conjecture. They believed they were seducing their attached lords who supported their disconsolate ones, but they brought through the substratum of character that moves the incessant squeaks in the bitterness of the hemlock sheathed in the Xiphos, toasting towards the twilight to mark the retreat between lights.

Etréstles saw a lost proscription on the battlefield, expelling it from the divine heaven of Arbela. By the conferred Vernarth is adhered to in this round by caressing Alikanto by the right gibbous of his steed Kanti, this would cause them to cross in the same line, and give a split oppressive kinetic curve for the hyper spearmen to vibrate with the spin of twist their contracted masses, adding field at the tips of the sky to the despondencies and the static Persians. Thus they fought together close to the infantry, in a famous order, plagiarizing the movement and linking the ribs of the Syntagma's ranks from left to right, to fluctuate in the forces of their graceful Falangists with anxiety. By observing this Alexander Magnus, he redoubled his heavy cavalry and also challenged such a concert in the maneuvers executed by Etréstles, calling it "Diabolical Office", since they traveled inseparably in the Runes of circulatory movement and in the cardiac system or Kardiá, reimplanting it in the spin of turn back of the infantry and the cavalry, but with the entire mass of their blue lapis lazuli horses…, wheezing from their nostrils!

Auriga says: "Your venereal milestones come to disturb the new beings, they come to occupy your organisms with arrows on their bodies deterred by the magical quiver of Artemis, with new incarnations and manly gallantries"

Etréstles jumps from Kanti, and represses some militias that were surrounded, and manages to see Vernarth, to the sound of the noise of his transmission reloaded on the intimidated enemy. At times, he would hold on to one of his executioners to resist the pain in his ribs. As he clenched his sword vigorously and resisted the suffering that paled in his face but increasing the size of his arms and legs, to unleash the great booming voice of Sheol, which led him into the great stupor of the resigned Persians, then a whole is clarified in the miscellany it was of the fervor and pain of the expelled souls, to witness the amount of their independence consumed.

The lightened atmosphere of emptiness in the tunnel of the Profitis Ilias was felt at the top of the surface, where the entrance acroteria of the Hexagonal Progeny stood and trembled. Majestic gravitational waves struggled here inverted, seeping from the volcanic base of Patmos in vertices of physical fields and elementary particles, very similar to the caves of Gethsemane, in the suggested stop of phylogenetic mechanics and the establishment of phonetics, all embedded and propelled by the particles impacting on them, causing mass opposition in the internal void of the duct covered by the Iaspis saddles, propelling unions in progressive waves and in viscous fields, very dense when generated by the Christi Arms and the Souls of Trouvere. These elementary particles of God were submerged in excited basilisks of composite particles in the dynamics of energeia, preexisting already cited and adopted by Vernarth in his last parapsychological regression where he collided in the Higgs Ipso facto field. In the areas W and Z, rather in the W of Wonthelimar and Z of Zefian as patterns of lights without mass in their vectors that were attracted by the tidal wave of their matter, where the viscosity is perhaps, the confusing darkness of the fossil material, mutating by atomic energy from the starvation of the Febo Shemesh, or false Sun of Leviathan in its collapsed asthenia. It was captive of a viscous moraine that collided with each other, exciting occupations of the empty field, already typecast in the Higgs boson, and in the Wonthelimar photons that it had to spare, to be prone to the binomial W and Z, in the energized tangent of the shallow elementary bodies transformed into particles with mass. The interaction of the particles resembled the quantum field of the Garden of Gethsemane, with asymmetric and rocky spellings, which supremely became immanent in the trinitarian energy that absorbed them in their arrest, concatenating the converted tendency of the Higgs field into a physical structure. quantum symmetric, therefore in a perfect trinitarian triangulation of elementary particles, activating equidistant from their uniformity to each other, in all the spinning spins, and in the three ataxic angles of Zefian instability on the way to its fourth Bolt. The static yearned for the tendency that propagated in a fourth Angle, but this time in the Hexagonal Progeny, on its six sides receiving the two equilateral triangles, subtended by non-massive forces, that is; weak in the charge of a photon, but if it had to cross the field junctions that were suitable for listening to the physics of God. We have to understand that all dogma gathers interactions with the Diaisthisi or foreshadowing field, that it recovers the mass of all this, or that ventures the idleness of some silent particles that make up its weight, and it's mass globality related to its material existence, sponsored by the proton in a cubic meter if it is accelerated. The underlying field here on Patmos will be one of superior physics from the Higgs or God Boson, for the granting of mass and weight in the empty wind tunnel at Profitis Ilias, resisting the necessary ineffective light from the apocryphal Phoebus Shemesh of Sheol (Hades and Erebo), to constrain the symmetrical balance of magmatic basality of intraterrestrial energy, providing the supernumerary of it, converted into Light for the reborn world of the Apocalypse. The carrier elementality of the Patmos particle, in its context of quantum physics, will be listed as the Apud Secundus Finale theory, to generate interactions in space-time, which reduce physicality and delay when attending to its credibility, in the face of supra-abnormal events and carriers of their hyperactive dogmatic apathy, under the understanding that the graph of their brain activity is a genius of quantum physics, provided with massless energy, which vertiginously adheres to the protons of their consolidated physical force, turning it into an inert atomic kinetic element, and in a dynamic one of physical solidity. For all the solidities of the wasteland of the Apud of Gethsemane, this will not be consecrated as a mystery, rather it will aspire the just act of immense mercy of the body compacted in the emotion of feeling gravitated, and accelerated, transfiguring itself into an atomic elemental impulse, which crystallizes Creative Faith, that is, the Vernarthian Duoverse! The Boson is massive, all the matter that is conducive to it will be poured by the verticality standard in creation, theoretically predicting in the tree of physics, whose conduit hyper live between the root and its foliage, and will consulate the effect of its origin. , for greater challenges of your divine experience.

Song of the Libyan Sibyl (bis): “the candles will ignite, the Iridescent eyes of the Mashiach will sparkle in the probable mortuary settlement of Vernarth in the oasis of Siwa:“ Oh my warm breath of Libya that flatters my cheeks, and my shoulders that they rustle in the light of Zeus's callused cerebral coexistence. I sing for you my Didaskein; treating or teaching the bewildered flock that confuses the messages that were born B.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous shift, as it does not contravene latent ignorance, but does find it satisfied and effulgent ...!

The meaning of the trustees and the ablution of the signs respectively were based on the word ficare "in the proportion of providing signs and building", as a complement to the concept, in the case of Zefian's Virola, it is given to the ring that rotates in its elliptical as a virtual particle, similar to the Muon. But always in a semantic ring or circle look. Linguistics will attribute both the Virola and the Fero; in this case "leading or leading" The dissociation here is the semantics in the object not entrenched to be used as a common kind of language, but rather as "Virolifero", it is understood that this word will forge the Zefian Arrow into the amalgamation of the ring that leads, to abduct all energies towards a Central Whole. The product of all this energy will be called channeling of the mental representations of the "sign" of signifying, evoking independence in each terminology by itself and represented, rather in the theological physical elementality, associated with the Virolifera plane.

As the treatise of this codex suggests, a term between terms, to assign mnemonic and etymological chaining of meaning most of the appropriation of terminologies attached to a properly vernacular word. The horizon that is stipulated is of a Vernathian nature, where the average life-turning receptacle is of enormous proportions in its multi dynamics, especially in the moral, ethical and theological, especially in matters of emotional articulation associated with a significant meaning. Vernarthian dreams are of Speed of Quantum Physics, therefore they are pure metaphysical and meta-biological, appending to restricted spaces of stimulus and impulse speed, hiding in the residual mass of the unknown, to attribute to them chromatics that is settled in the Corpus Callosum of both hemispheres. Neuroscience yes, but that deposits physical values in the concentration of rest and active energy in areas of the cerebellum, to unleash a choice of names or anthroponyms. Where all the names with a certain alacrity of reason, meaning is attached according to their toponymy, in this case, Virolifero, could be a factor of canceling choices and adaptation of higher energies, on the universe, as a patronage of the Universe "called Rings of Zefian ”endowed with electron elliptical Muon particles.

The signifier of Virolifero will be its phoneme, perhaps more associated with the subject being the ring, associated with its mental representation. This force of Vernarthian thought indicates semantics and phonetics of speculative endowment, for becoming of building rings associated with an eco-physical and eco-environmental scheme. The entire philosophical Vernarthian range has a Sacred Geometry in its verbal and numeral composition, either in the connotation of concepts-ideas and of signs that represent the mental cultural heritage.  Literality will advocate the chronology of gap and verbal-linguistic space, contributing figurative, Greco-Latin barbarisms, such as Virolifero's verbal vigor if we place it in the reference of a building ring, being able to be figurative as a ring that makes or leads according to its practical verbal use dialectical. And in context, it would appear as something sacred in what will be referred to in this Codex of Nuraga Complexes, where each fold of lithosphere will be of the geological relationship between Stonehenge or Nuraga in Sardinia, each one appropriating age in what could be more or less an archaeological conflict of origins, or of comparative aspects of the referenced union, for the end of times, nations, civilizations, political states, and generations of socio-economic persistence. Making an archaeological contextual fact as in these terms, of such references of reception or political exile, but also cultural, adding the terminology of the intracultural contribution of the region. In the argument of Pythagoras and his self-exile in Italy, it is said that he had been condemned to exile from Samos because of his aversion to the tyranny of Polycrates. Around 530 BC settled in Crotona, a Greek colony in southern Italy, where he founded a movement with religious, political, and philosophical purposes, known as Pythagoreanism, and which generated duplicity of context in his sacred mathematical pilgrimage, towards a process of exercise contrary to his own Pythagorean School, expropriating a persona non grata in internal conflicts with personalities from Crotona itself, where he had to flee later. Here ipso facto the verbal exercise exemplifies his transliteration by an unfailing fact, in favor of what emerges from a coercive task, abandoning the same in what placidly sheltered him, and virtually ostracized as an immigrant from Samos.

Hosted the Pythagoreans in Sardinia, Italy.  Being in the colorimetry of the 6th century BC. He was peering into a universe that wasted infusion, clinging to the unknown roots themselves, with undulating harmonies in what we inhabit as an ethical and religious wave and vibrational entity. The prefix Vilori will indicate sacred mathematics, adapting to the numeral and algorithmic harmony of three plus three + 1, which would be the suffix, Fero. The external exaltation of numerical sensations will lie in human sensations already pre-established as a socio-environmental existential order, towards a divine-human being. What is strictly formative is a sacred legacy, since its equivalence is composed of mathematical formulas and figures that all point to the creation of an ambivalent whole, upward and downward proportionate. Focusing on originality of thought and work, embodying the prose, prophecies,  and intensely solid parables.

Vernarth and Etréstles began the attached Rituals in these megalithic complexes. On each Solstice, they arranged sectarians related to this phenomenology, in such a way as to incorporate them into this millenary civilization. They always attacked the archaeological area of Orroli, which is in the center of the soft plateau of Pran'e muru, in a strategic position to control the territory along the middle course of the Flumendosa River. Normally here they performed twilight liturgies similar to those perpetually held in La Mandragora, Sudpichi, Horcondising Region - Chile. Vernarth, always got all the provisions and utensils off the sailboat. Pyramid Torches, Oil Fuels, Sacred Drums, Proved Firewood, Stonework for Obsidian Workshops. Mapuche  wind instruments such as Trutruca, Cultrún and trompe. Buzzers to repel zoomorphic beings of the Bestiary, Alchemy, and Esotericism. Etréstles, coordinated content and other related duties by illuminating all the souls who once lived here. To which Vernarth masterfully adhered, filing them with impressive themes of the prehistoric world. To consider more than five volumes by concept before departure, to then break into the sacred space and meaning, limpid and originating from the session of totem animals and trance with Navajo drums. Each oar looked like a Karibu daunting a maple or a conifer that wanted to change its bark skin for those of the goring of the Karibu or the Moose him. While the eagle with its claws dropped crashing down on the Rehue line to Gnegechen, on the Cultrun, whose plural palpitations of the mandrake wanted to seem to be more than a hallucinogenic thrilling herb.

Describes Vernarth in Regression of him: Theater and Aeschylus, Dance and Athena, gifts from Stonehenge and Borrehaugene in Norway on Viking ships. They walked over the suspicious stones of the Nuragas.  In each ritual in these sets, they concelebrated next to the gorges, through which said river ran, being globally submerged in two artificial lakes until today. A territory deeply marked by man since prehistory, confirming the extraordinary concentration of remains found; from the Neolithic to the Bronze and Iron Ages, Roman times, and the Middle Ages. The Arrubiu was the main bastion, around it, satellite Nuragas gravitated, dominating strategic points and access roads. Near the complex is the tomb of Giants from the Sword, here they would consecrate their dynamics of the Xiphos Hoplite sword, to develop the bronze rites,  as a heritage from the linear insertion of Sardinia with Patmos,  to which they will go after the Solstice from the Nuraga complex. In his prehistoric speeches, he always had to stand out and go back to years prior to 1000 BC. Today it has become the symbol of Sardinia and its distinctive culture. The typical Nuraga is located in a panoramic place and has the shape of a tower with a geometric shape of a truncated cone or divided in half, some higher, others very low, reminiscent of a Tholos (Ancient Greek circular construction). Right here Vernarth, they poured milk and Pranayama, to delineate the points of the Sun to align them with the whims of Brahma and Xifos; swords that are gleaming over the eyes of a stingray. Vernarth, as post-frontal poetry, in treachery that decorated such a hendecasyllable, undertook to rescue the largest real estate fire, from where his own subsistence will hang. In the main protocol, in a drumming trance, he pierced the brains of all those present. Fragments remained everywhere ever imagined, on the timeless Nuragha ruins under the treetops and their Templum. Misleading beings that attacked the underworld of Persephone, and the Nuragic Gods who were elemented, by prevailing in this ceremony that they did not know if it was their own, not knowing that they were included.

Isaías sings (bis): “The presence in the corresponding versed folio makes it relative to the prophecy of the Immanuel born of a ******, which is associated with a similar Virgilian prophecy of Cumana, justifying its prophetic symbolism. Here is the warning that blackens the skies where the light retracts, thousands of attendants in the Nuragas are chained during the announcement of a thousandth that climbs abysses like the fateful Strigoi, and only tribulated pasture will have to transplant rebellions, which lie asleep for the wind of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed in execration. Has the conflagration of the heart that resists death and agonizes several times in the Templum ritual been unleashed ... The conditions await for the apostates when they refuse the water that does not make them optimal, and makes the radius of obedience of the Vernarthian heart elliptical, full of granules of lumpy Physconia, whose frequency will become embedded in bodies of treacherous, kingdoms and fungal lineages. The reign of the saints will judge diversity on the thrones with devastation in the fatuous beatifications in Pergamum, already admonished by me also in Sardinia”

Gone be yon melted summer's day
Whilst shrouded in robes of sorrow
That never quill of a bard can portray
Nor years unborn may ever know
When a fair maiden pottered my way,
Gently as drops of descending snow.

Her eyes fairer than burnished gold
Illuminated the vast shadowy night,
Ebony hair upon her seraphic body rolled
With a diadem of reddest roses bedight
That swifter than a gallant knight so bold,
I plunged to Elysium at such a sight.

For she bore beauty of a silvery moon
In lone splendor upon heavens bay,
The pulchritude of sun beams by noon
Against the sea on a fine blazing day.
Now that love casted her novelty boon,
Timidly I gravitated towards her way

And in fables faintly whispered unto her:
"Little maiden, little maiden, little maiden,
O queen fairer than chalcedonic luster;
Are flowers of yonder golden Aidenn
More fair and redolent than thou are?"
This did gladden - I strayed in a garden;

Her garden of ethereal pulchritude
Where no mortal ever walked through
And now doth hearts gambol with glee
'Neath elm leaves bedight with stars above
That the beauty queen calls it balm of Gilead
To visit her garden - a garden of love.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA
             12th/09/2018

Above the welkin,
many luminous orbs coruscate with perseveration.
These disorganized celestial bodies emulate one another
but their uneven rhythm is apparent to starry eyed observers.
Eyes gazing
fascinated by the unmeasurable exquisiteness that exists
just beyond outstretched hands.
As one beholder marveled
the other closed disconsolate eyes
and gravitated towards the tangible.
It was in that moment
that the steadfast watcher found
what it was that they had been seeking.
A falling star dropped just low enough
that with desperate leaping and grasping
it was within reach.
The burning had not been accounted for.
Nor had the sudden departure
from the satellite that orbited just a little to close
and had only the desire to emulate others
with uneven rhythm.

Your presence passes me
like a slow-moving satellite
revolving around
my head, slurred
into mesh—so gravitated.

Love is a shade which
covers me close
to your body, in sync
like the movements of the planets,
pivoting harmonious in the
deep, dark mystery
of your sheltered embrace,
and the universe seems
to settle around me
calm and constellated.
  
Your eyes, a deep depiction
in the mind, so starry, I
see nothing more
but stars.

Bright as the brilliance
of the fire of my affection
at the core of my soul, lit
with passion, intense
as a thousand suns, a
million moonlit galaxies,
is my love which seems
to have no end.

Your presence passes me,
a slow-moving satellite
revolving around
like a moon to Jupiter,
boy, I feel that pull.

i just came here for the whiskey and music,
the rest is zoology formerly known as darwinism, i.e.
logically me monkey you you monkey me
was going to be a rainforest and not a cage,
but the purring in o# gravitated us to
the stratosphere of talkative dinosaurs:
you know... no rain for millennia... then volcanic eruptions
and to the bone tattoos... i almost clapped with the t-rex
concerning our fate without theology; but god it was funny,
runny ***** too, i told the reptilian rejects (crocodiles and snakes and
leather boots) - ‘mind ‘em monkeys, they’ll start to juggle
a single sound into many and discover the steam engine and scalpel!
and depilate for the obsessiveness of ******* *** with politicians
singing - pinky pinky fold into knuckle, floyd my barber whisked up nirvana!’
yep... you just caught me with two watermelons and four flamingos
lodged in my armpits while i pursed my lips waiting for applied lipstick.
it's not that i think evolutionary biology is incorrect...
but for god's sake, i need the word for fluidity and the friday night cinematic stretching of legs knowing that no one made a career from talking crap
imitating a choir of gorillas hoping for a beatbox in the chest of the hidden seal’s applause.

as if* the neurons in my brain
joined rank and gave me
a synaptic '*******'

as if the god's turned their backs
while Zeus shot lightening
bolts through my computer screen

as if the Earth gravitated to her
new lover Mars while
the saddened Moon
watched from a starlit view

as if the page was the curved
ivory tusk of an untamed mastodon
charging from the left indent

as if the blinking cursor was a dagger
ramming itself into Caesar's back

as if the word processor itself
was a ticking time bomb
with enough explosive force
to rip through the loose-knit fabric
of literary space-time

and as if the words themselves were locked
away in some distant prison,
sitting in death row,
*waiting to be executed

Ambling along the seaside
a group of youth
on the brink,
looking for good music and cheap beer

we drank Jameson straight from the bottle
and poured cheap wine down each others throats
and then you grabbed my hand and

you pulled me along
like we were lovers
but I'd only just met you that day.

Closing in on a heaving crowd outside a dark edged bar,
we all agreed.  
Stepping  in
he whispered,
"You're my girlfriend for the night right?"
I didn't respond
ruminations and innocence
didn't recognize
it was just the way you were

i did not know you
after all.
this person ---
an enigma
a formation of every external fantasy was feasting upon me like prey.

Mind fuckery tipped me to the point
of no return.

For a moment
I lost you in the crowd
and I drank myself into a stupid spin
when I looked up to the landing,
you were there
looking down on me.

I danced wildly
as your eyes burned into mine.
a mission on your mind.

Later we fell out of the sweat infused bar
incomprehensibly drunk with glee
and drinking in fresh air.

Against the wall, the others fell and laughed,
but you ---
you grabbed my neck, my face, my being,
while wild curiosity burned in your eyes.

and you say that I'm intense...

Twisting our faces into a kiss,
you were so unexpected

you grabbed my hand, and we ran into the grass across the street,
but instead of sunlight and fresh flowers
taxi cabs and punters filled the streets around us
and I could hear our friends looking

Intwined for a moment --- frozen in time
swift and fleeting,
we struggled for breath discovering each other with crazed passion --
until it stopped suddenly
an interruption of unimaginable events.
they screamed our names
and so it was over.
gathered again the group headed toward the dawn,
but that kiss --- still wet on my mouth
left me gravitated

but you distanced yourself
with disregard.

I fell more in lust the further apart we grew down the alley ways
the cobblestone paths,
damp streets and street dwellers
towards the train and back to inevitable reality

couples and friends walking
separately,
and as one
but you
were not with me.

I wished
that moment would continue
that we would walk into the light of some
irrational dream
and then I woke up

in a foreign land tears filled my eyes

You said you were crazy when you drink,
but maybe i'm just
crazy.

there was always this crack in her voice when she spoke, sometimes not too distinct but it was almost as if she was trying to block out the noise and the arms that try to reach
she stood like a wilting flower, head bowing at pavements and worn out tiles yet she possessed this beauty that signified the last dying hours of a queen
she was lovely but lacked being loved and although her hands were made to stretch out to pieces that could build her whole, she was always too lonely, too alone
her heart gravitated toward those who were broken and upon seeking she served as their comfort and they, as body parts, temporary but not permanent enough to keep her together
she was a puzzle piece that never fit, often dismantled and avoided but despite solitary, she ignited like a bleeding petal
an unperceivable watch on broken wrists, ticking the life out of human beings, a countdown forever on repeat
she would have never guessed how many hearts she could capture just by grasping them with her eyes, so departed and vacant from feet-up yet so alive
such a beautiful girl capable of suicide and saving lives of those who now continue to remain as survivors
yet any second, this wilting flower could give out and die
and sadly, her beauty wouldn't be enough to save her life

n.j.

Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums; dull, shrill, continuous, disquieting. The stealthy dancer comes undulant with cat-like steps that cling. The smile of evil crept between her painted lids, a smile. Motionless, unintelligible, she twines her fingers into mazy lines, the scarves across her fingers twine the while.
One, two, three, four glide forth, and, to and fro, delicately and imperceptibly.
You could hear the seraphs cry in between the swift dessous topped off with a jeté.
The observers watched every move, they have no idea what the young coryphée has in store.
A crimson blade covered her legs during every hypnotizing glide and sway; a matching blade for every female in the assembly, they wouldn't move from their spots on stage. They formed a pentagram with their swords; they were each so beautiful. So mesmerizing for the crowd to be graced with such pure refinement. The lead dancer gave a gesture and that's when it happened.
The girls twirled, gravitated away from their positions. Blood covers the entire floor like the rain falling; drenching the ground, dark red blood seeps into the nice hardwood floor. A body lays dead and bled out. They compiled a dance of death and evil, every pirouette sliced into the already rotted flesh. Slabs of skin thrown across the platform, horrified viewers didn't speak. Gruesome, yet beautiful. They finished and returned to their previous, assigned places of formation and the only sound is that of the maggots eating away at the rotting flesh, swallowing bites at a time adding more to the foul smell of decay.
The eyes burned onto the stage, heat built up. No one said a word; no one knew what they were suppose to say. Is it all an act? It must be, these things don't just happen, right? A few vomited because of the gut wrenching stench that overwhelmed the room.
The dancers eyes never left the floor, she simply bowed and twirled off stage; Her legs were never visible but you could see the foot prints forming behind her, they were made from blood.