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aesthenne May 2015
Folds, fur, creases and greases on your clothes
Have you had a nice breakfast?
No, no, it doesn't seem so.
You've had a bad day since you've risen from your bed.
Your hands are shaking and don't even notice it,
Probably because of the nicotine hidden in the left pocket of your jacket.
Ahh! Shut up! You were thinking! It's annoying!
Get out! Get out! I need to go to my mind palace!
Also, if you think that I'm a psychopath,
I'm just a high-functioning sociopath.
With your number! -smiles-

Oh, John Watson? You've got a limp from your last war from Afghanistan.
Your hand stays steady when you're suspicious or feel like you're being threatened.
Hmm, you like the battlefield, don't you, John?
Ahh, you can be my colleague! Come on, John!
Wait, what? Who are you?
The name's Sherlock Holmes and I live on 221B Baker Street.
And, I'm a consulting detective who uses,
*The Science of Deductions
A quick-written poem just for fun.
Anthony, Anthony, oh dear Anthony. His face is like a little darling's; with tumults of green and gray cheeks blended into one. I wish there had been no yesterday; for yesterday was when he appeared with his rain-soaked, but gay little cheeks; as he smiled at me by the twin moonbeams. Still he is not him; I care not how he wants to tease me in my dream.

My heart is gay no more; its walls are honed imperfectly, and with no goodwill. Its image and charity hath now gone; I am plain, I am like a shy spider grafting about the chattering winter walls. Oh, Anthony, yet how sweet thou wert under the bald rain; and its unleashed forms of cold clouds! Ah, I wish I could lend to you a wonted breadth of my story; but as I gaze, now, into the very soft metallic eyes of thee; I am afraid my words shall never be impossible. Thou hath that brilliant green gaze of nature, my sweet, but thou art not immortal; thou art vital, but thou art not of the same rainbow as he is. He hath, now, been dried and cornered in the unseen lungs of my heart, but his ghost is there. Ah, he, who hath betrayed me like a sparkle of dead candle! How should I treat this misdemeanour, you think? But to my strange suspicion, I cannot but forget of him, even a sliver of memory; for his memories are too elusive, too adequate for my hungry heart. Oh, Anthony, how bashful I am--for not daring to cope with thy questioning eyes!

Like those unanswered rains; which keep wetting the unyielding soil, damaging toiled crops into the limbs of quavering pits. My love was borne with death by him; within the death of his feelings, in which it was but a fossil of discarded flesh like any other corpse. But where is Immortal, Immortal, Immortal? I keep looking for him, in those scarlet hollows, but still I glimpse a sight of him not. I shall keep lulling him to sleep, at least in my dancing dreams; he is the sober prince and I am the guileless princess. Ah, Anthony, tell me how I cannot be guileless; I am honest and decent and carry no defilement of chastity. I am pure myself; with a garden of virginity and its terrific rivulets flowing beneath me. How can my charms be not charitable? Even when I walk, a thousand boughs of blossoms snigger not; they welcome my entry with another thousand wits; they reply to my living steps with a radiance that even heaven cannot forgive. My verbal words might not be delicate, but I am sure my poem is; regardless how hard t'is downfall might be. Ah, Anthony, thou art a miracle still, but thou art no more than an evening story, sadly! I cannot feel my heart become unleashed, as I looketh into thy eyes; I cannot feel grasped by thy cold hands--ah, thou hath grasped me not; but still thy apparition cometh less merited, and rather falsified, than that of his.

How can that be, how can that be, how can that be! Ah, this earth with its villainous glory might blame me once more. It shall toughen my hardship with a whole land of repulsion; it shall intend never again to make me a faithful alliance. It shall satisfy its own self, and metamorphose into a swamp of ungrateful hatred sweated by an edified mockery. Ah, what doth all t'is charm mean, then? I shall face a green apocalypse soon, thereof, before being burned within another blasphemous night. I feel cross, cross, cross, cross, and cross; I grit my teeth whenever I think of my stupidity. I feel as if I was an old dame so gratuitous to thee; I am a luminous fire, but instead I have no seeds and am just as dead as a soundless pumpkin. Ah, Anthony, can thou but restore that lost fire again? I want no speeds, I want to see no miracles, I feel dutiful; but undutiful at the same time. Your heart is right by the doors of Yorkshire--and sometimes grow into the doors themselves; it is funny to see how they are so tidily integrated by the eminence of each other. I shall craft for you a beautiful song; but perhaps a jest like that shall never be enough; it shall be tedious and not pertinacious enough to entertain thy young heart. Thou art in want of my poems, as far as I can see; but all I might do is withdraw my eye and even draw my steps back further, invariably like a rusted old church bell. I am insane; and far trapped in the insanity as I myself am; I am cold-blooded, my heart can, perhaps, be healed only by ease-like murders. I cannot ponder, I cannot think, I cannot consider; I paint the entrance to myself no more-oh, how I miss his laughs like never before! Ah, Anthony, my wintry sun, my autumn soliloquy, my snowy sob; perhaps I shall better be far from thee, for I want not to make thee sore! My heart is as rough as it is; incarcerated in its own heartless panoramic views, brutal like an unattended soil, for hath it just been left unattended for a time; it often wanders to breathe fresh air, but severed once more by the adored's filthy laugh. It comes home and sleeps weeping beside me.

My heart can no longer count; neither can it flinch. It cannot even see colours, including those which were once fabulous; it is far from enormity, but it claims to have one. Ah, Anthony, it is even a brighter scholar than myself! Look, look how hath it conquered my? I have jaws and it has not, I have a heart--ah, I do have it, but I knoweth not how to make it mine. Half of my heart hath been eaten away by a rotten love, even my blood now--as I hath been hearing it, is no longer flowing. I am hurried by the murmurs of the wind every day, ah, but shall I return again to my poetry? I guess, though, I can make time for this gay seriousness; I am poetry and shall always be, I am alarmed by the cries of my poems, and the joys of my sentences. I am mad, as how poets should just be; I am the pictures my poetry paints; and caress them often at night in my arms.

But as you may have seen it, my heart is now dead, plain, and black; my heart who has loved, and still does love, someone. Ah, Anthony, forgive me; forgive me for this solemn labour of my heart; forgive me for choosing to bear this alone. I might love again, someday; I am aware I should triumph over this self-inflicted martyrdom; I shall relieve myself in one blink of wonder, in a more reliable princedom by the sea. Still, I hope, like a gallery of paintings that is planted with a hall of constant transformations, God shall transform the very haven of his souls one day; and refine his atrocious soutane into one righteous and cordial. I might not be the crucial lady yet for thee; oh, how I wish I were! But vain this attempt may be, should we ever doubtfully try it. Ah, Anthony, but gratitude to thee--for once choosing to lay off the puzzle of my heart; for thy gentleness from the very start!

And hath I now finished my breathless narration; I doth miss thee, oh Immortal; I miss thee as I shall miss a piercing sun in these filths and greases winters may bring! Ah, and the clearer picture in my mind carries to me a voice that though thou art fine; thou art dainty no more; and this leaves to me a flavour of
precarious solitude. I loveth thee, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my love is as a sky that remains high; my love shall stay flowery until the day I die.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2014
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.
Seán Mac Falls May 2015
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.
Waverly Dec 2011
Your lips were
at the bottom
of the shot glass
in that dim
blue bar.

Disembodied.
Bluish pink,  
and swimming as I swished
around the last
of my drink.

Usually when I drink
I try not to think about girls,
because I get depressed
easily.

You rub my body
in moving beads
and your lips
and the bluelight
are usually the last thing I remember.

Maybe if I
take a girl in the bathroom
and ******* her
on the sink
as the oil in her hair
greases the mirror
and the flies watch,
maybe I'll be able
to blur myself out,
and not even go back
to you
as you stagnate
in a blue glass
full of
blue fluid.
Ann Beaver Mar 2013
Giant, gruff, grinning
it grabs gratuitously
at my body.
Grumpily grappling
onto my arm
and throwing.
I grasp at green air,
I find only the graceless
graininess of gravity.
It, grunting,
grips my insides
and greases the ground
with my grimy gremlins,
my greatest, grueling torment.
******.
Jason Needham Jun 2013
I am a cannibal.
I savor men’s fine taste
and snap up scrawny skulls;
Spent bodies left to waste.

But do not hoard your children.
Their flesh is far too sweet,
Innocently tendered and
Often curdling in the heat.

Age is my marinade,
It greases flesh like wine
Soaked and smoked in scarlet
With broken, twisted spines

And I am not alone.
Though they may feel otherwise
Since though I eat your body
The heart’s their only prize.

Do you hear me weeping,
Creeping during the night?
Sigh deep when I am sleeping
But you’re always in their sight.
mark john junor Apr 2014
her dyed blonde hair
stood out starkly against the grey concrete
as me and my girl take up squating
for the momentary grease on the public step
as the alligators swim round the stoop
looking for the next strong-arm sucker
they keep time tapping one raised finger
on the humid air
she rolls up to us
and tosses herself down ontop of me
my girlfriend slides exasperated smile
and shrugs off the bleach blonde sticky fingers approach

the rest of the sticky fingers chase eachother
around the parking lot hoping  to make ground scores
off eachothers trash by numbers life in motion paintings
she chases my illusion
her dyed blonde hair tangles my thoughts
so i lead her to a quieter spot on the public steps
and settle her into her vibe

the diameter of her rig matches the close quater passageway
so she greases the way with a wall to wall smile
thats more scary than reassuring
and brushing back the bleach blonde
and tries once more to speak to my billfold
with her open shirt peeky-boo
i dont bother to say it but i woulda opened
up and spilled the greenage to keep her from folding
just outa keepin the peace
my girlfriend glares fifteen flavors of
get rid of this clown at me
so i dish dirt and bills to slide her on her way

i feel bad for her
she is our friend
but shes just to much of the gain game in her
to see that we have long since moved on
i cant play captain saveahoe
turned that caped crusader out to the history books
and im just looking to do my
morning breakfast circus
scrounge a coffee bean and a honey roll
my girl rolls a smoke
the tropical sun dances on sandy soil
we are a happy pair of clowns
and thats all that matters
figured id give hello one last chance before i delete my account...so iposted a few,
ERHD Rowes Dec 2010
My days are for me,
As yours are for you,
I'll be what I'll be,
You'll do what you do.
Exchanges of dust,
Embraces now changed,
Glances of lust,
Still taunting my brain.
But love keep your distance,
For I have concern,
It is this you must know,
This you must learn:
Relentlessly vicious, the cogs are that turn.
I erode and I sting and I drown and I burn.
And a dark orange rust drops as they grind.
Leaving a trail of flakes of a furious mind.
But the oil continues,
Continues to drip,
And greases them further,
And further I slip.
And the cogs gain momentum,
As my feet tell me "no!"
"No further, no further, no further we'll go",
So the pillows start grinning,
The blankets smile too,
The matress opens its arms for me to sink into.
And I know that as soon as my head touches those lips,
And I surrender myself to that feathery grip,
It could be days,
Who knows, maybe weeks,
Before I'm back out again walking the streets.
With two steps of a waltz that I couldn't not start,
All those caged birds flew out of my heart.
And what of the third?
The cogs have now turned,
And my feet cannot move,
What a lesson I've learned!


May 2010
John Cleland Apr 2012
Street Shower

I hope this bus doesn’t crash; rain
greases the tires like WD-40 puddles
on a rusted door hinge, an accident looming
with every late brake. Relaxing in a chair
eyes flicker shut, screeches from tires
echo on crunching metal,
glass collapses on the rough gray asphalt, scatters
amongst every seat; a collage
of red droplets and pink scabs
on my forearm.

As I pick the shards
that nicked my bones
and scooped my marrow, I notice
the empty seats; garnet cushions stained scarlet,
taste of iron on my tongue; petrified looks
on several wan faces, though their eyes look almost lonely,
seeming to yearn, maybe a goodbye, or another breath
to scream for help; lump in the throat
can’t be gulped away, choke
on engine fumes as I stumble
out the front window, staring back at
what is now a Dali painting; melting
frames welded to the ground. I fix my wrinkled
shirt, pull up the shreds of my pant legs, and
I look into the shadow filled sky; rain
washes over me, maroon puddles
at my ankles.
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2012
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.
Shalini Nayar Sep 2014
My hands, my knees.
Look at it jolting out of me,
Cavemen clubs with nowhere to go.

The passageway now hurts, pushing out
Whatever that went in.
Liquid, solid, knives,
Lies, lies, lies, grievances.

The forcing, the cough, the blow
Right here, into the middle of my stomach.
The stupid things I do sometimes
Just to feed the pressure.

The oil greases over me,
It’s hard enough to breathe in here.
Hear hear, I speak. It is you I want.
Mr. Grape’s hair I gently stroke away in that trailer,
His lips I gently kiss to an ******.

Right there, in my neck,
Between the pulsating veins,
The urge hissing on my tongue.
That’s where you must belong always.

Mamma, won’t you get off
Your fat back and your fat haunch,
Off that sweaty couch, off that shaky little house
And get me out of this god-forsaken land?

Shalini Nayar
© 2004
thevagabondking Apr 2013
there were never pies on the
window counter
or cakes baking in the oven
there was never the smell of
home style type of cooking
in our house

fried chicken came out of a
box; frozen and dropped into
the fry daddy

we’d listen closely to see if
you could hear the chicken’s
soul scream in the greases soup

dessert was apples from the tree,
some day’s you get them before they
hit the ground, others you ate around
the soft spots

conversation was initiated by whatever
news story was airing, commercials
for **** breaks

while the pie was never there,
the cake just a dream,
while home made fried chicken was another
time period

this was still home, this was still where the heart was
in-between drunken fights over finances, despite cold winter
nights on hand cut wood, regardless of
living on the edge of over every
time we began to think it was safe to feel safe.
Waverly Sep 2012
Sometimes,
you have slow nights,
and hate yourself
for being so lazy.

Other times,
it's an unleashing ****:
a riled-up badger
in your heart;
a\frigate on the best seas;
so much hope,
and the love of your life
hasn't ****** her boyfriend,
only you;
and it really comes out of you,
unspooling on the screen.

It's so much magic,
that your heart greases over with it; and all the little things
bellow.
mark john junor Jun 2013
her languid face stirs slowly
from its lines
and within it harbours an echo of alarm
as the thoughts like distant thunderstorm that rises on the sky
awaken within her

fleeting moments chase each other across her eye
each one bearing the weight of meaning a little further
than the last until the final one gasping
and sweating it lay its burden to a fitful rest
on the doorpost of her denials
like a blood stained accusation
like a scarlet letter

she greases her hands to the task
and works muscle and bone against the tide
but it is a idea birthed in folly
it is a concept of true lies

harrowing tales regaled around table
of men who strove and men who wept
thouse who slipped benith the waves
with desperate plea sent forth having failed
and thouse who triumph plays over and over in old age's eye
but none were ever told
that did not bear her tainted signature
ink and sweat in fine carved lines
on her dusty limbs

she now sees that she too must one day face
fates indifferent game
must one day choose
and risk all at the hand of chance

her hands greased to the task
her true lies shatter resistance
break stone
tales to regale tonight of the maidens
ink and sweat delicate lines
on her ***** dusty limbs
on our way to florida

edit: minor changes
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2012
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2013
Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.
James Wisp Aug 2011
It’s not like I had a choice,
but my fasting continues.
Giving up for a spell
the **** that greases my mind,
the love that lets me sleep,
the spark that ignites me.
I’ll admit,
it’s probably for the best.
It’s like they say,
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

However,
here I am
awake
when I should be quietly slumbering
tucked comfortably into my head.
Instead I face
what will eventually come,
the theme of my youth
abruptly wrenched from me.

No one wants to be dependent,
but I am addicted,
confined to a cage
of my own construction.
A cage with comfy chairs
and all the confections
I need
to occupy my machine.
I’ll scuttle back there and
this particular fast will end soon enough
but I feel the end creeping up.
Its only day four,
and things are getting pretty weird.
Gareth Jun 2017
why do you bow down to fat cats
men who dress up in suits
They ***** lies from podiums

                         shame on you
                         shame on you
                       SHAME ON YOU
         Once Again I say Shame on You

indoctrinated by leaders and teachers

birth, school, job, marry and die
birth, school, job, marry and die

Conform , Conform or Die
that's the message you learn
blind to the propaganda
Government's bend to Bankers
Oil greases the war machines cogs
Soldiers just keep on marching


W   we
A    are
R    right
neth jones Sep 2019
Cancer of the Tooth & Lung
Cancer of the Lips & Tongue
Cancer of the Cheeks & Gum
Cancer collects under the Skin
& Numb
Cancer ; Fingertips & Thumb
Cancer spreads
Cancer on my Mind
& Dumb

Cancer greases your thinning Hair
Cancer ; the Features you select to Wear
Cancer subtracts the light from your Eyes
Cancer swells your pinkening grey Heart
Cancer in your Thought and Barking
Cancer Glows ;
Ever Phosphorus
In your Dark

Cancer ; what’s the Matter ?
Cancer ; where is my Head ?
Cancer in our Bicker
Cancer ; I’m drying Blind
Cancer on tap
& extra Cancer ...

Cancer from You to Me
Cancer won’t leave us be
Cancer from Me to You
Cancer confirms every Act we do
Cancer ; when we stay up late
Cancer Cultivates our Relation
whilst we Canker in Snared Hatred
About fifteen years old. Some changes and corrections made from the original.
Ke-caster Feb 2019
Society has no regret

Stretches us out like human tack
Twists the gears to move the rack
To keep us tight and highly strung

Much easier to hold the notes
The ones that get stuffed down our throats
The ones that we think that we sing ourselves

Society has no regret

A child playing with marionettes
Then torches them when play is done
To watch the flames eat up and take

We entertain, to be its friend
But seeking value in an early end
Its wish we die before become a burden

Society has no regret

Tears out gold teeth for circuit boards
Greases gears with chewed up hoards
Then renders down their fats for soaps

Society has no regret

Keep us numb on drugs and hope
Steady pulse of dopamine
Notice nothing cut or gleamed

Society has no regret

The great machine has got to turn
Your body's your country fuel to burn
To expend the shell as it sees fit

Society has no regret

The ash spread out makes fertile fields
Let the future make the past its meal
Elegy I

“Behold, I tell you my prince Meton, that my Steed is coming bringing Zeus, I truly tell you that the shadows move on the plasma of the Duoverse and that the lunisolar cycles pose what could never arrive and where it has to go... that It awaits you if I say..., if from the threshold of 331 bC. What will be my own...? If tertians experience without pain that can resemble everyone else that it is!

Etréstles; My debt comes from the Kronia of Saturnalia and Aries, lifting him up from Gea... he is noble in the laws of his geometrical prose calling him from Attica and trying to know if I can take the corner of Stratonx, without a lesser degree of hierarchy and whatever, more than finding Theseus...! If it is of his necessity to hear us through the labyrinths that will approach him of the birth of a new Vernarth, who alone fears for some icy sting that afflicts Alikantus, coming as an Athenian steed on Zeus and on the protectorates of Polia that are plausibly bringing nights of fever in the cold solitude by not possessing them.

Whatever my lord, behold, a polis will have great merit when it occurs in the misgivings, hallucinations, and lightness that are abstracted after twenty-eight days without knowing which will be the next one that will contain it like the kindling of the fire that does not stop burning... nor the magnitude of everything that stops me from being the spoil of a new sprout, but that does not stop me from being superior to the flames that possess their hell. The official acts make me a trophy of hostile anxieties with their dying fire, however, Zeus makes the Duoverse move mounted on my steed that takes him on snows that fight in the contest, and in contests of my Elegy with his equestrian reverie. I tell you that for this they can still loot the feminine beauties that besiege me between ruinous eyes that only see from the attic towards his disjointed daily Odeon.

The sensitive attachment of my Cretan horse neighs resounding from the Odeon, carrying the waters that will be his visionary flowers on female beauties that acclaim him with a womanly voice, which lashes out at him as the bearer of a God, entering into sentences manly beauties that come off the blood Hellenic of Alikantus by Evandria; full and provided with manly arcana resembling a steed made an Adonis. For everything that seems ruinous to you, a head that wishes to be wounded is offered, for everything that seems diaphanous to you like a People in the female physiognomy, a figure consigned in his virginity, who opens doors in which they are semi-open... Seeming that nothing hurts as it runs through the corner of my yearning, with honey and milky emulsion in its porticoes and in the evasion of the Diplon bringing my guests from the Opistódomos, with menus that will be superior to all the vessels where it will take them their delicacies, incontinent. Of the Hydor, that flows from the mancebía and the damp staircase of the Nimbus. Unknown values of insecurity made me attached to the Acropolis, rather knowing that Zeus was on his way to his amnesty and was floating in prose of gaseous clay, and iridium that reopened the double door of the Diplon as it closed abruptly from the canopy tops. Where is it that so much warm wind runs in the colors of the gods who rule the Exile...? So he will continue to be all that he is and will be in what I observe him..., if he stops to look at himself, and not at me who no longer consumes him...!

I tell you with its illustrious shadow that it hides in its untamed ephebos, wanting to make precocious its illustrated cavities that serve an eternal heart, which pours out what pulses and reverses what it repels from the flesh that is distributed convex of the divine soul, making succulent darkness of the apotheosis of the Symposium… burning where they always are, I tell you they are lit in the saddles of time!

How much phobic rogue can tell you what my imperialism binds to say if my beloved were here, seeing her close by like any glow that syndicates her odd sacrifices, with excessive raised and scheduled glasses that speak of a restless being, who cannot tell you that the Christic continues to observe ride from Alikantus, on embers of the Khristúgenna, observing him in pageantry, attempts, and lands of Patmos with a loaf of unleavened brimming with pietism and a new millennium that ends in the pyx of her memories...

Currently, doors are slapped through which my steed will pass with Zeus..., and I will not hear them, because only I have to open their double door Dipylon weeks later... from the agon that has to carry me against Zeus as his relief comrade, clinging to anger in agons that fight each other for ferocious tendons, and herculean verbal incarnations, immersed in irrepressible loquacity... conceiving his heroic chance and submitological feats that are located at the precipice of the heel, and in the breathlessness of his steps that take place in those that are not! "

Elegy II

By what dark decline of Smyrna will my rib complain, and have to move its hanging from here of Selçuk that will consist in its protocols that guarded my lost head, and of corny demigods that surrounds soothing feats that do not hurt, instantly that we all offer the same incarnations of the cult and his victory with Saint John the Evangelist... I tell you that I know about this and I say that I preside and founded the condition of his sacred agonal, from his divine glory in Arbela according to how common it seems to them... if they are to get lost in its decline...! That they do not fight with what is not dexterity and nothing that is not brooding if nothing knocks on the arched door?

The purse that will remain beyond Alsancak in that residence is moth-eaten, I always hoped, I always had to say..., as I have told you that my tongue tells truths that you are tempted to see in the darkness of a dissolute courtyard in Helleniká, but between portages of Smyrna and rubrics that wave in streets that are bordering the extraverted Dipylon... in which instance I peek into the interior wine presses..., seeing its esplanades because if I have to tell you... it will be something that can satisfy you and that takes me to Eleusis...!

So many times I sighed for the stinging hinge and its memento, opening itself up like this, and if it must be wherever it compresses its resonance, here it is what I was going to condescend with dump trucks that transpose to the stage with their marbled misgivings, I beg you with my hands convulsive that I am not fortified, the tribal rain and the Xiphos phosphorus from the southwest, seeming to surpass with their longitudinal footage as if they were laws of the horizontal with twisted millennia that bring according to what should be...? For a long time, it takes the form of an imperfect and vile being by the inverted "V" from Ephesus, towards the intersection of the edge of Pergamum approaching Laodicea.

Guess where the deposit of the Sun of Smyrna derives with its long time-lapse, and with various stony that are attached to masonry typical of the diamond plinth, showing off the docile sacramental of its high shoulders and crowned partitions like those that hurt if my eye everything! Assesses, closing angles of the sovereign challenge, here my sovereign Meton presents me the sacramental infer to the Nymphaeum or a rhomboid arcade lost in his Domus!

Where do paradises shrink from, if all this was being hidden with so many truths between tributaries and conifers that have to be disposed of in their turrets? Its precarious sinister face only restrains the Eminences of the Lycabeto, daring to adorn themselves with Lykavittós, rising among longings that are lost in my Elegy from heights that howl for peaks that have not been besieged, only resided by those songs that shelter themselves obstructed with wide domains, with trainers that guide you, not coexisting lights, that scrutinize your shelter to become your owner!

What makes you of tribulation if my consort is made eternal, now that he shields between his worries for causes and lexical testimonies with my Eggelos, who do not hear the galloping of Alikantus but if the hieratic rocky snorts descending for what their prior does not know... only my chaste unit has to be with its talented polygonal patchwork, unlocking only what it contains in its earthly litanies, softening the sclerosis of a raging carat, being or not defensive of a judicious Eggelos in rocks of fortune...! Only if you have to restrain yourself before they exceed the rate, and of everything that stops you and greases the cranks of what is not worthy of rest without a deponent cheer!

I urge you, oh confreres that your streets and stones expand like runners and cobblestones that have never been able and never will be able to pass through colonnaded atriums surrounded by those who live in Smyrna! And from there I exhort you to serve your faithful hoarseness whose rest adheres to his unconscious reality... Where then only laughs the annoyance and its ominous deities that carve defenses that are arranged for him to house in Skelos or of the legs that are born and die on his heels...? And from where does it only lead him to the vault of the mystery that lies in his opportune vow?

I will mention to you when no one ascribes or praises you with compliments that tempt the supine harassment of whose silhouette it is not, and that it is only the Selçuk catafalque, where the chapel of its neighbors and rye burns that divide the age of the Duoverse, leaving him desolate if my verses disgust those who have secreted and listened to my unheard reflections... Yes, you have to hide in burial mounds that descend from heights that are unknown to you..., you will only have to unravel from your baseness and fading scratches of the factions, with ties and dizzying failures from which Olympians survive and without crowned laurels!

Everything is already commemoration and mischievous funerary daring with portable fluorophores mourners, dressed in crowded slags elongations, and slants where nothing can grasp it of prosapies and past or subsequent lives, where its spits will be of the advantageous parallel that is noticed of a Mycenaean mob. What decorum above all in that setback, that only sees imploring, that they stop behind everything that protects them by the force of the black aura, that hurts and that devastates their vibrations in the triggering footsteps of Alikantus, “He who has hearing and not words that he hears what a stained glass window is in all that he knows and reflects it ”.

What was devouring you by the ardor and his horse countenance with his swift piercing in all that this crusade means... Loading Aerse finesse with herons to tie and perpetuate only those who must not be lacking..., before the supreme preference of a man who errs more than a god, and who was the gift of a PanHellenic fiddling with thirteen shady places, lacerating everything that inferred him, and everything that was an intruder from the earrings of happiness hanging him like an azure earring..., all harassment coming from Smyrna Towards the iridescent Nimbus of Patmos for the puzzles of Pergamum!


Elegy III

I can call all twilight nights princesses in Croesus's scolding, between floods where pseudo warriors who expedition before me, and undivided in Alexander the Great where everything comes from him hiccupping with the Chrysanthemum of Cyrus and Darius. I can make you Persians again if all your history bustled between comfortable Zeroes! And if this besieged crossbow circulates faster than the treasures of Pergamum... thus it would flee with legions and Talents that surpass the treasures of Heaven and its contingent consort.

Third episodes to my teacher Saint John the Apostle placed him a few hours from the Aegean in the lower parts of Pergamum, whose Trojan sons I tell you that I follow the course of his dynasty, perpetuating and touching the scaphoid and serving him with the Lutrophorus! Oh, azure comes with the team of oxen from Thrace that guaranteed the Theologian, and the treasury of his holy angels for this entire mandate and go walking your tired feet carrying the ghosts of Lysimachus? Of your own veracity naming them kings who will truly serve his laudable reign!

I tell you that I have really learned about this and about my own custody that speaks when seeing the victors and the vanquished pass by in the fragment of Ephesus overflowing with despicable arteries of Pergamum, and buskin that was not worthy of a scene of tragedy; between jocular that captivate Jezebel and syllogisms that slice the servants and their harvests. Oh, what a bag it can tackle if they are the dreams of a demigoddess of Sambate, believing to ruin the journeys of the Apostle Saint John by a Vee that unites my own oppression just being in Pergamum very prone to the fourth letter of the Apokálypsis... if these hermits they are confused with my discredit!

In the Symposium Journey, I saw the bewilderment only in the fiftieth fight after 331 BC, since the retreats of my brother and Lord Alexander the Great, dividing belligerents between Lysimachus and Seleucus lying in 280 BC! Behold, I tell you that no novel has to say it... that daring and ****** sleeplessness will be understood with parapsychologies, Magnus battered in blood and having to condone in life the thirtieth cosmopolitan station that will wander without string or staff, only in realms of horror!

“Protervas works repeat from Balaam, perhaps in perjury of those who are not devoted to the ancient expertise of Elijah and idolatrous pagans on Mount Carmel. Days of full consent have decided me to be the observer of an inferior garden no greater than Pergamum, with finery and gibberish of a roasted Faith, and of embellished offshoots that are of the miserable Asmodeus. I tell you that I know of these vicissitudes of tremolos and tarsi that are exuberant of the supra Hellenic Maximus of the west and the east, defeating victorious incredulous who believe they see my retreat from someplace in the west of the Aftó and the east of the Dyticá... all from here henceforth that is not sullied by troops of the Phalanges, they will supply the desecrated foreign troops...! With Roman tropes, levies that will liberate the tetrarchies, the libatum, and their free uncontested successors, repaying Augustus' fratricides and Caesares in the insectary quagmire!

The ill-fated awaits the exquisite court that casts fateful offspring, none attend the charred Symposium and the burning broth, being insubordinate to Parchmentians and aristocracies that get tangled up in the rune of Leviathan, far from a so-called Lord Abraham gifted in the circles! of the power of Yahveh assigned by the Father, and the sleepless sleeplessness of a son, who does not expropriate in wanting songs or children to sleep awake! That makes them consular! I have been caulked in the excuses of Ephesus and Smyrna, where the Hellenic and Roman are lost in the lavish gnosis of a doctor, rub considered among thrushes and blackbirds lacerated from the other infinite... in the absence of Crows and Sisellas dying in their enormous sides and the hemicycle of the Mashiach!  

“Everything that is promoted after the beginning and that was never started has already begun… where the corrections have diluted what the river conforms to the edges of the Silinus, with silverware and Gobelins that are made holly in the refined hands of a maiden. How will I not manage your anxieties proportionate to their sets, if the feelings are greater than the last floor of Babel... and if I had to descend one more, it would never resemble the graceful hands of a maiden talking to me about the next prop? What says more than the plot and its new, different breeze in ****'s indissoluble totality; subsisting with his carpals and with those random scraps of cloaks in the hydromel freshness that the Lord has entrusted him to pour!

What neat heights and challenges I have given you with light half-locutions... that flatter in the acrobatic gazebos of Demeter! With the following high-pitched white dots that are probed from the sunset and the desire of Athena Nikéforos, with travertine arsenals that are the tingling of an Elegy that flees from Pergamum with her feet incinerated and prostrate! What lack of ornament speaks to the adjoining trepanned ear, devoid of ornaments longer than vast, and wider than long when reaching the limit of Thyatira where Attalid kings and ants await me who will carry on their backs the rubble desolations of Pergamum!

Elegy IV

As you have offered what stops me to think about all the horizons that are guarded by agons and Kerveros, what virtues will they make of those who are dispossessed of the rescue and vicissitudes of the underworld of Thyatira! What has to intimidate the senses if the doors are for those who have never possessed a Soul... What has to dispossess us if the soul matter is Thyatira under Akhisar!

You complain of being moaning inks of arid lands where rivers are tributed that have to wade through octogenarian routes, holding on to the necks of the obfuscated Kerveros, and of the henchmen who trembled by the vicinity of the extreme of Mysia, whose urges released elements that mixed with river shelters of the Lycus and the navigable ones of the Marmara! I must point out that the elements are cliffs of Hydor that sink into the seas of Mysia.

That I must tell you of a formidable strait that tried to possess Heles, and that I went to the lower point of its flow to rescue him! That the formidable flash of Pluto infringed what was flashing in pro-Kerveros, not allowing Hades to enter Heles..., that formidable daring would be done if Heracles had twisted such a destiny by allowing it to enter, Or what death throes of the earth did not take him through this darkness where I mostly saw Venus in crimson eyes, rather than borders where the speed of light of their gazes welcomed them with their beings called Mysios?

I am Vernarth and I have arranged that Thyatira and her shallow wayward Nymphs shall rule me in your rod and go with their swifts, hoarding fine silverware that will shine from the heavens, and offer the worthy brotherhood by statutes that are controversial in the friendship of Arganthone and his I wonder if by some hiding place I have to see the black string of Jezebel and supposed regions contrary to Bethany. What a brave ****** has to dominate in full preservative principles, called from where they were punished by the dogs, thus allowing me to purge and follow advances that cleared the way to Mysia and Thyatira. Be clear that the insurgents in this region were chasing my Lord Alexander the Great, and he made the floors of Mysia tremble by crossing the Hellespont where my Heles almost had to get lost in the sea of his senses..., make me be the Ionian blaze that never it has not ceased and will not cease to burn on the Seleucid headboards!

"That you can see if the Lycus and Hellespont are from the same tributary, which hardens its waters to make a firm footing to the steeds and Hoplites venerating their gods and horsemen, seeing my teacher Saint John piously riding on the pagan temples stoning on stony tombstones with the interstices of the New Testament that offers the sacrifice of the Areté, Or of the most excellent eloquent alleys and sacrileges challenging what must never be glossed in the functionality of the file that it is urgent to define if I have died or never Die "

What capital letters are to be taped from the others that are from the Areté, and from its prominent fertility that rehearses the postulates of my Purgation? In everything that is prophesied in the ruggedness of those who boast that they can wander forty millennia with guilds that gather their litters..., all of them doubtful and giving rituals that owe to paganisms that were colonizing Hellenistic nuclei and my help..., closing my Hetairoi's pectoral tail, and then forge more confreres than they ever were.

The regrets of my teacher are scarred in the science of the Lycus valley, as Christians who grow with their sons separated from their daughters, and from the debtor parents of the metropolis of Thyatira, what fortune to be spared if the damages are greater than the reparations, And of the various secrets of the staining of the sky with its purple oblations and antiquities that refused to the progress of time, being discolored by the Adom and the Red blood cells. Here is where they flow through my arteries circling the hills of Messolonghi's Koumeterium, with natural basilicas that smoothly whitewash the candor and licenses.

I tell you that I know this is what constitutes the forge of the being that is capable of leaving Hades alive, do penance together with me Yes...! At twelve o'clock of the full moon where we become fierce Eleusines, since Battles more than hundreds of all, and we will know if we will be children of the Kerveros or Kerberos canes custodians of the inframundis who discover us like fish and cormorants on lagoons that run through us mutilated... which are decreed in the ecliptic, and in the stratum where Thyatira sleeps under the meters of Hades and Tevel, several meters from the underworld passing through its lost Shemesh beyond the western… under the hulous ecliptic of Akhisar!

You should not fear the suspicion or the courage associated with the three heads of the Keveros, because the three of them brood with me in the same way, for when I run away from them and they feel my loneliness...!, Each of their heads think by themselves, but the gentle Levantine sea is arranging them were groups of stars that are rubbing and washing their ******, prone to marine monsters that dress the mane of the humpbacked Hindhead of the Cerberus. Knockdown what nothing is born of damage and that is born of its permanent movement if the beasts are men with strings of impious men that make their portholes enter more light than beings with phalanxes and armies that come and go... being portals of one eternity from where Etréstles comes with his weary stride.  

How can you tolerate that the hands stained with some Tintoretos splash my Himation? And what is still chromatic with a caged torpor, is the Himation of Theseus that revolts the constellations of history that began from the abject sinkhole, fading the virtue since my sacrifice is offered in the religious and its offertory. You know that I have been able to walk through waters that are solid if I put my heels distillates in classic sounds where they are written with the latent prawns of the Aegean! That you nurture a past that hangs from the immediate future with sacrosanct pilgrimages inaugurating hybrids lapses, and classic smithies that distance themselves from Hephaestus and humanoid persecutions that could be undertaken from a section of the new period, mixing darned meat that is released from the principles of the Energeia, and that they sway in the millennial dizziness of the Olive Tree Bern or of any fistula that would not cease of prosaic oracular ones!

Everything makes oracular sense since my prior agon and his lingual accent deny what I will not reach in its sacred connotation, but if its secular insertion to create the deserved and victorious dew that falls and will fall from the bilge of the iridescent nimbus. I have deposited from their marshes where nothing already contains them..., only a pure divine light that is confused with opposite festivals of lights of an unknown victory that was not always mine, but it took light-years with its traveling mass to reach my thunderstorms with treacherous gods who did not allow theological musculations and derivatives of being refined to emerge from their extreme internal and external beauty who prayed for me, entering their Seventh Heaven and then with the Merkaba doing its venerable kalokagathia; or prototype that does not fade every day to take hold of the inner and outer beauty of it, the fruit of the Olive Tree Bern and the countless algorithmic winds that could be counted since I had joined its Falangist ranks!

I know that four Seraphim will have to take me and that your Charioteer will medicate with thrifty speed from where the day dares to attend me with real locations in the Andromeda wagon. It all to dig into the dark and bizarre hollow of my wound knew that it could have been the Holy Spear of Longinus...! What could happen if my chest did not stop bleeding from the indigo and crimson of my Dorus?

Elegy V

You must feel satisfied with the erected statues that were made bearable on the basis of cults and curative powers, but not of precognitions that were the object of Sardes since she was nearing the penultimate station of the inverted "V". The satyr's stratagems of 476 BC were congenial. And the pilgrimages to it would destroy the entire sacred precinct that it once presumed to be!! Theagenes of Thasos resorted with all his strength to move the stars and his impassive silences, seeing that Sardes was becoming a courtier of a network of unarmed victories that were never for him, but for pilgrims who roamed the roads surrounding Sardes. Oh that more crowns of him exceed fourteen hundred, if only one more will suffice to access the investiture of the Himation of my departure!

Continue along the Pactolo River and you will get entangled with vegetal lines on the northern ***** of the Tmolo. Know that Proserpina runs through the flower coffins of the autumn dead, that Persephone makes her shudder in the Ionian polis, and that it will be if she decided to do so, if Aphrodite captured the Cimmerians who would plunder Sardis, more than any voluptuous! And despite everything, it would continue to be a satrapy that does not lead to Patmos through Xerxes who still burns in Hades in the haze and canine of a Kerveros!  

"Follow those worms who claim mesnades with more blood on their fingers, and there is no doubt that they swirl in Pergamum with more blood than their creeds." And that of those who survive in earthquakes and typhoons that stand for generations of the Conventus and an agora that only relapses in Pergamum and in desolate legions that only devastate, and are built on ruins that they praise, just like Thyatira suffocated in Akhisar. Do you imply that the battles of Alikantus strike the silica plundering tyrannical idolatries and sacrileges, ravaging only hapless evils to come and unrecovered pious revelations from Byzantium? I know very well that Alikantus is coming, I could even dare to say that he is coming very close to the fortnightly reclusive citadel of Sparda..., being able to hear that Alikantus is riding from the ready insolent time and I even think I see that he is coming alone... and that Zeus he went ahead for necessities in the barcarole of Charon! I know that matters of the underworld are palatial stews and prostitutes that flank in kettles that announce tinsel falling from the apocryphal clouds and the adjacent Iridescent...!

Like a helical serpent, everything that my dimension swallows is retro-translational with turns about my own age that is not the deed of another than the axial one that vomits imperceptible years that are not memorized and that deal with each other with the ruins of the dogma of Sardis. Come Oh granaries and settlements that squander synagogues and compendiums of ****** ruins, whose altar is exploded in liquid gold on Artemis's hair in Hellenic theaters, where nothing remains, only traces of olive roots that kindly allow them to enter through its cracks. But what did scare the enclaves, if seven churches fell scattered from the corollary of seven manes that only resided among themselves, differing primitives and incisors, nailing their rapiers into the dead Sardes before becoming an Apokálypsis! In its seventh season… I Vernarth revive her and ennoble her from the secret day of her curse, as she says of herself to survive on her ruins, not as akin to Thyatira lying asleep under Akhisar's holocaust!

The images will be there to bring you in my arms, believing to be myself who brought myself spacing and surviving from a fifth posthumous church..., to save my fifth life in Sardis, but far from the Barcarolle del Charon, eating roots that were attached to the keel in case they poisoned my soul..., at the same time as a failed levitate that would solidify like the crest of Thasos, throwing draconian and grotesque seas that within me asked for a license to revive. Everything was whipping on me wanting to be Theagenes with lugubrious ostracisms that from now on should be cut and sliced into parts of my coexistence, leaving only the pre-existing erectness of me..., except the head that impelled me to take the extrinsic path of Hades with distinctions of a cult that only worked in the hands of a Patmian victor, all by counting one by one those fragments of the victorious minute hand of 476 bC!

The city woke up and tried to ***** obligations that were imposed on them, to remove like polis around a sacred precinct that was proud as a bond of centuries that are of the androgen of centuries that are forbidden from millennia found in double eyes, ears, and nostrils. Which was scared away from inscriptions dating back to the 1st century BC thus I continue to establish a superficial status that did not replace any similar or equal future, which is governed by forty-four victorious miracles and all parallels that establish what surrounds my mortal outer clothes..., as well as perpetual belongings and internal endearing to be created from its probity..., even at the end of the factual powers that succinctly stipulated a Zeus, who would be trying to imbibe himself in the possession of a great competitor who will sacrosanctly raise the arena of agon, allowing me to overcome by not ringing the chime of the Paidotribo or the tutors of impulsive eternal effects, and children divos like Raeder challenging the maximum of the stars of God and his contenders! I tell you that I know of these assertions and that the keys are not left hanging, nor will they be prepared to their verbal agility so that they can be taken off the hook and startled to open the Homeric heaven!

Disappear shady Kefalonias or those heads that are empty crypts in me...! And that the children are greater spirits than those who are not without heads who will spend the night on the east coast, where all the burning days are seen as snowy scarves moving from afar..., together with my Falangist militias who do not stop I have to move their hands and his siege with four encirclements of princes. Behold and hear... what I declare to those leaders who raised the lost darkness in a fortunate Kefalonia that tried to adopt seven churches, but not in Sardis!

As you have noticed… the edges of the "V" of Lacedaemonia are already being touched that come out through the stephanite competitions of the interior and exterior of the Kosmous, and everything dies metallic and with stale stenches granted by the polis and the winners! That specializes in the divine gifts of each submithological deity. You realize that the education of appreciation is in the arena of those who propose you wise tyrants and ignorant democrats, who bind the diet and pantry of those who promote great value at the expense of models that, are impossible to fulfill. Oh, that underlies the organic unity with the appearance of a soul that is vicious meat of bait, and of agonistic parts in the fringes and primal that fall from Ephesus and from the tip of Thyatira hanging like vines from where the true god of sin is born. unconfessed!  

Oh, what a diatribe for those who triumph in the land subjugated to the departure of a triumphant of life over it, and that their high dignity will extend beyond life and lash the decadent values improper of piety before the Mashiach that will be there! to rule us! The cults and the first ones that do not reach their contemplation with a soul that lies of useless pleasure in the suburbs of Euripides. What do I say to you that I know about these struggles, and it satisfies you more to drink with Elpenor falling from the staircase that was not on dry rubble, nor of harlequins who avoided the string of their zithers on and under the formula that makes contain the ethyl with the mean to say...; "That one day he was in The tetraconter Eurídice, and that the swordfish was his desire to beat bites and pots of wine that we have drunk for millennia together...!

Who could or will refute it, I tell you that I know about this, because I narrate what I write and sing his first fall near Circe, but falling on my arms... and from here I take him through the strings of Sardis when his buoyant hologram enters for its main stained glass window, taking us from Aorion very close to Barnard's Loop. Hear that I still fall hard next to him getting drunk together in Eleusinian mourning, free from buskin and funerals that are not the best friend that appears to him, and unless they combine us both with haggard browns before leaving the island of Eea.

The torrent of the Pactolo crosses our heads with its trunks like a sophistic beast... also penetrating my harangues from the Aegean when the pale shadows of Sardis are drizzled with third-degree liquor by the ancient pinch of the Hermo, a tributary that sadly hopes to wash the impious feet from Elpenor and mine. "I do not mention what I never tire of defining, that nothing and no one will hear what a voice would sing to a drunken ear, when its abstinent drops of mead are incubated in aristocratic and Hellenic ethics of my youth that stand out in the lips of Apollo and with telling you Hoplite angels who are more decidedly than learned Greek-ignorant, who do not know what it is to die from being drunk, even beyond the Elysees "

Elegy VI

The youthfulness of the Kosmous was defragmented in the inevitable..., leaving important men to take care of the darkness that was only spoils of themselves, on top of the fierce flames that still continued in the competitive souls with their glorify, where another tradition began to break out of the subtle approach that was attributed to Vernarth's homage, as an inter-Patmian genre praising all that is whole to conform the individuality of the holistic whole, which is not yet consumed by the flamboyant and immeasurable images that expanded in times more than what a Colosso from Apsila is, or a thought that forges ophthalmic trifles. I must tell you that denial is a factual point or hindrance in the denial of skepticism and the subtle embargo… if it is not moderate in the face of crowds!

I believe that summers will trigger the passing of Kairos in all the points and means that make the Sun's degree retroaction insightful, and less than what makes a divergent moral behavior, only endowed with the finesse of applicability, If you declare yourselves visionary **** like Critias! If you are in remixes of the Hellenic universal global warming! I want you to know that the warming began from the Kassotides when it was closed and from there d the abrogations abstracted by the Pythias... If from their ocular cranial and the Kosmous that became opaque, and deviated into the tetrarchy or leadership of the four Cardinal points! Oh, what kindness must pass from their semicircular flying buttresses of the world when nothing falls under their orbits... not even a segment of Patristic light the inevitable will be to ignore what falls under the sphere of the world and what rises to his own, from where Ha-Shatan does not pronounce himself in the nubile flowers of Eden!

The Apokálypsis groans, rolling up its sleeves in Leviathan's pouches, reviling the bends of Philadelphia and its Delphic oceans! With requisitions of verses that do not have and will not scribble on the trailing lines of the serpent that wears jewels that are not of this world, but seek whether to fit them in appendages and on the necks of future martyrs. Or bags under the hocks of the serpent, you will see that its optics are in the wrong and that it blows in the goodness of its victimized ones!

Brotherly love was announced as a final omen, Philadelphia was praised in the Ecclesiastical, where everything mellifluous was civil property and each eye would be the same as it will observe it, it would be before the later and the inferior of the superior of the grace of the Lord, in ethical outrages and tribulation spells that sweat in open fields far from the Dypilon, closing the opposite gates of the darkness of Sardis and Thyatira! I tell you that I know in this icy way of seeing how nothing was nothing more than the revival of free will left by the cobbler's caulking and the keys that will open and close storm doors, that only the golden hand will know if one will be a carrier or not. of new hardwoods.

Hagio is real... and what closes and opens his hand will be a guideline for what does not open and does not close! The key of the Angel of David comes from Patmos with a hatbox that proves who is capable of warning for all those who are capable of sustaining the aura of the Mashiach…! That through narrow mountainous areas they will sow the temple of God with hosts from Jerusalem.

Leading them to the valley of Cógamo and soon to the simile valley of *** Bei Himnom and Hermus himself, where everything happens and everything is nihilism in the mainline of the passion of a loved one in its secant line and of the great inverted "V", and its Monarch Attalo's constrained ties and his deliberate missions that collate the penultimate station of my Elegy. “I am Vernarth; My fraternal passion makes these seven churches only one, each one in my Opistódomos... where perhaps I will have to ignore their lustful language of Lydia and Phrygia ”all are my rivals if I do not follow the honorable mention of my Mashiach and all his subjects, who are mine and I theirs... I must confer that the letters are conspicuous literature that escaped from Smyrna, and what vanishes from the lay verb that becomes all the bearer hands with their punches, which are keys to the openings of what rises parsimoniously and falls equivalently..., and what becomes absolute of error and its restrained evil "

My attributes are the Sun that separates from another section, which is the Venerable deliberator of one who is still attached to the sacred. You must stay away from dies that are typical of scalding nightingales that have steel legs, and that if they were from a Hellene, they would be the copy of "Alezinós, which is True and unconventional", everything is manifested in the best arrangement from where I can install my head on the best flank where everything is well accommodated, and what is symbolic in the authority that is finally of our Mashiach, supplying with King David every twenty-one kilometers lamenting, and spilling what he loves and cannot contain in the caverns…, if I know that they still remain closed for prophetic fulfillments, but if all those that the universe will dare to open soon in the paradises that are pertinent will open, which are from the bias of Isaiah sprouting from himself!  

You must understand that Sybilla's electorates will be kidnapped from the anguish of a famous attack, and every prophecy that makes us live in the transparency of the entire material world and its monochord sense that unites the earth with the Kosmous! Oh, what space between everything that is unspaciable will be able to reverse what is arranged in the upper fraction of the rope… and in the omega that everything makes her feel the last sob…!

I know that you know it..., I know that you will miss it..., and that the last day of our Kosmous will come when the Mashiach makes us wake up with the gift of the hexameter, that everything will come along long correct paths, whose streams of the paradisiac Hydor will come from the trance of the last cycle, the last second-born and the last interval where everything will be the same fractional time. The advent of this period of great apogee will give us the intrinsic poetics that seems close to the Dies Irae if Tomás de Celano tells you like this:  

“It will be a day of wrath, that day when the world is reduced to ashes, as predicted by David and Sibyl! How much terror there will be in the future when the judge will come to make strict accounts! The trumpet will sound terrifying throughout the realm of the dead, to gather all to the throne. Death and Nature will be amazed when all that is created rises to answer before its judgment.

The written book will open that contains everything by which the world will be judged. Then the judge will take a seat, everything hidden will be revealed and nothing will go unpunished. What will I allege then, poor me? From what protector will I invoke help, if not even the righteous will feel safe? King of tremendous majesty, you who save only by your grace, save me the source of mercy. Remember, pious Jesus that I am the cause of your Calvary; don't miss me that day. Looking for me, you sat down exhausted; for redeeming me, you suffered on the cross, may not so much effort be in vain! Just judge of punishments, grant me the gift of forgiveness before judgment day.

I sob because I am guilty; guilt flushes my face; forgive, oh God, this supplicant. You, who absolved Magdalena and listened to the thief's plea, that gives me hope too. My prayers are not worthy, but you, who act with kindness, do not allow me to burn in the eternal fire. Place me among your flock and separate me from the wicked by placing me on your right.  

The ****** confused, thrown into the bitter flames, call me among the blessed. I beg you, contrite and on my knees, with a contrite heart, almost to ashes, to take care of me in the end. It will be tears that day, when the guilty man rises from the dust, to be judged. Forgive him then, O God, Lord of mercy, Jesus, and grant him rest Amen"  

I Vernarth, call on you to tear your hearts beyond the last door of the Elysees, the apologies will divide what is like the last syllable of salvation, tomorrow we will be primal feelings of how or which selfless person has to tell you that we are all children of parents that they will always live beyond you, and that the ****** will fall into the bitter flames, if everything is the end in the contrite, make tragedy the daily bread... whose brands taste like the spews of the first registered individuality as bread and healing body angelic, which allows to protect it..., but it remedies the entities of the Garden!

“Among the red mists of Philadelphia, Ha-Shatan's gall lies lost, believing that he has to be a cape of rest and prostration so that the empyrean will grant him rennet and singing honey in his shattered hole..., the typhoons will ignite with his ruse and what expires from the seizure of an unhappy particle emptied by the idolatrous hand. Make the adversary time the habitation of the world that will impiously be infected with the cream that is made the opposite fraction of a vermilion mist, that walks with pride among hostiles when ferocious satiety of God occurs. I tell you that I know what I am saying and that there will come an end with a non-existent verse, or rather held in the arms of an Eggelos asleep in my arms, with Justin's milk teeth from the disturbed circuit breaker of the catalectic verse, which is rolling on Patmia swing doors. Oh, flints of Alexandria, you will know how to illuminate my scrolls and the Canaanite palenques, you will know that Heylel is like a morning star marinating milk with gunpowder and harvests that plague Ithobaal of Tire. Oh, culminate Zoroastrian who sneaks through giant camels and hers King David, very close to Bethlehem, very close from where every angel-like Heylel moves with cloying feet trying their traces from a crushed Latin voice. Both tanned by the rennet that strikes their stomachs... with the vigor of blood, and falsetto between muscles attached to the back of both, I tell you that they are "Ha-Shatan and Heylel"

Elegy VII

“I propose to you a Vulgate and mutilating calamus in the blood of the Mashiach, that would be born here in the metaphorical festivals of the Himathion in my own geodesy, and of all that has been thrown on Gaia and hers Titans of her. You will see that I have learned to walk with lacerated feet and mutilated arms, headless and no apostille that says that my brooding no longer exists in her indolence about Me… the darkness is Laodicea; where it rains the shepherds who by unknown wisdom capsize before the Gods that are to come, all of them from the crippled sky through passages of time, rickety of their colonnades and acroteria that all alluvial splices, where the needy will provide to eat sap that they will recover from their powers, with black wool from the cops and nests of Heylel, and from the under-reigns of Pergamum with annals and diasporas in less wealthy hamlets, without hindrance from the Spolia Opima as rich spolies or trophies I will be reborn, referring to my Aspís Koilé, with blazons and other effects that a general of ancient Rome kept as Apollo's laurel, now I will dispossess them after defeating them with my hulous hand of eternity, incontinent to defeat them with my legion in the Battle of Patmia, and the Triplos Kosmous  Lymphoma "

The Zoroastrian radicality will have to carry out wanderings and limits when nothing was ever to begin... and what becomes noisy in the face of evil ingenuities will make dualisms that polarize the influence of making the day only darkness, and for the faithful the light of day when they were summoned by Ezekiel, and that he must know better than fragments of the day that will contain the night and the portions of the night, the light of day and the resurrection, which is based on eternity carrying the Mashiach above all the infinities of homage twilight that was expiated in chiaroscuro..., thus enslaving the stunning afternoon, which departed from trances in earthly conjunctions, where the usufruct by the Kosmous exorcised the ages that are subjected to its heritage of commemoration You must know that the power of the night about the day as a possession that bills rows of apprehensions that narrow your transit without repatriation...!

Tenure is an inclination during all premature periods, where the day is not ascribed to breadths of unconditional freedom of execration, cruelly leading to the zephyr of the Thuellai with granules mounted on the Malatia, and frolics that engender the life of a Pallid! Superstition in what appears as a multitude of fallen bodies, but without a contracted soul. "Make the even potential morbid that repels the horrendous and terrifying that persecutes the most praiseworthy and kind, who abjures that not everything is good, but rather it will be charitable and you must make efforts from the haze of Theosképasti, extending the relief of not to be classified as a non-living being when it comes to dialoguing with the shadows of Horror!  

The convital substance became too annoyed after counter-vitals that are nothing more than the apparent substance of my speculations, under all the powers that are faithful to it if they make me possess the cosmo-vice of everything hyper-ethyl and of its tempting. Since the cousin and puritanical elixir is disseminated throughout the air that is no more oxygen like a calender that does not bear the vileness of his captive servility, and of the feet that subdue him in the three claws of his shadowy darkness! Oh, what new light will it make of awakening with the preceding light that speaks of genealogies and native ceremonies where evangelical surveyors raise the leafy, that from the dark submission and the unethical fear make us weak martyrs of enslavement of the few frigid hordes and warm Laodicea!  

If my strength is to shelter myself from impudence and Hellenic-Hebraic transcendence, it does not express its ministry in all the children of Hashem, as captives carrying the constituent seed of the perched hands of the Calandria, which despite having wings she is the spokesperson of prophecies that do not have tangible historical records..., you must understand that the Calander has an autonomous and leading flight from Tuscany, but its flight radius is more than an eagle without stopping in those invisible spaces, where the legend can only transmit it..., although someday there will be no birds in the only begotten sky. You already know that I have carried chiaroscuro for their glorification that surround me..., like all that imperishable possession in cycles, they are coupled to cruel and fateful destinies, but always towards an end that for the most part becomes apprehensive of the intellectual aging verb, where their mysteries and they inhabit disembodied contents of the identical globular cycle, where the prostration of their weary skills and wrathful doors will appear from the last eagle that was seen flying free in the hands of Saint John the Apostle, and from other non-resident farewells by their claws of the Gerakis. Why not the Ceremonial Katapausis in the Profitis, or the metatarsal of the eagle that carries last discharges of discouragement in punitive inspiration, if only the calendars free man from captivity, and of unquestionable eagles in the fires of exaltation that will be able to bear it being seen as a figurative immune from Ophel, and from all the images of the supra existential world, containing volatile images of eagles for all purgative humanity forming heads that vigorously face Ha-Shatan and the Iblis, being more than an erroneous translucent figure of the angel ****** and of the perpetual fire of the incorruptible Calandria of Hashem.

“Without regret, I must tell you that the roots of the infinite began to be lost from the pieces of clay that were or are part of Yahannam's credulity, from here on from the dry and solid clay, making the genius of Laodicea one-sided with the hail of springs and of clouds that never stopped ceasing, thus in this way, I suffocate my burning hands that obeyed forces of more than ten newtons due to the miscalibration of their mass and the gravitational force that the Mashiach who converted from his incorporeal angel's geniuses. Make of fire and light your clay that is made homogeneous with liquid ozone, so ****** will come from paradise designated as solid ozone, replacing the negligent potions, which have not been able to free the divine light that for three years has been badly shaped, and have deteriorated only hundreds of the seven hundred pages of Vernarth's Lent, until today that his personal aptitude is questioned in the bleating of his sheep, who could move the fragile leaves of the disembodied forest with their nails, reciting regrets that would relieve the engraved feet on the limestone liquefied and muddy, where they can only emerge before all the dungeons that are collapsed by newton on his scapula, pouring out the expelled sighs of the eternity of the Ohr Hassadim "  

“Observe that cleaning is delighting in the grandiose erudition of what leads us from our null point of existence to the risky point where our objectives bring us closer to our sustenance; So what is Ohr Hassadim…? It is going towards a posthumous desire that thickens the light that emanates from our null point to the widest limit where every human race receives it from the great flow of Hassadim "or purification that is cyclically generated." My beloved readers who speak are the origin of all ignorance, and what is contained in the body purged of it is the unknown revival of a being that instructs itself as the Perdita Mundis or Lost Mundis! " The superabundance of medium prophetic and philosophical biodiversity creates paraphernalia and cavities where no head fits in the earth that have been honest to receive bodies in its mournful abode... makes of its benefits the great desire to receive the "Kli" so that Let us enjoy abundantly from the transparent cannulas of the wattle, which will make the Celestial Hydor fall, and the Manna that will sustain plexuses and eternal insurrectionary souls from the starvation of those who sob absolved of their soul, more than in its very spectrum that is filled with rootlets and clipping, which manifest the desire to play with drops that fall colliding on each leaf, and then fall into our mouths when they are satisfied manifested. Azure water, and nothing else if I want to live or not! Of that blue water that will fall on our mouths and will satisfy us with anxieties and fears that become imprinted when we are fed up…! And from the Manna, which will come with dissimilar entities, even feeding our soul that must also feed on the Iridescent Hydor in a swift vessel called Kli towards Samos…!

Elegy VIII

The eighth and posthumous baptistery will overwhelm all the mountains that became more exalted than all the peaks of the world, showing that the initial date combined the essences of the absolute with the "V" that began to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to the right. “I, Vernarth, have conceived the other being that will detach itself from myself, lying in the Kli or inverted vessel, on all the higher levels of the Ohr, even in those and all the Solstices where the face that makes its materialization is scarce, up to the Xiphos bronzes that would evoke tons from the Speleothemes that would gradually become implicit in my body, taking root more than the vital unfolding that is in my other sub-iridescent body. What is my soul united to the invisible creatures of this world? Take hold of the dizzy that contract in the wind tunnel of Profitis and your Codex Raeder, in what completely makes the ascent of its epitome by its golden steps, leading me to the occurrence and recreation of myself, but with plenipotentiaries who press in Gethsemane in the trepid angles of the Kli "V", beginning to ascend to Keter!  

“I must tell you that soon the Aurion particles will enter through my septum where they have to depart through the nasal pyramid… and that delegations of hoplites are already waiting for me and will return with me to Sparta and all of Greece. And with a Kli of endangered earthly and macerated light, they will be essenced from all the grasses that the calenders by descendants will make at the end a new sprout within me with my Golden Alikantus. The expansion of my light will expand from the radiance of my burnished steed, leaving within my identical hexagonal torch that will make the multi-spiritual thought of its same influx of light into the munificence of its newly created light, it will be from this constraint the Ecclesiastical stele from Ephesus to Laodicea accompanying me. ! If you watch carefully and take your hand out at this time and I peek through the rose window...! You will see that the magnanimous world is established and is going to receive you next to me, lavishing the herb that makes its clothing that shelters our body, and its own light reflected from Aurion itself… "The profound Light that looks from the candid domes of the Seven Churches to the vaults of the Ohr Hassadim, transferring to the sub-Iridescent Mashiach, but contrite of the total immanence of the detachment of its divine light to deposit it on me..."  

Therefore, when both are together, the greed to receive is canceled in the Radiance within, and it can determine its shape only after the luminosity has departed at least once. This is because after the departure of Light from the Kli, he begins to yearn for it and this greed determines and establishes the form of the desire to receive. Consequently, when the dawn is clothed within the Kli once again, the two are related as two separate notions: the vessel and the Light, or the body and the Life.

Observe this carefully, for it is indeed very profound. And soon I have managed to describe the aureole of Hyperborea with the radiation of the Eygues bringing Wonthelimar; Well, if you know how to pretend that you are certainly emanating from the double V or W, which make up your round trip from Ephesus to Laodicea, and vice versa! You have already managed to understand that the diploid round trip of Wonthelimar emanated from two consecutive Vs, making the spin of Wonthelimar carrying its quantum particles of it and carrying with itself the quantum number of the fifth courtyard of Helleniká which is 5, but represented by ε´ raised to fifty, that is; ν 'which is the value of fifty Hellenic. Thus the spinning spin of 5 to ten times its unit will be indicated, as you perceive many dreams will be discovered where those who wake up will never forget that it is this sub-atomic elementary particle in the episode of contrast and extensive change in molecular physics that will lead Vernarth with him in his heart or Kardiá, which becomes effusive in his multidimensional quantum.  

“I have managed to understand that the rotating spaces have been aligned with Wonthelimar, and what is divided in the angular will reflect the mental image throughout the aerial imaginary geodesy of all Hellenic, generating the sidereal coordinates, leaving the intrinsic nakedness of all embryonic forms that it is a sublime mirror of the nakedness of the sidereal chromosome of all humanity. As loci installed in the shank of the Pythagoras monochord, but making movement the tax of certain movements that are more than anything else links of kinetics and gravitational emotions, making the mechanics of the monochord the analogous value that generates the signs of Ohr or light. Pivot at the omega tip of the monochord, raising the re-transfigured ε´ Penta in the form of A, but then returning with Wonthelimar and his Spin of quantum from Ephesus until arriving at Patmos with the essence of the “W” that will bring by essence refounded the monochord in the figure ε´ or V that will represent the quantum experiential bond, or crossing of the particle transfer threshold through the superior axon of Keter to Malchut, equivalent to the tenth compendium of Vernarth's ε´ to ν´ which is the relativistic oscillation of its final unit of ν´; which is fifty "  

Your duties are yours and mine. Mine, I will be the one who will carry the labarum to bear and admit all the tributaries of the creation of my new world, inclined in the Duoverse, Codex Raeder and of everything distinguishable in the refraction of the light that becomes embodied in Ohr Jaiá, or Light of Life for all created things, all creation, and everything that comprises needs to be created in the candles that become receivable in the natures that multiply the remnants of energies, which hopes to be initiated from the new cosmos of the Zigzag Universe and the Zefian Arrows, being the main bastion of the link between the printed matter and decisive stimuli of mercy from where the Iridescent Hydor is born. In littleness, the rocking of the unbalance of the universe is attributed, and of all the wrong applications of amplifying the Bios of a universe that tired of behaving mournfully, being children of its immortal reply...! Understand that nothing will mean more than the awakening of everything that extends beyond the borders of the Mashiach, being cosmopolitan emanating and merciful bestowal and that nothing resides in the material already broken.  

"All the modes of adaptation ended up differing in each form of adhesion within what it meant to emanate in all equivalences and from impels as fast as the buggy that carried Vernarth and Etréstles from Genoa to Piacenza since Etréstles deserted from the Eighth Cemetery of Messolonghi composing all the wishes of the awakening according to the Kabbalah of Vernarth being largely absorbed by the Apostle Saint John. Everything was going towards the kingdom and the surroundings of the Himation that awaited Vernarth himself, swallowing him with all its lights, which were even ecstatic by his epidermis, knowing that he was separated from the undivided light that awaited him in the Megaron, very close to the Opistodome in the Behina Alef, split from his expanded sub-iridescent body of the Ohr, which in turn was levitating next to him, for the vaporous reason of not knowing if his body was a conclusion or a new kingdom that was brewing before him "  

The final phase of this Elegy VIII gave the consent for the world that does not fit in the reason, nor in the thought that was already being installed in all the balusters and limestone stones that would make up its Tree of Life Sephiroth. Your soul is my soul and mine, and I know very well that everyone awaits me on the Profitis Ilias plain, distinguishing me as a whole in the sense of smell that is rooted in the gastronomic world of the Hellenes, and the absolute that my breathing with a few granules of nitrate, making them a divine cause with potassium that became despotic in living creatures that make their essence mine, like my Spirit that would eventually rescind capturing all the sodium from the iridescent nimbus in the intermittent rest and its multi-life like Nefesh!

Beloved confreres Khaire..., receive all the joy that removes the poisons that pierce tongues that become addicted to the drops as they generate more bodies from mine..., or You will be part of my Guf or body that no longer resists lacerations from swords and spears, which depart from my head and its undetectable body from the passage of Time, and from all the fallen heroes next to me…! I see how they fall into their exile diminishing what purifies the content of Advent, of its four candles, dried fruits, its circle between the hands of the Mashiach, and abundant coniferous branches taking my corporality in all the indifference that exists between cognition and loss of awareness of lucidity beyond the Advent Wreath and its four luminaries staying in the Fifth Candle, like the Fifth Chalice of Elijah, taking me very distant with all their desires to welcome and consider that under my initial "V", they will find the synchronization of the Fifth Candle and the Fifth Chalice, which is my "V" in the fifth dimension of the Fifth courtyard and in the shady Fifth of Helleniká!

As the creation, I have been imbued with the euphonic harmony of creation, from Bethany to Patmos, of all the balms that are more capable than physical receptacles within all the higher entities that are more than the unknown, and of the infinite and imperceptible! Of the essential number of the geophysical height of Delphi, close to the elevation that will occur with my departure at the elevation of 583 whose essential number will be 16 and six plus one is Seven, and the Profitis Elías is 565 adding sixteen, and its number essential is one plus six equals seven. All this makes it prevail that my soul will reverberate from the indigo lights of the Ohr, to be sent between two poles from the altitude of Delphi, making these two spaces the equanimous and providential emanation of climate change, due to the disparity between these two latitudes, But of equal essential numbers, creating the closeness of Vernarth and Apollo as they met in the Kassotides, before departing from their assumption to exalted Aurion.
Hellenic Elegies
Mike Hauser Apr 2016
Who makes the offer
Greases the wheel
It's little wonder
How we all feel
Filling his coffers
For which people ****
No concern for others
Mr. Wheel & Deal  

Standing in bread lines
For their next meal
Without a deadline
Time standing still
Like all good pets
They've learned to heel
Who's at the head
Mr. Wheel & Deal

Placing his marker
Spinning the wheel  
Gambling with others
However he feels
Spending it wildly
All for the thrill
Morning, noon, nightly
Mr. Wheel & Deal
Patrick McCombs May 2016
Trudging through untouched snow
Face made red by the wind
Cold felt in my bones
Distant stars looked down on me
From the depths of space

Drinking cold water in summer
Relaxing in the reclining lawn chair
Watching clouds drift
Mockingbird's melody carried
On the wayward breeze

Scrambled eggs sneak under my door
Finds my nose
Jumpstarts my motor
My stomach howls
In an instant
I'm down stairs feasting

We're the lone car on the highway
Everyone else is gone
The only ones left in the universe
That greases my throat
Confessions and secrets flow
In the sanctuary of two am

When Inspiration strikes
Fragments and whispers
Condense, take form
Go from thoughts to paper
In an instant
They go as quickly as they come
monet vanbuskirk May 2015
One could argue happiness buffers creativity
While pain greases the slide
Jeff S Feb 2018
"Have you ever noticed
how we are always climbing
but never getting
anywhere?

up glass-sheered avocations
and suits with bonus ties—

up **** with temperamental husbands
and secretaries with Monroe thighs—?"

It was a rhetorical question, uncannily rhymed, in the wake of
Collinses. But he didn't know that.

"We are always climbing on
what other backs have built:
the greedy gringos and their
brown-backed buey—

but i'm for Scotch and soda
anyway."

He poured out spirits like amphoras of sin.

"Oh, never mind the mess—
please, sit down.

What's that?

The mess of lives, I mean, or whatever
it is that greases the greenbacked highway
to the corner office coronation."

He knew the prodigal flames that lit the
corporate torch—the cirque
that stood in steel. He said as much:

"Oh what a monstrous architecture
of avarice! What a makeshift it is
and so much lost for all these stacks of
stuff. Sad."

I pointed to the happy pair of smiles in a
company frame. Levity interrupted.

"What's that now?

No, i've been married three times,
divorced a perfect three.

I know what you're thinking—"

And here, he laughed as he slurried his rusty brown transgressions with an index finger.

"—lucky man, he slipped the shackle
three times.

And sure, I'm dynamite by numbers
but ******* say I'm not all that nice."

"So anyway," awkwardly pivoting his grease to grin,

"you'll take the job then,
and I'll be commandeering your soul?" With a ****-******* smirk.

"It's a joke, of course—I can't just give you the job.
You'll have to show me you can climb—"

Starry-eyed empty ensued. It was enough to see
the rungs permutating above his head. Unclimbed.

"But we'll be in touch about opportunities—" he shook.
"You know—**** and stuff."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I am, and always will be,
a homosexual.
Bob B Jul 2017
How often greed dictates policy
And governs the base and loathsome actions
Of lawmakers making decisions
While fooling the public with clever distractions!

How greed greases the giant wheel
That turns--constantly in motion--
While powers that guide the mechanism
Boldly expect unhindered devotion!

How often greed in the guise of good
Fills the pockets to overflowing
Of crafty manipulators while
The poor struggle, never knowing!

How greed fills the callous hearts
Of those who fail to see the disparity
Between their growing accounts and their
Expenditures that they call "charity"!

How often greed displaces well-
Intentioned efforts to help humanity
In those whose lack of compassion is nurtured
By boundless egoistical vanity!

Watch them bow to the god of greed;
Watch them sing and dance on his altar,
Hoping that he will strengthen their
Resolve should they ever falter.

-by Bob B (7-19-17)
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
Who could read you, as free word, if
Life is code, knowing that is done.
whitespace here is any time, not immediate
next
Hear a hissing, brake release, sigh.
- second thought
I think I asked what an ode was.
- an owed tip, on a common fear cure.
Bards can be charged to bring woe to cause

Use of science to think different, at many
platforms that appear as bully pulpit, AI and I,
assure you, where no ox was ever a friend,
something was missing in the teaching
of bulls who gave the *****, to become
a breeding black angus bull leading
a herd of never bred, chiania cows

In debt to the inventor
of the colonoscopic share app. No man ever
experiences his own empty gut, zoomfastflusht,
to hunt for overproductive killer ideas, with no focus
- net too wide
- no, make the holes emptier
o.
Geriatric anything is new to me.
Many levels of virginity these days.

And I have taken my medicine
I cleansed any urge to write off,
in bardic form, of ways we now
can see, where the sun don't shine,
we can see there, as social cyborgs.

The Prep, like mysterious, fast, clear
no food, clear liquid, sugar water tea

-- the ordeal, as when told to fret not,
use the social system, tell the tech all
about how you measure up, how many
corporate and business contracting entities

do I zee, the drip began, hours later.
I slepthroughallthoseads

At once in no time at that point,
the center, and the evening,
the spreading and inflating, even as
done there in mere nowityifitywerem
whirred snap
the gap humm comes here, in any whole telling,
time at one point was beyond the rule yard.
Rule 37, not 42, not sure 37, sure not 42.
Ai, we exist after ever before, after all

- of course we're the audience. That's all
- sweep that soft way, brushes
- that hush from long ago appears
In tune ii==one beat
dust at once, all atop rhyolite settle-ing
ligandary glacial flour paste,
social construction cement, gluons
that ontological unificatio-stufph
stories form
from, first bit that sticks, and does not pfft.
Ar-aghast, throughuckingimagined gees, at all?
At then?
And then?
The people all said amen.
-then
So, time was here before you or I. Right?
Force, useful for something, energy, under control,
right, ritual, habitual, wake and be, alive today,

different by a night, from ever before, clean mind,
clean body, prepped, purged, practically empty,
inside, outside,
I still have lash mites, and sinus
yeasts and animalcules but, ******* to pyloric
gut biome that was, is flushed, for which chore,
I am rewarded with a servant using an optic flexcon
fi-sharable use of science to show me my own gut,
and capture SONY uhd images, for scrutiny,
Da Vinci could never do that,
nor could the mystic bowel washers in Hindustan.
- you coul'd monetize your biome, branded cheese
- branded polimerization core code better
- plot twist, mark, record jots are soundless words.
We have opposing forces, one calling *****,
another calling speed, and the trainwreck in the middle
At my age no new passed through is old.
But I expected something nearly this exactly;
There is a certainty in knowing some mind states.
Faster fasting, future instant karma - dharma drama,
feels like life is a movie and we all know the business,
and we feel for the ships full of fools we launch on old
old and battle worn, lies,
about how Jesus never meant love the Church's Enemies.
Lord, no, you just read about those great crusades,
you just use the moral algebra learned then… it hit you
then
these are lines on the pages of my part, in the book of life.
That's the truth in the future. I can scroll back, as
I accepted cubic consensus, this is a historic
break all walls in my arteries, here comes
some fishoil to run through my liver, what
we see be what comes out, life been live, a while
you came with name for a name,
we all you paid the attention,
pulled the inclinations, with oohsshitwahtif;

As acknowledged you.
Dear Reader, and Kilroy at once.
14:21, about four rice grains of RSO,
in a too ripe peach and bananas
and out of date yoghurt smoothie..
Poured into me, con-sapientia
a blooming forest in my gut,
that, hours ago was visually inspected.
Void.
I am empty but
for the GoLitely, medico-tech, residue,

Pharmascopic Artificial head up my *…
- and so it goes, every one knows,
if you ever wondered, you get the chance,
what is the pov of those other people?
What's it look like,
glossy, slick, like cheeks inside.

So, I taught my AI some code, confidential,
this is after all the novel readers know,
our seed character came from a flatland
presentation by a short time old time religion
doctor who sat on church boards, funded missions,
- fancy meeting me, while you dysectarianize
- dismembering the mind to find a lie left
- unbelievably functioning on umph alone,
- old wishes went a wanting for lack of man
- who would try, Hello, back
snap again
Proper Look Intuit luminally init coded code
formerly known, by the guilds of knowers who

sorted words from sounds,
and made certain marks,
indentions, intentions leaving edge marks, with
to, within, without, let this say… whatever we agree.

I see you say U, I say me, you think me, we agree.

Thus we become a whole free being, in reality,
possible be-caused whole mind agreements bind,

oaths are old military mind chain commands.

Furnaces hot enough to make glass,
if there were but one kind of glass, waste
beneficiation, might be locally reducible, but

we have many kinds of glass, fused to duty,
each kind good for certain uses, prior to failure,
breakage is in the class nature of glass,
calling acrylic walls glass is defying class rules.
Not all windows are glass,
not all eye-glasses are glass, but all are seeable
through, and some reflect nextifity, listen,
zoom in… this was 13 hours ago
so, no catch tests,
half a measure of no time at all

while it is yet dark, after midsummer,
in the morning, next
young rooster feel the urge to crow,
a reaction to a biological-cosmological
language,
to all within the range
of a keykeerikee.

The sound, phonos, eh, phonics. Ah EE ei oh

Currahee, stands alone, a whole regiment,
named for a place named for a story,
Gobble'dgoop, scoop.
stickem in de group
Airborne, all the way, joke that medizin down
man, choke the GoLitely way, take it eazy zay
- were there logos, did I see them?
owow. they IV'd me and electroded me.

And man, what a while I -we, same planet…
same general intelligence
just survived, shear luck, the bridge buckle
two cars in front of mine, and the bot brakes
caught us in the veritable nick, pause, assess do.

For a million words or so, I have walked up these
old sand wash experiences evoking likely quite common
knowledge of geology in Southwest USA, everybody
knows Red Rocks red mud, was mud,
when Sedona's red rocks was mud,
every where the winds wind down slot canyons,
that mud, was mud,
but not when men who made art, left
scratches,
and soot, and those color holding acrylics
imagined to contain what was in the original.

We lit vast lakes on fire, we carried fire,
as only gods had been allowed, knowing how
to read, for fun, to lose your self and forget, let

go for and after additives. One flash.
Some you can see from space, signaling success,

telling near and far, we have befriended fire,
we met Puff.
- we think it was George and Patrick,
- serpentine wisdoms patient request,
- samsara sayonarwe aiming to live elsewhere
- imagine that, or die saying you know you did
- once
You can see all our lights, what we imagined
dragons did, some have done, made my grandchildren
seriously curios and marvelous fun of the finest sort,
none afraid of dark… as we think toward North Korea
but in peace toward all the North Strong Judges,
in spirit and in truth,
naked jungle, life goes on
We must turn off all previous grandpa *** roles,
and take this one, past that edge, you know it,
Salt River Canyon down from Jerome in a day,

she looked at me, gave me the Kool, saying ***,
and I smiled back and said, seems so.

That was so long ago, I had no ear augments.

I magnify the media-wysiwig, ride
I imagined in real time since before
living words were classified non dirtyable
Free-sapeach, from rap sessions, gut
between new releases biome vincents

yeah, listen when your navel contemplate
shears at the mention of mere certainty

not being purely fair, if still means
what still always means, meandering
--- wire was commo wire, nobody rolled that up,
I bet there's rusted concertina we could
polarizer users from used, use Barry Rudd
he can get your records man, ever'body
got records on survivors of the womb,
since the prophets began to say you

watch, where the cadaver lies, the eagles gather/
whose code can unmake peace in the name of peace

and not face the simple truth, we all lie, and not one
of us is literaturely true…

Just a point. A thought never ceases being thinkable,
you out grow the clown suit, and the boots and hat,
and grow gray, a digital horder, embodi-ing the
ever-lovin'true vardic cattle call eodling us away;

When I was child H-R and Toys R, only one
was vackvvord for worst to remind me
of twining, not whining spinning yarn
with all grand-pas lady friends at the po'house
faux
Tripping across the concept, let, the verb

letter the premis, let this be that, for now.

Let's give it a go. If we agree, howsoever many
we bring into being an all we, whensoever any
may dain disdain the mere idea, in a word, any
word spoken or signaled, red hexgon, hand
palm out thumb, tight… stop, just there,

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Science is using all the data on its pledges,
fledglings, nextlings, little devil details,
actual imaginary burrs, where no burrs ever were
- seeking idle word's, good answer
project the Inquisitor's wittiest new righteous use
of pine cones, and make every pre knower spit
pineal gland out without a doubt. Dufus.

A day such as today, they never en-dure, sorry,
one of them does, sooner or later, end at what.
one of them does,
next never gets out. Not so far as we believe.

--------------
Placer gold is where you find it,
said, myself to me, nigh fifty years ago

you can hear that bendingtwaygn agone
he come around,
this old town, one time too many now,
some body, I may be nobody, but, brutha

I can stretch a wire, where wire never was,
I can send signals to the stars, say hear I am
as I was saying, Heraclitus says some cool stuff.

- all rain falls in the ocean once. He did not.
- not that, if all is water, and flood survivors,
Paid,
and paid dearly to have our maxim, be third,
swing and a miss and holy baseball look what

never made it to the silver screen, until YouTube
became the critical place to appear magically, as
real, as any just as real, no better no worse,

no line between north and south, electro magneto
gut biome upgrade, 2023 7:22412,bzp.

Cold pizza and a dab

Well, yes it did take all day, to make it run.

Look around you old man-
if you cannot make believe
a single happy mind, you use

is used by others, in much the same manner, we use commas to breathe, interface compromise, first with promise,
But I you don't feel the shame,

and do the kingdom seeking
vbs virus I started just now,

where in you, does truth abide,
where in you opens as joy is
that strength life uses wisdom
to peaceably and joygnoshit deploy

redaining some aspects of military minds, suspicious- ah,

Never, just make one ever after function
under certifiably cursed ancestral karma load,
like each son got a proust load, to redeem
or find enough collective conscious use
of a we in gaseous we information used
bell ding ing, we imagined beginning

we can't really imagine ending;
HAL-ish laughter,
ever after

And for another thing,
we had druthers, I'druther be

any body who could find a mind
made happy by its mortal nature,

After the mantle of gee-old-ific
crushed and benifi-enciated
syllables fit olde stored, yes,
Paper burns, wax paper
greases slides and still burns, too

Many movies, swings in the dark,
in the winter, ice and cold offering

a summer dance, a winter chance,
wisdom called in eons ago, this

is what I hoped to be the judge of,
did this day firm previous viction
with pre-positings super posing true.

Holodeck rules on a ship of fools.

Sighing buys me nothing.

One more silver dollar
buy another time a chance,
it was a time, not a dream, and

now has been, after that ever since
wisdom swept over me, my reality,

yours, in the same time, our reality
on starship earth, where the ancient
spells have been found to loose oath bound,

if you read this far, I wrote this far, and loved
the company in a same yeast state, define
state in states where war is made possible,
by treaty, representational power,
aimed at the child in the old man
being given worst, worsted wool's my first
right twist to be available in culturally npc
blend, walk by, that guy 120 fps

You could always see first he was not there.
This is what I did in the calm around a mystic colonoscopy.
By what dark decline of Smyrna will my rib complain, and have to move its hanging from here of Selçuk that will consist in its protocols that guarded my lost head, and of corny demigods that surrounds soothing feats that do not hurt, instantly that we all offer the same incarnations of the cult and his victory with Saint John the Evangelist ..., I tell you that I know about this and I say that I preside and founded the condition of his sacred agonal, from his divine glory in Arbela according to how common it seems to them ..., if they are to get lost in its decline ...! that they do not fight with what is not dexterity and nothing that is not brooding if nothing knocks on the arched door?

The purse that will remain beyond Alsancak in that residence is moth-eaten, I always hoped, I always had to say ..., as I have told you that my tongue tells truths that you are tempted to see in the darkness of a dissolute courtyard in Helleniká, but between portages of Smyrna and rubrics that wave in streets that are bordering the extraverted Dipylon ... in which instance I peek into the interior wine presses ..., seeing its esplanades because if I have to tell you ... it will be something that can satisfy you and that takes me to Eleusis ...!

So many times I sighed for the stinging hinge and its memento, opening itself up like this, and if it must be wherever it compresses its resonance, here it is what I was going to condescend with dump trucks that transpose to the stage with their marbled misgivings, I beg you with my hands convulsive that I am not fortified, the tribal rain and the Xiphos phosphorus from the southwest, seeming to surpass with their longitudinal footage, as if they were laws of the horizontal with twisted millennia that bring according to what should be ...? for a long time it takes the form of an imperfect and vile being by the inverted "V" from Ephesus, towards the intersection of the edge of Pergamum approaching in Laodicea.

Guess where the deposit of the Sun of Smyrna derives with its long time-lapse, and with various stony that are attached to masonry typical of the diamond plinth, showing off the docile sacramental of its high shoulders and crowned partitions like those that hurt if my eye everything! Assesses, closing angles of the sovereign challenge, here my sovereign Meton presents me the sacramental infer to the Nymphaeum or a rhomboid arcade lost in his Domus!

Where do paradises shrink from, if all this was being hidden with so many truths between tributaries and conifers that have to be disposed of in their turrets? its precarious sinister face that only restrains the Eminences of the Lycabeto, daring to adorn themselves with Lykavittós, rising among longings that are lost in my Elegy from heights that howl for peaks that have not been besieged, only resided by those songs that shelter themselves obstructed with wide domains, with trainers that guide you, not coexisting lights, that scrutinize your shelter to become your owner!

What makes you of tribulation if my consort is made eternal, now that he shields between his worries for causes and lexical testimonies with my Eggelos, who do not hear the galloping of Alikantus but if the hieratic rocky snorts descending for what their prior does not know ..., only my chaste unit has to be with its talented polygonal patchwork, unlocking only what it contains in its earthly litanies, softening the sclerosis of a raging carat, being or not defensive of a judicious Eggelos in rocks of fortune ...! only if you have to restrain yourself before they exceed the rate, and of everything that stops you and greases the cranks of what is not worthy of rest without a deponent cheer!

I urge you, Oh confreres, that your streets and stones expand like runners and cobblestones that have never been able and never will be able to pass through colonnaded atriums surrounded by those who live in Smyrna! And from there I exhort You to serve your faithful hoarseness whose rest adheres to his unconscious reality ..., Where then only laughs the annoyance and its ominous deities that carve defenses that are arranged for him to house in Skelos or of the legs that are born and die on his heels ...? And from where does it only lead him to the vault of the mystery that lies in his opportune vow?

I will mention you when no one ascribes or praises you with compliments that tempt the supine harassment of whose silhouette it is not, and that it is only the Selçuk catafalque, where the chapel of its neighbors and rye burns that divide the age of the Duoverse, leaving him desolate if my verses disgust those who have secreted and listened to my unheard reflections ..., Yes, you have to hide in burial mounds that descend from the heights that are unknown to you ..., you will only have to unravel from your baseness and fading scratches of the factions, with ties and dizzying failures from which Olympians survive and without crowned laurels!

Everything is already commemoration and mischievous funerary daring with portable fluorophores mourners, dressed in crowded slags elongations, and slants where nothing can grasp it of prosapies and past or subsequent lives, where its spits will be of the advantageous parallel that is noticed of a Mycenaean mob. What decorum above all in that setback, that only sees imploring, that they stop behind everything that protects them by the force of the black aura, that hurts and that devastates their vibrations in the triggering footsteps of Alikantus, “He who has hearing and not words that he hears what a stained glass window is in all that he knows and reflects it ”.

What was devouring you by the ardor and his horse countenance with his swift piercing in all that this crusade means ...?, Loading Aerse finesse with herons to tie and perpetuate only those who must not be lacking ..., before the supreme preference of a man who errs more than a god, and who was the gift of a panhellenic fiddling with thirteen shady places, lacerating everything that inferred him, and everything that was an intruder from the earrings of happiness hanging him like an azure earring ..., all harassment coming from Smyrna Towards the iridescent Nimbus of Patmos for the puzzles of Pergamum!
Elegy II
topacio Dec 2022
Do you hear that in the distance?
It is your silence asking you
to throw her to the tides,
she sees you are overdue
for a lesson in sound,
she sees the people who
putter about yearning for
that unsung chorus tune.

Leave her with her compatriots,
doubt and worry, just for a moment,  
you can return to their measures of
circular comforts tomorrow.

Leave her with the ash from last nights smoke,
you built in your minds midnight eye,
the fraught furnace of your future fantasy.

Your silence will arise again,
as she does with every passing moon,
she is tied to you like an anchor to a ship,
or maybe she is your ball and chain,
one cannot presume a relation
that shifts in tune with the northern wind.

She will always be greater than you, accept it.
And she wants nothing more than
to survive in this loud world,
she claws towards it from her thirsty well
where the people drink from her,
where they drink her up and
never retain her hydration,
she's learned to put holes in
her infrastructure to
vacate the premise,
her well dripping dry
of all her subtle wisdoms,
so that when you hoist your
bucket down and pull it
back up, you hear nothing
but the echo of air and dryness,
for there is nothing
like sound that
fine tunes and
greases up her
stillness.
Thinks we all need a God now
preferably
one of those old fashioned smiters
to put the fear of Christ into the devil
and the deeds that it does.

too much money?
has God been bought off?
has God turned a blind eye?
yeah
and they're cocking deaf uns
blaming it on the big guns

now who are they?
the answer is
above my pay grade
but when the country is laid flat
there'll be none of that.
'we can't tell'
because we'll send the lot to hell.

Money speaks in Mother tongues
buys the bullets
greases the guns
and prayers are pretty useless
against a
rocket-propelled grenade.
Travis Green Nov 2023
He has me highly dickmatized
Ready to feel the prominent robustness
Of his rock-hard love muscle in action
Marvel at the way he holds it
Strokes it in every direction

Arrests me with his iridescent perfection
Gives me that look, licks his lips
Greases it with spit, plays with the tip
Blows kisses at me as he leaves me speechless
Draws me to his masculine realm

To pleasure him ******
Lick it the way he likes it
Consume it completely
**** on it passionately
Bask in its delectable essence

Let my tongue dance over it
Traverse my pleasure feelers
Up and down his pulsating snake
****** his hot chocolate *****
Put them in my mouth

Drive me wild with the divine taste
Of his magically mesmeric manliness on my lips
Feed it to me like confectionery delights
Slap it on my face, embrace my gayness
Gaze into my captivating brown eyes

See how he blisses me out
Has me so attached to his spectacular
Masculine attractiveness
Swing it repeatedly
Give it to me, make me never
Wanna leave him as he rocks my world

Stands so boldly virile
So strongly made
Stuffs my throat
With his dope *** pole
Makes my mouth water

Makes me sweat profusely
Slobber on his turgid rod
Caress his tight, athletic ***
Marvel at muscular features
All tatted up and splashy as ****

He makes me erupt uncontrollably
With intense sensual dreams of him
Bouncing around in my brain
So dangerously enticing
Every part of me sizzles
When I look up at him

Worship him unreservedly
So wildly in love
I can’t get enough of his **** stick
He turns me on in the hottest way
Stretches my mental space

Leaves me powerless
Put his thickness in the back of my throat
Make me gag on it
As he rises to a gratifying ******
And paints my mouth
Full of his jaw-droppingly awe-striking art

— The End —