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Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
PEARL PSYNATCH Jul 2019
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)

The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise

when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise.

The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.

The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.

The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs

The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.

The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.

The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.

The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise

When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise

'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******.

Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one

to rise, to rise, to rise.
Micheal Wolf Nov 2013
So desolate, I walked onward
An expanse of sand running mile after mile
In the distance the sound of thunder
Then as if a mirage at sea a village of ramshackle homes
Single story on a sandbank all with gardens of the strangest design
A flea farm,  gooseberry bushes and butterflies in net cages
Children playing, the voices of grandparents
The sea now lapping at my heels and between their twisted porches, where on earth could I be
In reality?
For I no longer walked the earth
The thunder was the howitzers shelling the beach
The vilage, that of my childhood
For my mind in its last throws had given me a thought of memory,  that of childhood and family that of loving not war
The sea and sand being of beauty
Now limbless, face down on a Normandy beach drowning.
Then darkness
Silence
Peace
M Clement Mar 2013
Anachronous monogamy
Schwarzenegger gets to the choppa
Invisible maliciousness awaits to those who
Explore the jungles, Danny Trejo just wants help
Crisis in the management takes two eggs to heal it
Two eggs, two dregs, two more lines to make it through
The day. **** like howitzers, snake in my trousers, wearing overalls
Doesn’t make me gay. Pig farmers, snake charmers, **** undercover, pigs
Make the best companions. Dead of night, chill or fright, I’m here so talk to me.
Sharing is caring
Inspiration of Predators, Predator, and personal thoughts.
mEb Dec 2010
Farouche people cast lethal ephemeralities, they are skittish howitzers' foreseeing
Tamper and muck around with us
Proceed please, gain potency
Address prowess, then once you've coward in a corner, strain to flee


Michka was languid sáwol (OE)
The bullied ******* not teeming by any means
Always a vexed mind, full of pillage grim
Every day the same prediction
Once the bruises turned healing yellow, they'd regain their blue gray
He walked the plank and served the steak
He dilapidated himself in vile rain
Gained no aplomb confidence
Only verbal abuse that strayed persistent
Only mental and physical wounds surfaced


Strolling down the broken sidewalk of crumbled concrete
A noticement of condemned buildings
6235 Mirnerva LN
Visions he had entering, visions he had slaying
Of the civil and socialble
Torture to the dependable
He walked inside to leaks and floor holes
Ancient 1920 furniture and stoves
More than one stove that could hold coal
To burn  bodies of evidence made him feel like gold
He had a place of his own
He mirrored himself as a transfixing carver
Despersing of the bully fools
No more drubbing routs' after school
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i thought that Sunday would be the day that i'd save money and indulge in my insomnia, not drinking, but i have a triage appointment with my G.P. today between 12 and 5 p.m., so i'll not be synthesising sleep (quantum peek-ah-boo with ß in American with a zed - i.e. zed leppelin), never mind. you pick up obscurity as you go along with it; whatever becomes personal you depersonalise by abstracts, standard procedure when writing a chemistry experiment: abstract prior to explanation, in science abstracts are not exactly abstracts in humanism, they're merely prologues, or shorthand intros.

my writing addiction is worse than my alcohol addiction,
a hell-raiser in heaven...
****, i can end up penniless and broke on the street,
its my parents i'm worried about -
i do have a Muslim enemy - i buried it for 7 years
faking schizophrenia so i could be untouchable -
i can give you the name, i can give you a little biography,
i'm worth two coin flips a **** by my estimate,
i didn't fake insanity so i would get £120 a week on
debility payouts, now that would be mad...
i have to plan from time to time when i have to stop
drinking and synthesising sleep rather than going mad,
i was brought back to ensure my father didn't fall into
depression when one of my cousins undermined his
team of roofers stealing them, the "cousin"?
husband of my grand-uncle's daughter, technically my aunt,
undermined my father's self-employment strategy
employing Poles and Romanians - my father? taught
by Scots... old Jack the Guinness pouch puncher -
diesel running at 4 a.m., breakfast at 5 a.m.,
work is life... work is life... **** me! it's 2016
and the death of Prof. Dumbledore died today,
the movie was completed in 2009 - so obviously no spoiler
alert, 7 years the secret was hidden from my ear...
i only learned of it today... as i also learned...
premature depression in the youth of England -
second Marx and Engels are waiting... spring clean angelic
suggestions of how England invented unshakeable
utopia... WRONG! what do you think Marx and Engels
were doing? what do you think the problems are in England
right now? right now?! mental health.
the pride and prestige of English society is getting to me...
their under-reading of philosophy books -
what sort of damage can a thought experiment have on someone?!
none! getting all ******* pompous and Clancy will
not solve the matter - they don't like wording, or subsequent
excesses - they're importing nurses from India
and are mesmerised by the Japanese curse of karaoke -
England, the 51st ******* state - akin to the Penguin
cover of K. ****'s *man in the high castle
,
you ain't pure just 'cos' you think you are!
i have a worse addiction than drinking... writing enlarges
the monster in me... you obstruct my hands from the
keyboard i turn into a monster, given brain damage
you can reason why i tend to need an ****** space of
recording something down - i need it more than alcohol,
without alcohol i just get bored, i don't live in
sparkly Paris for one, the nights around here are deafening...
one example? my father obstructed me recording a thought
(got i miss the expected ease of cognitive narration
i knew prior, and i loath the personality that resides in me
at present... i could have been such a good father)...
i get blocked on the stairs before i want to write the
waterfall, he grabs my index finger and dislodges it...
the rest is pure comedy... the paramedics come,
i compliment the male paramedic on his looks
(why am i so misogynistic by now? i used to idealise
women! n'ah, no point mulling this problem,
the answer is too obvious)... i go to the hospital...
i wait for an hour, pose for pictures with my dislocated
finger, have a laugh and a chat, walk up to a black
girl with some medical problem (the dislocated finger,
what a brilliant comedy gimmick) and introduce her to
Us3 on my knees - time to straighten my finger -
the doctor asks me how it happened -
i lie: i was in such a shock i don't remember,
i pursue the lie to effectiveness - i notice his name,
i was in a pub with a Hungarian barmaid and i asked
her the problem i was having, some psychiatrist with
the surname Szasz, an english speaker couldn't make
the z into a h to say... shash - so i tested this failure
on the barmaid on the doctor, Hungarian test 1.
said his name... asked... Hungarian? yes, he replied.
bingo! lie sealed, Malachi's prophecy came true.
later he obliged to send me the x-rays of my dislocated
finger to my email account... charm charm charm.
i'm a poo'h bear when drunk, strike a conversation
with me like this one Lithuanian girl did and i'll kiss
you from forehead to your chin and neck, kissing your
eyes shut... but get between me and the blank page?
not a good idea. i'm ******* scatter brained -
rarely i get the opportunity to relive the cognitive narration
fluidity i once had that inhibited me from writing anything,
and i mean anything apart from homework and exams.
also... the **'s debut album is a rarity... it's one of those
albums you can listen to without headphones -
listening to it on headphones is rather pointless -
it's perfectly pitched for a bedroom auditorium;
and not much music makes sense without headphones
these days; but i also wonder why not everyone is
addicted to music, and more to conversation via the epitome
of Radio 4's chatty chatty broken bloke.
Sunday newspaper book reviews as usual... no book of
poetry... oh hell, let's bring out the howitzers -
pop culture ignores poetry, poetry explodes in a culture,
many people are disaffected, congested into sardine phobias,
struck that some people remember the countryside life
and milking cows, small town life... the internet is in its
genesis, the middle-classes semi-proficient in the technology
are damning it with promises of a feasible exodus to
the promised land of the sitting-room couch and television,
no one is noticing the digital miners who are digging
for the perfect pixel - a polydiadem fly-eye;
but here i am, facing ridicule at the teachings of Jesus Christ,
hating him is sorta a fake, but it's more a fake at
either Christianity, or the unrelenting fictionalisation of
the man thanks to the Greeks, bemusement at the Star
of Bethlehem, the historian Josephus, and the fact that
that the Nag Hammadi library was found in Egypt and not
Israel... i'd be dumb to ignore the archaeological proofs
culminating with the crucifix and the atom bomb and the
pathology of predicting ends of worlds... Oppenheimer
was just as good, quoting the Sanskrit death bit -
i guess living in Egypt gave the little man of Nazareth
pharaonic ambitions of worship - easier and more convincing
on a crucifix than on a throne with sensible Greek
digestion of the world and fascination to boot -
hence the fascination to the last with architecture and
'my father's house will be a house of prayer',
seen the state of the Anglican Church? and see how mundane
the prayer service has become after 2000 years?
everywhere, now, countless religions are sprouting like
spring ginger using psychedelics and what not...
well, that was the case in the 20th century... the 21st century's
answer is this dark age reinterpretation of Cartesian
philosophy... not so airy-*******-fairy about philosophy
books, are we? philosophers prescribe no drugs, merely
thoughts... what you would probably have not thought out...
harmless pharmacology if you're into claustrophobic
suicide pacts with yourself... the 21st century has proved
another breeding ground in England, this time not economic...
and if not economic, therefore existential...
i'm just another Engels looking for his Marx... or another
Marx looking for his Engels. ah, the cascade ends.
Hell, or something close to it,
Or worse;
For they would have longed for the warmth of fire -
To feel more than the sodden stink of their boots
And the thunder of Howitzers in their bones.
But they knew the victory was coming.

Eight days, that would be enough.
Letting death fall
In the half-silence of creeping gas
And the unrelenting barrage of mortar fire
Raining like demonic hail upon the enemy.
They knew that victory was coming.

So they walked, that's all it would take -
A stroll to be heroes.
But all the waiting, enduring, lasting out
To climb up onto the crater-filled sludge,
Mown down in thousands,
And only then did they realise:
Victory was so much further away.
For the 100th anniversary of the start of the Battle of the Somme
Vernarth in the evening of his life is called again to raise his sword, perhaps following the paths of Paul of Tarsus, precisely here his Word would begin in the figure of a Hoplite who will redeem the oppressed, who will reinforce the growth of the seeds, that will give hope to those deprived of Faith when they have to face their own Apokálypsis that would allow them to take with them when embarking on this adventurous daring in pages of life that follow that for many will be unknown. The seer's paranormal experience in Patmos will vivify his commendable virtue of confessing himself as a defender of Life and Death from the same intermediate final point, to then reach the nexus of gratitude that compensates that leads to make amends when leaving his abode naked and return every six months to Sudpichi in Solstice, and Equinox in Spring to Patmos explaining the premiere of this final event.

Vernarth's distinctive and codes will swell an intertestamental Biblical event, made up of crude abstract and demonstrative images that from so much decanting could be assimilated to what the Mashiach did in the Siloam Cistern, more than water being the same Hydor that is born from the origin and reaches the end of the erudition. The desperate desire to limit the spirit of a soldier is clouded within his own microclimate, wishing for a possibility that lies in the impossibility and fruits of the fan that separates the Universe from the Earth. From here the Faith is professed by the reflections of all those who have lived in a body of Flint, as were their parents freed by Vernarth, letting rest the readings of the sunset to those who from Flint have become meteorites that wander through the universe. As possible Christians to re-convert after a pre-tribulation or a new order, separated from what deprives us of new incursions. The Apokálypsis according to Vernarth does not diverge from Saint John; rather it tends to seclude itself from all the windstorms of divinities that are intermingled in its mysteries from all the exuberances of an endless gospel, which moves the hair of the Yahweh with the scent of lavender even within the pantheon itself after three days. The mystery of not understanding that a common man bears stamped on his body all the signs that give observance of a Passionate John that is in all of us having to share his silence within us, as suggested by the silence of which we are fertilized by clairvoyance’s of Patmos more than the consequences of some supra desire of Vernarth to cover some hint of autobiography, but more generously than the doors of his Megarón or Dypilon, be clairvoyance that shows us that the doors are the unknown within what is and we cannot Observe, V.G. as is illustrative in Spinalonga when Marie des Vallées settles at the point of the salvation of Theus and Vikentios all behind the transom as a consistent metaphysics of the unfulfilled desires due to burdens of other souls in salvation entrusted to resplendent beings. This is testimony to buried or invariable enemies such as Edomites with the affinities of the Seleucids or Pharisees with the Primitive Christians in the channel of each word that interprets the opposite diameter adaptable to a prayer that circulates the course of what an exegete does well If the original word of Vernarth's testimony of never perishes to aspire to do as the manah on the flowers that well deserve to perch on the Xiphos, where the central nerve of its shoe is the Baldric, many times it turned only in the battlefield when Vernarth used both hands, what a mystery! Here is the glossary of what is double-edged and double-handed metal when its length is pointed to the edge of the world where the Sun at its tip let the Light penetrates. Each unknown hemisphere will be possible to slice with both edges of each Xiphos as interpenetrated bronze and iron until it dissolves in the light of the Spring Sun.

All the causes were weighted to a grandeur where the messages of recomposing all the patrimonial legacies that would be the influence that everything could decline in the grandeur of bloodcurdling screams from the temples, which remained in the dark because they did not know who to unbind from the co-responsibility of seven churches of the Hellenic Elegies; from Ephesus to Laodicea trying to remove from the jaws atrocious empires that sentenced policies with more than a thousand years without having any more than a macular century. Vernarth in the depth in which nothing bothers him incites his sensitivity with what reduces the pain in his compassion of the 1st century, which will never stop passing through the well-deserved waking time in all the streets of Greece in which all his traces are they shuddered in challenges that deserved to be from a great classroom that is oversized more than any possible Odeon to fill with spectators from a well-to-do society and satisfied as it seems today with a high price paid for an unworthy degree.

Also, his apocalyptic metaphysics flees by whole perverted societies, and not half due to points of tension of his overwhelming immorality, and defense of all nature that does not corrupt itself, perhaps from an echo locked up when converting from Laodicea to Ephesus as if he were to remake Vernarth's Inverted "V" as the initial contact point of these seven derivations of his decline. The barbarians are at the foot of the very door that enters rather by inertia, and decline from the extinction of the Sun to later redefine it through cycles from spring to winter as we will see that it will emerge with the Duoverse manifested, after trampling on the beast that feeds on of pain and ingenuity from which all our destinies are focused to be swallowed by the snout of a battalion of enemies that migrate from the beast, but they do not realize that this is how calls should be made to all the empires that leave to his abandoned combatants, left on burning pyres immune, punished by flames that will never consume him, who were dazed and with their temper will come out alive with bodies that do not belong to us, annoyed at not prospering because of this anti-divine ****, understanding that the harshness of our tears will not make us neutral or worthy of the joys of suffering together what belongs to us in a body already sacrificed, this is the Apocalypse of flourishing images that are directed in processes of slaughtering the lamb that I cannot and will not be able to identify with the apparent strength of knowing how to be forgiven or undermine the riches of a leadership that for long millennia hoarded riches and never delegated its feigned goodness to us where the grass grows and twists from its root, rethinking days to count and increasing the agony of counting the simulated strengths that never let us enjoy.

It must be understood that all the opposing forces merged with the numbered days of a new rebirth, with the cries of Vernarth from Hyperborea, the pre-tribulation from Erebus or Sheol, from the anguish of the pectoral or Lynothorax from which the days counted in the same distance of traveling in the Purgation or Katartirio of the total confinement of which could be mentioned shouting in the acoustics of the Valley where the last word will remain. We place ourselves in the extravagance of which the rays of luminance deliver us the entire body of credibility to reach the step of happiness that will flow from the first and inaugural vision that confirms the first of the first of the alchemy that has been positivist, even of what paradoxically resurrects not expecting to be who we expected it to be, but despair is cast down in an act in which Vernarth dares to let go of the Mashiach's hand, to go help his parents from being petrified by the Flint that It would be provided for the end of the world with the prompt assistance of St. Jerome of Estridon as it was for an act where the Dragon calmed down, and stopped moving its tail, perhaps from the Green Dragon of Slovenia or its offspring for spreading within the world expelling fire with scales, horns that could be trusted from the Ibex of Valdaine, the Dragon of the Stained Glass of the Cathedral of Avignon hitting with its tail the Portals of Saint George, stating that such time the Nibelung Ring Cycle with Siegfried or secular specimen of the Draconian descent of the Merovingians, of the very Greek Drakon that began to subjugate Patmos in the year 76 AD. C. in between and badly wounded between the rocks of the Wind Tunnel of Profitis Ilias or as the dragon could be welcome, and if it were Lohikäärme Finnish descent stopping Soviets on their borders of blood that roars fire from the deepest corner of their land. The Greek serpents were born in the seas for several miles around where there were no other species but them, because if they had they would have been devoured by the great Ha-Shatan with ten horns and seven heads, much of the literary inspiration of San John is in Greek, but it is more likely that he originally came through the Near East. In the embryonic Roman Empire, each military cohort had a particular identification Signum (military standard), after Trajan's Dacian wars in the east, the military standard of the Dacian dragon entered the legion with the Sarmatian and Dacian cohorts: a large fixed dragon at the end of a spear with large open jaws of silver and with the rest of the body formed of colored silk. With its jaws facing the wind, the silky body was inflated and undulating, resembling a windsock, the Dragon continues to travel along roads that are the marks of the chariots without any mercy to those who awaited them at their destination with legions throwing hot breath that only Saint Jerome of Stridon knew how to mitigate. This huge lizard will continue to lay siege to the evil that cannot contain it, just like the basilisk in the Raedus Codex to imbue the never-burning blades of fire from the Apocalypse of Saint John, by chance with the fiery semblance of a Wyvern in the dome of the cathedral of Saint Nicholas in Slovenia, swallowing his own fire. With a fateful language of birds that would codify Siegfried that the end of everything comes from the seas of Patmos with heated water.

That winged creatures will come copiously to quiet the world to the world of Miðgarðsormurinn perhaps in Jämtland, besieging the Soviets like a serpent more than winged in vigor that shakes the Celtic tree with its Birch and Beech in Solstice or a dragon that was not with wings glued with wax that crashed when falling before reaching Sicily as is the case of Daedalus and Icarus, or the Lindworm dragons that expelled fire from the Mörser 16 howitzers of the Second World War. All these wealthy treasures are fundamental pieces of all the paradigms that form the prelude to a History that has blinded us without giving rest to everything that surrounds us, not even lavishing Christian burial with evil eyes that are characteristic of the dragons that they spit fire from your back, stalking a Britannia Pendragon.

Much of the banners, heraldry, and heraldry bear this emblem of beings made up of male and female offspring to form as a family the antigen of Slavic Bulgarian humanity, as a dissident figure that was torn from the edges of the Apocalypse to protect the crops where probably Rains of gold would come for his crops if he were male, and female if it were a prophecy of bad deeds to denigrate the farmer's seeds. Strong-blooded dragon would be Zmiy, Ukrainian carrying a four-legged beast, and on each leg a Cornucopia for golden petals that are collected from other maidens who will never stop being lush, protecting the arteries that rain healthy blood from Ukrainian maidens like the Zmei. From Zsablas that carry the Polish Smok on their backs that will be reborn from this apology of the Dragon of the Apocalypse that freed them from the Katyn Forest, on the banks of the Vistula where Bogdan drank water with his Zsablas to go free the Heroes of Smolensk and each Polish officer who had a Dragon stamped on his forehead, and also on the Coat of Arms of the Cracovians in Piasts of Czersk, fleeing from the cellars of some Warsaw revolt.

The climbing of the Basilisks of the Profitis Ilías Wind Tunnel will reign throughout Hispania as a prophetic emanation from the mouth of San Juan in Asturias and Cantabria with the magnificent silhouettes of the mountains in the Dragon Saw, followed by gargoyles that come to life in the peaks as a young Hoplite who wears his Áspis Koilé polished to annoy the dragon, which is nothing more than the basilisk when he was tricked by the Raedus Codex by mistaking them for his own offspring, thus allowing those who went to the Investiture of the Himation. It will be the eponym of Sugar, a Basque masculine god, who is often associated with a serpent or a dragon, but can also take other forms. His name can be read as "male snake".

Marielle de Quentinnais shows us in Saint George and the Dragon in the era of the Antipopes in Avignon, of which Saints and Blesseds would fight with the powers of the Dragon as in this sub-sequence that was released from Forli, with great similarity to the Mercurial Ambrosia due to Saint Mercurial as the laurel of Christianity over the idolatry in which terrified people did not sleep because of the frightful tremors of Forli and Forlimpopoli. Possibly, Saint John, the Apostle helps them put the stoles around the cornered Dragon's neck. Every evil force that is not defeated is a postponement of that moment in which it will fall surrendered, as it was from the original of the Dragon Hunters like Saint John of Patmos styling in the acroteras, and ledges of the Megarón that points to the Aegean seas to see if some of them are coming regurgitating the intact body of Margarita de Antioquia, that burst from the black belly of the Dragon saying "Draco vivit in Homine, non in Legendis" "The dragon lives in Man, not in Legends"

Having established Draco Vernarth Apocalypsis liturgy "Apocalypse of the Liturgy of the Dragon of Vernarth" the message continued along the path of Hydor where precisely the defenseless doors will be protected towards the enthronement of Silence with the ardent hope of Salvation as evidenced by the Pauline message "Marana Tha” building the coming of the Eternal that with all its dimensions will transform the collapsed world, tearing the senses that can reach the trade that transforms the ritual that is entrenched in the genetics of eternity in the tail of the Dragons that have formed classes and subclasses of heraldry of the Black Templar Knights, who roam on the run, creating the confusion that the medieval feudal mysteries were the continuation of an antiquity even if hostilities did not exist unless the tails of the basilisk of Patmos are crossed with some science from Ephesus to Pergamon , with the providence of a god in extinction that s ea disobeyed by his troops, and is bloodily decimated by the suffered trances of evil from which the ill-fated Knight is transformed into his own Dragon bled and immolated.

The end is not made with a mere vision of a Draconian Liturgy, from the year 72 AD. the Roman legions of Palestine were uncrossing where voices were heard like an occupied face of land but free of religious authority, which in one way or another saw the contemplative passage of half kindness or benevolence of a Caesar that would later be followed by the chins of fire of the Dragon, always escorted by Vernarth who lived and heard everything succumbing to imperial systems that were attached to filings of Hebrews that burned on their backs, to corners not sharpened by Greek spears to corner the frequency of a detractor of symbols of the Apocalypse, that was embodied in Vernarth with sumptuous flint that adhered to the Áspis Koilé or smaller Peltas that became prosaic to arrows that adhered to the tin shaft to vindicate itself in the foliage, as a recurring expression of the apocalyptic mentality assumed by recognizing that the Apocalypse is lived inside, and nothing on the outside that corrodes more than its own entrails. Indeed, everything private and non-transferable exhorts us to the end of the melodrama from where we must share hearts for those who keep their manners, and make the opening of the Kassotides a tiny possibility of change after Vernarth realizes that he has the furthest possible the dung of the Human Dragon, creating a dominant culture that recovers what enables us to preserve in its own Identity, illuminated and reinforced by conviction.

Vernarth, a few steps from falling from the abyss, makes his prophecy to ask the sky, the Mashiach, and Spílaiaus to release the chains of Kairós, so that the genre of granting life revives the system of the flame of the omega point, which then is reversed in celestial spasm, strongly grasping the tail of the dragon that will transport him with three lightning bolts and trumpets with the seven trumpets that will leave them in Delphi according to the nature of the Cassiotis or Kassotides moat, as a praiseworthy insurrection of being reached by a metaphorical being in Daniel as an apocalypse that will indicate that rain of light and fire will flow from on high, but they will all be directed from Patmos to Delphi.

Vernarth joins the Maccabees to obstruct the Seleucids, as the two books of the Maccabees tell, who start a ****** guerrilla war against the oppressor, and the prophet Daniel chooses a totally alternative and non-violent path. This shows that the worst militia of an armed man is to break with the sovereignty of his oppressed soul, and then be batoned in literary artifice like books from the present to a past with leaders buried in the ruins of lost civilizations, as in the case of the Seleucids and Edomites in open bread on themselves by Mikaiyáh, Archangel Saint Michael. Behold Vernarth where each gloss of contracted episodes never disengaged from the muscular tail of the Dragon that evidenced his vision of St. John, in such expectation that it resolutely rose from the heights of the Iridescent Nimbus, subduing all empires in the tail of the Dragon. The dragon that shakes the resistance of the ungovernable walls, but not the law of the powerful who makes himself believe, but the muscle piece that is rooted in Tel Gomel, is nothing more than the Holy Scripture of the duality of Saint John the Apostle / Vernarth; both as a monosemic (uni-meaning) and univocal lexicon that penetrated with all the desire of the heart moving them together, to decipher after the year 96 AD, towards the unveiling of Sardis to Laodicea with the Iscaton that is subtracted from the Dragon's Tail.
Cauda Draconis
Anton Kooistra Mar 2016
"Put a feather on it!" someone whispered.
"Roundabouts!"
The tank was full of fuel by now.
"Well, that's pretty strange!" he thought.
"If you think you can manage, it's fine with me!"
He appreciated her.
"Here's something for you!"
"Rushing sounds."
He ate an apple.
No flowers in the sun.
Woodlands as far as the eye could see, but what lay behind them was just out of view.
"Hoy!"
Magnificent, they were, but they barely would compare to a field of steel watchmen riding the mists of time.
"Cheeky!"
Here were monsters.
Cheeky.
Trust is oftend tried at the most inconvenient of times.
"Friday is a great day to go out, everyone does it!" seemed the only reasonable reply.
"Crisp fries on a platter!"
The people gathered in the streets.
She had a couple of drinks.
Monica likes Waltzes.
He appreciated the night sky for a moment.
A rough bundle of ropes lay scattered around on the floor of the empty appartment.
Rifles were loaded, hats were donned, it was a chaotic display of things.
Heavy traffic slithered trough the steamy morning.
Water rushed into the bathroom, a fish drowned.
Monica was made of different pieces of wood.
Tumbling bumblebees were far from here.
Water.
A gothic arch reaching high and wide.
Howitzers blazed loudly.
Effectively, he got kind of good at it.
Water rushed.
What he was waiting for, he couldn't say, but he was definitely waiting.
Jerry sells plaster.
Commercialising industries seemed like a good plan back then.
Jerry spoke to his female friend, who was unnamed for no specific reason.
Hounds.
Crisp fries on platter.
Radiant mushrooms spoiled the darkness.
Towering high above the the misty clouds, the collection of Eiffel towers spend their time bending to the wind.
I am a narrative voice.
"I am fishing here!"
"Howdy, clowns!"
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to go all the way.
"Hey now, don't watch that, that's a terrible show!" she said.
Pianos were thrown.
"He shook his head." she said.
What they were looking at, no one could tell.
Very chaotic indeed.
Cold writing randomzied
Maybe I've been insane since day one and my family
can't find the way to break the news to me ...
I think every night to anyone that would hear me , not to
let me be melted and poured into the 'American Male' mold with
it's false bravado and savage , morale culpability ..
Writing poems for the mind ., clarity and acceptance in a blackened
field of possibilities ..Poetry feeds the pigeons at the park , pets the
lambs at the game ranch , tucks you in with a kiss after dark ...
Prose is simple mathematics , throwing the book aside because you've read the ending , painting with water colors in the rain to incite bleeding , writing help on a wall that no one cares to heed ..Poetry can be lightning screaming into a 440 transformer , heat changing sand to crystal , nitro fueled rocket engines drowning out a locomotive screaming into your field of vision , one five five howitzers pumping rounds into a nuclear reactor . Poetry is Delta Force coming in hard at tree top level , Daisy Cutters dropped over a bivouac in the desert , surrounded on four sides at midnight with zealots committed to killing you ..
Copyright February 23 , 2016 by randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Keith Strand Apr 2021
I was the French
and you the Ardennes

Tall peaks watched gently
as howitzers fired

But there in the grass
among the trampled flowers

as I lay bleeding
I smiled

Because in the earth
I am finally with you

— The End —