Speak up more, not less, using your own ideo-vocalized mess.

Soliloquy  — in front of yourself and everyone else-a-melse.

Monologue, dog!

You and I can flip-flop nonstop lolly pop but that gets trite fast and then we just so need to speak our favor-ite verbo-bite.

Bebop, hiphop, tipitity-top, slop-a-pop.

Ski-ba-bop-ba-bop-voc; do that thang nonstop.

Be-cause …

We have been flattened by the road-grade blade of the prepaid lexicographers.

We have been run over by the top-botched, pop-a-voc.

We have suffered weak-a-squeak.

We have sold out for safety and we have shut up way too much because we thought we were stuck-a-muck with duck and cluck.

Nope! Fess; you’ve got that vocable mess!

Unperson; you’ll worsen, but word-dive and jivity jive and you’ll revive.

See!

Be inventy.

Sync with your blink.

Que with your you and do-ba-de-do

Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff?
It’s all Gobbledygook to me!
As far as I’m concerned you can just stick
Your iamb up your fat pentameter.
Wink.
And I don’t care whether some of it
Is like common speech.
Or clever for being slightly incorrect.
Wink.

So why do lilies have to mean death
When they are nothing but fracking flowers?
What’s with all these virile horses
And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?
They are bladdy animals and fruit
For heaven’s sake!
Nothing more, nothing less.

All this Moon in June stuff.
All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying
And unrequited love.
All sentimental words
And Repetition.
I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:
At least it tells you something
You can use in real life.

Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.
All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid
Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical
Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.
And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot
With his cruel Aprils and his
Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.
Vita illius.

And while I’m at it.
Who needs history when we live in the present?
Art is no use whatsoever.
Give me a hammer and a spanner
Any day.
Leave those luvvies to their childlike play
And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.
Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.
Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.
Poetry? No bladdy thanks.
(Written for some Friends.
Winks.
At too great a length
For most).

Paul Butters

© PB 13\7\2023.

A weizaskid ax me what I mean,

I say, you know,
what I mean.

You always wishtto go my way stretched out,
expanded,
as a bubble to be in, all ways, as in nine
more than you imagine,
I guarantee.

-- war was a bad idea.
-- corrected it at the finger print of intention
woven into the complexity

code-wize and wiring wize and interpretation
wize domain of all the tells,
signals heart and brain call true,
the health of my countenance, word spikes true
needed to play the game honestly,

sharp, intentionally, prickly oblesky thingy do
symbols seen in places related to DC
ideo game eatery franchisees
owned in a golden archetype,
rock candy mountain
- pop -
poke a point into a slit anticipating just
a wave,

we made a ripple if you smile, non one else need
gno unless
you imagine they al- stretcheit- all read
y'know
y known now is deeper than eve imagined
when she saw she knew everything about nothing,

tricked, ******, been guiled, guilty, you know,

this would really help Atum get his kuriosity collection
performing useful
suggestions for more good than we knew.

We, in Eve's Ish-aww mind, mitomom of us all, we
the survivors of the most recent
common gene pool reduction event.

We share the plan that forms the batteries we
use,
and reuse and restore and replace,

at a maddening pace, thus the commonsense
allocation of most awareness to
soul or spirit, consci used autopoeisish awwtyahll know
-- the y must be evil beings who have power to fuggup ever
and you know this

how?
We can imagine no reason to just allow war to ify as a proud
child takes credit for burps and farts
- we won, cut the **** about being offended, be good
- or die a miserable loser being 1950's mean.

-- eh - where's the dichotomy, is the y's no reason to form a duality of
opposing forces,
honest'godas I write, it thunders over Long Valley Mountain.

I realize you must have read this far and I am home again.

Standing under the viaduct at Exit 45, I-8 East.

And it feels like 2020-real happened.
And it is cooler than it was
And
I wonder if meandering old men mean peace
in the valley and my idea of the long
valley,
you know, the one you think you gotta walk,
even if you don't wish to,
even if you wishtnot to,

you transverse it from one end to the other,
one direction flow, like 1-d DNA,
unmazing engineering on par with the intention
displayed in the hook of heart field and mind fields,

genius, knock-knock jokes are a natural, deploy them

who is there, let them ask?
Thunder in the mountains in August.
This is totally good mohkus, my friends.

At this point. All is well enough all we can pay sharp
focused, non default scatter brain meandering old
white head, my my my myelinated
brain allows a thought to age,
as bourbon in charred oak,

the longer the systems have been on ever after
time when time shall,
not will, I see, shall
I say, be no more. Null set was imagined for this moment
to arrive. Selah.

Procorus was going back to his cell by the path of stairs, through configurations of Spiritual Intelligence, revealing his anti-material genetic funeral to him, thus opening himself to his evolutionary expiration charisma. It is conceived in the speed of fusion of the material gene with that of its anti-material, and with the speed disambiguation of Gen with its ancestry information, being closer than the portions that distanced it from its unquantifiable differences, which only lay insubordination in the block of his Faith forbidding him. The linkage of its endogenous source and of the speed of its genetics, evolved into inclusive after the unknown steps of its immaterial ascending obstacle, which appeared in its bed, as a physiological and living conscious-attractive macro between what is off balance and not le is an organic analog. Molecularly its streets among atmospheres of devotional transgenetic, became regressive, where Procurus walked resigning desecrated immaculate footsteps, with lines that merged into navel genomes in the cups of Hydrias and Stamnos with defined characteristics to transship his spiritual micro substance as Procurus water, and in aquatic debris with torn remains inherited from heaven and earth, dispensed along the way and fitting him in his cacles, where each piece of his will was housed in an intermediate material fraction, characterized by linear pieces that brought him closer to his room waiting for Saint John The Theologian. When he continued walking, his evolution followed him, distributing itself accompanied by his ideo-tendencies and his changing degenerative emotionality between the reaches of his insurmountable contained recapitulation, in conjunctural codons that differed from transformed enzymatic modalities, capturing the alignment from a careful apocalyptic event of the gene, in speed and hyper propulsion. Coexisting in silent locution that arrived at the dawn of his third ear, invaded by phono-auditory and pro-organic regions that began from a general temptation of his empty clairvoyant memorial, which appeased the pseudo traffic of dysfunctional structures and channeling traced in its origin and of its cloistered final destination, with the precision of this temporal space that was of extreme physical exactitude but of extreme and erratic physical laterality. Procorus was imminently traveling in the tunnel of the Apocalypse at high speed between disinherited non-physical genes, traveling through Eucharistic bases in lower universes, nitrogenous among unborn beings, and turning green in one hundred and fifteen pulsations on the underside of other equal pairs, but with non-biological reading frames that They passed in materiality and immaterialized uncertainties, which were linked by their intangible prayers, of frame materiality and irrational reading in the same distance between the elements that were rapidly approaching from their nascent aerial, spun and immaterial state, which was moving in the human contradiction. , in irreconcilable liturgical union and in apocalyptic passages to be rewritten certainly under a eucharistic dogmatic polymorphism, and cybernetic savagery, for those who try to disconnect from Vernarth's parapsychological regression.


The maladjustment is a reclusive source of the speed gene, which argues erroneous genetic routes, reimplantations, and mutants of spaces of matter and transience, causing dogmatic vocational asphyxia and of its faith, therefore in its grasp and vague cellular existentialism, tons of disorders they flow in pernicious comparative pro-genetic precocities, before new ****** species of the neural-emotional, already three-dimensional, erecting itself in its physics, also with the projection of Procorus reaching the boundary of a provisional irresolution, under an image of a future ancestor that shared its vigor of future ancestors who centrally ran out of outraged genomes, which were intrinsically dwarfed upon entering the monastery. Being neutralist in its sequence of speciation, its arboreal genus split into its great molecular caste that was already conferred in a few steps before arriving from the leafy unconscious phylogenetics and reissuing from its componence. Procorus emphasizes its procedural human sequence, scrutinizing its rest in itself, rather than self-seclusion from all the keys of its differentiated, anatomical and psychic numeral duplicate, in more common expectations equations and results in it ..., to exile itself from its analog diversity and Christian bite, taking him where no duplication of the same can continue with another, without regretting going backward neither in symmetrical pairs nor in its parallel biological base, the key to obscurantism and the subconscious that flees by deserting, even achieving successful orderings in falls decoding, showing him the creation of his entity and an anti-Procurus anchoring behind the hominid world, in millions of sequences that are interviewed in dissonant bundles of knowledge by thousands in which it is not contained.

(Procorus, undoubtedly by numbers of thousands of combinations, becomes greater in the encodings of all the compositions that are going to be reproduced from the distance of their matter, with immemorial and portentous that align the authority of its vital activity, as instantaneous reproductive matter and antimaterial entity, as causal and recessive sequence commutations, creating Procurus personalities that exceed their cell, not first… but a few minutes before…, and in their future ancestors a little later…)

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies. Before being sunk, the prose was found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:

“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself."

"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror...

The second mirror..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther..., says no more than regret, the acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegar, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is leftover in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that is not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is leftover from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution, and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am Omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, Omni Messianic, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with overtimes, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord because he was before all of us who were his poet's servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless, vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of eghotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf..., here is not to belong to this century..., reverted to an uncertain meditation...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives the cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society Olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a microsecond device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict! But what a great solution, for someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xiphos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies . Before being sunk, the prose prose were found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with a constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:
“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself.
"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown ... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets ...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece ..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament ...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices ... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror ...

Second mirror ..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness ..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther ..., says no more than regret, acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead ... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting ...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegars, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical, but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is left over in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct ..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that are not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream ...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding  sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is left over from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender ..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns ..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire, because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, omni Messiano, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with over times, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord, because he was before all of us who were his poets servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of egotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf ..., here is not to belong to this century ..., reverted to an uncertain meditation ...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends ... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured, if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a micro second device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die, because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict!  But what a great solution, of someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings ..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xifos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan ..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

i might have to revise a former weakness -
in the genre of philosophy
  (that ever most pompous word in
the english langugae that upon use
i dread another use of [it])
   i found myself unable to read this genre
of books in english...
         don't ask me why -
    i tried nietzsche, failed (to some degree),
but at the same time managed it...
  still, i find philosophy being written in
english as bland, mistaken,
         zealous and obviously:
pompous -
            in all honesty, listening to court
members at Versailles,
or the moral stiffness of the Victorians
more bearable than a word of philosophy being
recited in english...
      i know that i have a limit of
knowing two languages -
but philosophy doesn't really belong in or
with, the english language...
          it's all to: iffy, sickly sweet.
how can a nation breed philosophers,
  when its concerns are for productivity?
the genre makes perfect sense in my
nativspreschen - but to digest some of
the books i read, in english? undeniably:
unbearable.
                      the english language is a poetic
language...
   which is why shakespeare and milton
are championed, but to even imagine
an english thinker?
                       the english are too practical
to deal with nonsense -
                    i wouldn't say practical
in a germanic sense of efficient -
but practical in the sense that they are probably
the least concerned with finding
boredom: mildly entertaining.
           if i've ever seen the epitome of
procrastination and hot hair buffoonery -
it would be an englishman -
   notably in his articulation of said language -
but the american is even more amusing
in attempting his british roots -
                 notably american women who
somehow cling to a jane austen syndrome
of the: most splendid spring affair of a wedding,
my dear: trill the R and let's
start making bravado airs and fancies!
titillating my darling... simply ravishing!
some might also say: the scots are the smartest
people on these isles...
now a scottish philosopher i can cite...
david hume...
                         which brings me to:
philosophy is a bit like smoking ****...
            the later your start, the better...
a tiny sparrow sang in my ear the knowledge
that american high schools teach
philosophy classes...
                   bad i idea, as bad as a teenager smoking
***...
                     minimum entry age?
21...
                   you can't exactly read (reed)
philosophy, if you haven't read (red) -
  no open wide, and say AH....
                                      what? teeth inspection!
- if you haven't read at least one major work
of fiction, take me for example,
   dante's divine comedy, stendhals the scarlet
& black, dostoevsky's crime & punishment,
        dumas' the three musketeers,
                mickiewicz's pan tadeusz...
           point being, i've finally found someone
who actually works perfectly in english...
spinoza...
                   **** reads like spreading butter
onto a toast... smooth silky...
      and there's not even a debate of proof:
     regarding the existence of god -
i like that...
                     i can't prove or disprove -
as i can't approve or disavow -
as i also can't know for certain,  
   or uncertainly "know"
                      - not know for certain
or known for its uncertainty;
i know that i'm uncertain of the certainty
that it is so:
           i know, that i don't know,
which is a step up from knowing, nothing:
- i know, that i don't know,
- wiem, że nie wiem,
- scio, ideo scio non
- ich kennen, jener ich nicht kennen
   (and that's three S's missing,
notably the east german orthographic
aesthetic).
       nonetheless spinoza has become
the first, and probably last philosopher i will
be able to read with the ease of the english language...
i have no qualms with atheistic writing,
as long as it's sensible and takes pride in
a certain modesty that does not hinder itself
upon theological sophistry of preachers...
   or some sort of unfathomable corruption
of the mind with the argument for:
          what i can only deem as an object
that is the source of every single impromptu
imaginable -
                      not on any ethical reality of
candy for the good children,
            wicker men for the bad children...
                             beat thinking about nothing,
and is always relatable to the mere use of language...
  it's not me ascribing a personal deity,
but an impersonal one...
   it doesn't invoke a need for the lunacy
of gesticulation and prayer...
             just a sense of a lost memory,
an amnesia - a thought that glimpses something
that is almost: shy...
                                 nothing aspiring
to pomp & circumstance,
   and all to culminate upon self-flagellation;
at least spinoza's language is fluid,
                  and whenever that word is used:
it's used in a way that doesn't allow to start
imagining the offshoot of that word -
       and turn the whole affair into being blinded
by iconoclasm of a deserving narrative.
- spinoza will be the only philosopher that
i will actually read in english...
        the english were never a people of
philosophers, engineers? yes. poets? yes.
       scientists? yes.
                         they're too practical in that
they don't want to deal with
                                                   "nonsense",
they feed on real problems in the real world,
nothing is ever abstract for them,
  and never will be...
                             they feed on knowing,
and shun the opinions of their elders -
              they need to know, for themselves -
philosophy is nonsense to them -
especially since they seek a concrete god
with a scientific proof,
                     which is what obstructs them
from seeking the lesser, and therefore much more
simpler abstract chandeliers, clocks, etc.,
  basically
                   items of refined entertainment.