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Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
Loosed sparks touch at night  .  .  .
When all the stars are sleeping,
  .  .  .  True tips of fingers.
L Gardener Aug 2012
You look so warm inside the rays,
I watch them as they dance ballet.
Across your face they pirouette,
until my every worry, I forget.

You kiss each other playfully,
blissfully unaware of me.
Glowing in the afternoon,
Your golden skin, it makes me swoon.
I'm far too mesmerized with you nearby,
watching days pass within your eyes.

You look at me and
I become the hours,
seconds, minutes, it overpowers.
Blinded by a solar flare,
ignitions in the air,
burning all around,
wishing the sun would never go down,
Slow down.

You stick around to watch the sunset,
I start to become a silhouette.
It's getting dark,
until your laugh lights up a spark.

A fire growing on the inside,
Shadows run and hide,
darkness can't survive,
when you're ablaze.

You're a star from outer space,
Rising up to interlace,
the human race.

This I always knew,
is what connected me and you,
and we're connecting all of us.

Call it trust.
Parts of you that can't be seen
illuminate the heart of me.
SassyJ Apr 2016
Flattered heart of the unthought
Flattened cases await departure
A mount of unused garbage
Tragedy in fuelled ignitions

Digging slowly to make sense of the mess
Accumulation of desire in haste
A hoard of heaped cotton and canvas
Looped in discourse of cages

A sleep to mask the heated moment
After a dawn the mountain blurs
Impending progression,dashing hopes
Receding rope, a destined pit
Commercialisation has lead to consumerism.... people buy more and more. Minimalism is the only way forward.
Haven't collaborated for a while but it was a good start up from the break. Thanks Jemoh
http://hellopoetry.com/jemoh/
softcomponent Aug 2014
you were the diamond on the truck-stop floor. the hiss of sparked ignitions wafted through your mind, sandy and confused-- meaningless, like cake crumbs. cake crumbs you swept up and all, for what?

the little green man inside your hypocrisy (disguised as paradox) hid away.. feeling deeper and deeper into the recesses of flesh you once called home.

there had been a time. of course, we all know time is linear, and all that is linear must soon and completely find halt within eternity.. as if the dribble of a drain makes a marble of the ocean.. as if a handful of ocean ice water will diminish the intensity of the seven seas at their largest... as if a sky full of rain and a raindrop full of see and be seen is really much more than you're looking at.

I took my own hand this time, skipping down the trail. it was overcast and foggy. Melancholy rested in the air and on the dew of the leaves, I was thirsty and pooled it to the middle of a particular green, drinking like a bowl from the Jungle Book. All I could taste was white wine and dandelion bitters. All I could smell was that metallic springtime rainfall smell, the night sauteed in the heat of the morning. The sun now at it's zenith above Honolulu, perhaps.. above Midway, or the Solomon Islands. In my minds eye, I could taste the thirsty coconut milk of Tahiti.

What I saw in the mist, dear Reader, was nothing short of breath. My breath. My breath. My breath. Condensation a frothy steam from teapot of mouth, steeping syntax and semantics into novels of thought all expressed in the limelight of sudden conversation and fitful, rightful, frightening intrigue.

You can never really love enough, can you? You can never truly **** the thought without the thought first taking you.. asking you.. begging you..

thinking and thinking and thinking.....

.. . . .. . . .. . .. . . .... . .          why?

Lawrence,


why?
Alyssa Starnes Sep 2010
Like a firework,
burn until the very last second,
grip the life you had,
created by falisies and man made ignitions.
Can you burn me down please?
Embers,
then ashes.
I will start again.
I do not want to be made of you,
and him,
and mistakes,
and everything I regret, which is all that seems apparent,
when nothing is setting you on fire.
I wanna be coals,
and baby it'll take years,
before a diamond.
I wanna be over,
and starting,
and finished,
and begining all at once.
I wanna sear your flesh,
with the intensity of my love.
Physically,
stoking the feelings in your soul.
I need air,
and proding,
and a little compassion,
before you can expect me to keep you warm.
I'm lifeless.
I am not earth,
wind,
water,
or burning,
churning,
incinerating,
fire.
I am waiting.
I am flint.
I am spent.
Spark me,
please,
I am eager,
to take care of everyone else,
before myself.
To mesmerize your eyes,
with my beauty.
I want to be too much,
a blue flame,
I'll hurt you,
but you won't even feel it.
I can **** you,
but without me,
there is no life.
I am over,
and I am done,
and I am waiting.
My own thoughts.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
given the title?                       a history.
                 you simply don't get it,
you don't get a focal point,
   instead of the hejnał mariacki
i get: the beatles...  included in the exodus package....
or the: when will immigrants be deemed expatriots?
now, never, soon?! host nations
forget that immigrants have a host nation
to remind people of: at least given the lingo...
but then local people repel it:
given the Anglos: it's a best kept secret in
Rotherham... because that's how we like it...
see? we English: two-faced politeness...
  all ****-based in Ibiza... or dare say otherwise...
we like the carry-ons... said:
you say, where we were naughty...
             keep it as you are
you'll eventually remind me of nothing...
   that's worse than a hangover...
you''ll literally remind me of nothing,
perhaps Netwton, but mostly Cockney
inspired ****... i just made half of keeping
Oxford...
             yes, you with Roman and Viking
history, i can't speak a history of Mongol
invasian, or the qusi-vikings akin to Swedes,
and then the Turks...
******* islelanders...
       as the French always said:
you not into ******?
               **** it! let's sell it anyway!
  about as gravity prone to tell a difference
between a rock and a mountain...
watch which one sink further into quicksand...
what you don't get with your d.n.a.:
a history...
what you don't get with your d.n.a.:
no pretty face will be able to repeat it...
you don't get to reach for a history...
            you don't get to claim Maine
of the u.s.a., you have to come back,
back via little england...
     you first have to craft a reply
counter the ιρη and the σκωτ,
no poly
- if britain is outside of europe:
i'll bring europe to britain -
i'll ensure there's the mandible bone's worth
in it jamming its jaw...
  just so it can chew: and later lap up
a history basis...
      call it a Yugoslavia mm,
or murmur... or something akin...
                i know of the snow surrounding
Belgrade...
                     ι / i / ε / +
             -ρη        catch a breath: -re
  i.r.a. to the malconcent,
well, it's a chessboard: either you're pawn
or no pawn at all...
            i get more english in england
than irish in england,
    i never hear scoot in anglo-shire...
not once, not ever...
              the irish belong in american
urban folklore, or unless nibbling on
the Poznań crown of tatties...
  oh... look at ye / v... cosmopolitan self...
mighty proud i am of ye / v..    
    wiepszo-wą...                 ...tek
                ten.. pierdolony... pyr!
Poznański pyr... to gówno i mowa równikiem:
sroka!
        o kurwa ó ó...  sedament:
   i to zwane cegłą.... wielkopolski huj:
schwaben herz!        pyr! daj mi boże wojne
domową wedle testamentu Syrii...
bo ja gnije w nadzieji żem nadaramene wygnany!
    wielko-huja-warty-*******...
pyr... ziemniok... wielko-łaski "hrabia"
    einzbach! ten: poznański "rebel"
  pseudo des esseintes...
   generically know as merely: pyr...
  wkrocze w cheć Warszawy na nowo:
a poza tym? angielska róż może zgnić
w makijarz. tyle.... o o.... tyle...
kopytka i klątwy... śląskie glizdy: czy klusy...
      czyli poznański szlachto-łez-odziedziczony...
            "pan"...
nadal tylko kurwa pyr dla mnie!
no, kurwa, kochaj mnie!
        tak abym nie pisał tym ozorem... zza granicą!
czyli bez ł i paciora, a jednak tyle co chodzi o tau.
i never have to answer my host nation,
i never had to... it's the nation that gave
the care to give Chopin's heart a tomb in Wawel...
         as the perpetual home:
   cheap racist ignitions don't make me really
****- sensitive concerning English don't and do not
slang translation...
   i'm worried about my mother incubator,
    and yes, that's ****- i.e. don't and
pakistani i.e. do not...
                        well... there's bound to be a gensis
at some point... it doesn't necessarily
have to be koranic...
given the saudis are so ******* lazy in their
inheritence of sitting on what the islamic
world calls *schwarz gœlt.
These lungs are still. 

As flameless fire,
We are breathing dead smoke.

Looking back at our love, 
began full of sparked ignitions and frictions of heat,  
red flames of 
passion 
love
lust 
trust
and comfort 
perhaps over sticks not coal.

We heard a whisper...
"to enjoy a lasting fire one must have a good foundation,
coal is key
not sticks nor paper
or it will burn out fast"

When tested, our fire sizzled out.
flameless love sticks was all we had to work with.
no foundation of coal.
nor that signature paper.

We've sat blowing at these sticks from all sides 
with hope of catching one last spark, 
trying to awaken the fire once again.
Campaigning within ourselves
let's live again, lust again,
love Against and beyond
ourselves

Have we lost sight of the ground?
taken by the wind of life's happenings
now barely touching at fingertips

we've forgotten the lips
that whispered
foundations of a true love's lasting fire.

are we hopeless?
our love flames are breathing on sticks
not coal. 

both locked on exhale 
no oxygen to our souls
back, neck and head coiled 
like a lifeless corps
hanging from the spine

we are dying, Love
we've blown all through and through
and I know somehow I still love you 
but while sitting in this thick cloud of smoke
I fearfully ask
how do I breathe for I and you?
Copyright © 2017 Tsholo Khumalo
Winnalynn Wood Mar 2021
Love unrequited, not just a love hidden
Is a flame relentless, flickering and laden
Scorching hearts like piles of wooden
After it’s beginning and the ended
trf Jun 2018
I am cosmic limbo
words cannot express.
I am a lap dog drowning in a pool of cat's milk
wearing nothing but sun burns.
I cut the lines when Merry goes round
below the grief you cannot digest.
Anxiety has nightmares about me
it is rumored.
My tears fall on surfaces
and explode like snap & pops.
Mini ignitions in an instant,
turn to ash.
I am a bleak reposit in your memory bank.
Thirty years of wasted land.
There are no more homes for me.
Catch you up Ricky Baker
Hunt for the WilderPeople
Vladimir s Krebs Feb 2016
lay awake with nothing to hold you away from the keys in the ignitions cursing  letting all of your night mars let lose free. i see no chance to go fast.  every curve around the windy mountain roads.  driving fast letting the wind flow threw picking up your own soul  . flying threw shifting every feeling that high daze. letting my stereo play louder not paying my own attention flooring the gas peddle. nothing is a daze cause i have no limits i can't break. driving fast threw the night with nothing to hide as i turn up my music blasting all the vibrations shattering all the windows in my spider gt. no stopping letting lose all your demons lose before you get trap'd into life that you have to settle down. this feels like i can't escape but i rather drive faster that i would realize before my own dream that brings me back to reality. when life is so ******* ******. my daze  shows my thrill of anger with no regrets. just like i am following my dead heart.
fast to thrills day dreams will bring you down after something reminds you to realize reality *****
Nevermind Jun 2015
I think the world
Is waiting for me to crack
I'm just too tired
I can't fight back
There's no way to win
I'll loose either way
Taunted by sin
Dangling in front of my face
Jamming tired keys
Into tired ignitions
Riding down tired roads
Holding broken ambitions
Jamming my fix
Into tired veins
Just to keep
The pain at bay
JB Claywell Dec 2017
It is in these medium-sized hours,
on these winter mornings that I find
the most peace.

It is while standing at the end
of my driveway that I can feel
my connection to everything.

The soles of my boots do not impede
or interfere with my energy’s ability
to connect, through miles of iron,
directly with this planet’s core.

The stillness is not still,
despite my own.

There are ignitions and other beginnings;
small voices protesting the final bus ride
to school; the holiday pending.

Despite this minor background noise,
this unadorned stillness connects myself
to something larger and more substantial
than I can speak, write, or even understand.

This conduit is in all things, in all people,
and is the unspoken, unwritten definition of
what it actually means to be awake, alive, and
alert to...what?

Is it God?
Is it my sense of self?
Is it you?
All of you?
All of humanity?
Is it my sons?
My daughter?
My beloved?

Yes.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications
mothwasher Mar 2021
diffeomorphic metal between bubble wrap and foil, acrylic olfaction in plastic ignitions, flat-iron physics in lice screams, integument with Guillain-Barré in extra steps; the annealed strands : immunity :: the follicles : nervous remains. cephalic solar panels and thermostat polymers protect against the misses and false alarms of signal recovery. there is time to think before the eggs hatch.

it dawns on me that the
rug of spacetime is being
blanketed in black paint
as distant stars blink finally

and only with myth under fingernails
can i pick it clean
George Morales May 2019
I turned the TV on the other day and a man in a suit told me the world holds too much danger.
There’s people unlike me, people I don’t know, people that are strangers.
So if I’m the good guy, then that must mean these people are the bad.
Otherwise I’d be the bad guy and that idea is just mad.
There’s a war every day and it’s started for some freedom,
for democracy, for things you’ll take even if you don’t need ‘em.
There’s a woman with a cackle, the problems the first black president didn’t tackle
and all the ones the white ones have ignored and stored in shackles.
No apologies, acknowledgement, or recognition -
we follow drivers, but ignore ignitions.
See what I mean is, the person steering sometimes forgets
the mechanisms that allow them to get from outlet to outlet.
Without the gears, the nuts and the bolts,
the workers and the students, what would power hold?
CataclysticEvent May 2019
I have had passion.
I have had over the top,
Bring you to your knees love.
Have had...
Meaning past tense.
Because passion fades.
It is like a mirage.
Fading the closer to it you get.
An ambient light,
Gone as soon as you near.
I have had utterly devote love.
I'd do anything for you.
I'd be any one for yoh.
Had, past tense.
The thing with all that.
All the things the books write out
In love stories.
Created to make you believe
That real love.
True love should be
This all consuming love.
That drops you to your knees
This passion you can not control.
That's not real love.
That isnt true love.
Those are fairytales
With fairytale creates.
For children to learn that love isnt scary.
Real love is hard
It's a choice.
It's annoying, and aggravating.
Its smiling but also wanting to slap them.

It took me a long time to learn.
Real love is a slow burn.
That ignites randomly.
And you're consumed with it.
But itll burn down.
Smolder instead of ignite.
And you fall into this blissful.
Ordinary.
Ordinary life.
Filled with everyday tasks.
And in between the ordinary.
Are these extraordinary
Ignitions of passion.
And those,
That is what true love is.
Ordinary moments of choice
With extraordinary moments
Of passion.
Travis Green Jun 2019
I carried your love with me
through the beautiful oceans
and waves, smiled as I stared
at the seabirds nearby the shore,
their sweet existence a symbol
of your perfect masterpiece,
exuberant trees and leaves
bursting with radiance, sublime
beach houses rising grand
and glorious over stylish
scenery.  I could see your
illuminating appearance
in the sparkly sand, so vibrant,
so handsome, deep hues
of brown revolving around
your star-crystal canvas.
Thick lips I dreamed of kissing,
to feel with my fingers,
deep lines seeping inside
of me – soft, smooth,
a sky-high guiding me
towards gleaming climaxes,
as I imagined the trunk
of your arms enveloping
my waist, soulful, silvery
beats leaving me rapt,
hypnotized, moonstruck.
Your brilliant body shined
like sapphires, carved across
the sky, bridges of bone I loved,
wanting to sink my teeth
inside of, feel the drumbeats
rise and fall into my flesh.
you were my dream escape,
a soothing melody of heavenly
ignitions intensifying into incredible
mazes, arithmetic equations I could
embrace, the wheels of your engine
a gentle rhythm circling
inside my heart, a grand rising
mountain lifting me up in the
horizon, taking me towards
spellbinding kingdoms.
Travis Green Jul 2019
I’m in love with the beach boys
in this scenic sight, all various
shades of colors hypnotizing
my soul – beautiful bronze,
swirling caramel, creamy chocolate,
vanilla flavored dipped in delicious
strawberries, sleek firm flesh rippling
in the sunlight, synchronized, swelling
in the cityscape, the smoothness of their
wavy creations a pure melody on my skin,
rock and roll inventions, groovy instruments,
street swag, deep domains unable to tame.
Chest muscles magnifying, brightening,
the cool breeze blowing in their view,
bringing their shimmering physiques
into the spotlight.  Dreadheads decked
in dazzling style and solid rhymes,
incandescent horizons, high gloss and shine,
bulging arms and thighs bursting bright, defined,
supreme freshness draped in spectacular
constellations.  Caucasian studs flexing
in the sand, bathing in earth’s greatness,
super pumped jocks, adventurers, mariners,
and surfers coasting the oceans, inhaling
the sweet escape, the fisherman’s dreams,
dressed in stylish swimwear, blasting hip-spinning
anthems, hot gyrating muscles born of brilliance
and handsomeness, everything capturing my soul,
making me starstruck, hypnotized. I could sit here
for hours and hours at a time and watch the
beach boys dance in the limelight, glistening
skin so appealing, so eye-catching, let the magic
of their mansions magnify inside my cells,
let their engine bassline ignitions ignite electricity
along my inner entrance way, lost in the extreme
exhilaration, sea-driven muscle boys, hot bods
surrounding me everywhere on this blissful pier.
Travis Green Dec 2020
He was all the man that I needed
to reach into his pants,
grabbing his long rod,
stroking him so pleasingly,
playing with his *****,
making him moan
as I drifted inside
his dark chocolate dreams.

His flesh was so **** divine,
every body part so hypnotic,
bringing pleasure to my soul
as my nose nuzzled his ***** hairs
down to his soft thighs,
enjoying the ride,
losing control
as he held my head,
forcing his thunderous pole
deeper in my mouth.

He gave me overwhelming sensations,
made my body so hot like rising fire,
taking me higher beyond ecstasy,
our essences syncing together,
entwined in the melodies of passion,
how our rhymes blended as one,
how time seemed to freeze
as we breathed
in the beautiful breeze around us.

And as we confessed our inner truths,
our ignitions cranking up
to the engines of our existence,
the taste of paradise everywhere,
the slow grind of life swirling within us,
I could hear his moans growing louder
as he squirted sticky streams
of pearly liquid on my face.

— The End —