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the wind is a Lady with
bright slender eyes(who

moves)at sunset
and who—touches—the
hills without any reason

(i have spoken with this
indubitable and green person “Are
You the Wind?” “Yes” “why do you touch flowers
as if they were unalive,as

if They were ideas?” “because,sir
things which in my mind blossom will
stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise,appear
capable of fragility and indecision

—do not suppose these
without any reason and otherwise
roses and mountains
different from the i am who wanders

imminently across the renewed world”
to me said the)wind being A lady in a green
dress,who;touches:the fields
(at sunset)
Robdejong Nov 2013
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Westley Barnes Mar 2016
Each time I attempt to conclude
this equation,
I arrive at the same intersection of doubt,
as if fate sees me coming.

1) Highway ****** Crash
2) The Evasive Goings-on in The Puppy Court
3) A Picture of Susan Howe in a Man's Grey Overcoat

These sequences of event all appeared to me in dreams. The same dream, repeated, over a succession of winter nights. The first few sober, the last an alert blur, wherein the images seemed to make the most sense.

All I can be assured of is this:
because the police officer in the dream was a police officer
Not a garda síochana or police inspector
the dream was definitely set in one of the Midwest United States
where I've never been, yet oddly interests me more than Canada,
where the same applies. It was definitely  freezing
(perhaps the blanket had been pulled off me in sleep?)
and the police officer definitely spoke English and said
"Highway" Hence: American.

The first night the dream arrived
It was that time of year when the night sky
subtly tricks you into believing that
morning is imminently about to break.

Those nights
A reminder that nature
was the first coy tease of suspended disbelief
the first pay-per-view special that took its time
getting going and then ended all too soon.

Two trucks had split in two a mid-size saloon-
That was the first of the dream's episodes-
But a voice arrived like a roll call of ice before an avalanche
-whispering that it was "a setup"-
which I presumed meant "collusion."
So I had a ******, at hand, in my dream-
speaking to the mustachioed Midwestern police detective afterwards-
as mutually understanding as if we had been in the same all-boys Catholic secondary school.
He had the suspects-so we then presided unto-

"THE PUPPY COURT"

Which was-yes, a court whose racial make-up consisted of young Dogs-
(This being a dream ; Dreams which are often the dictionary definition of Surreal and often don't mean anything)
The more I consider it, the Puppies were also most likely Puppets
Acted out by humans who had fists shoved up their *****.
Perhaps this court was a speculative court-it was, most certainly,
A "Kangaroo" court
With no justice being presided over, as such.
Heckles sounded throughout most of the exhibits,
A sternly yapping Yorkshire Terrier banged the gavel to no avail-
He was consistently rudely interrupted by a cocksure Golden Retriever-
who seemed to have as his boyos most of the bench and the jurors.
I never did find out who was responsible
for the horrific collision that spelled the end for the saloon driver,
as at this point I would usually exit the court in disgust
and for some reason found myself reading a poem in front of
an audience of one-
the acclaimed Irish-American L=A=N==G=U=A=G=E (that's how they spell it..) poet Susan Howe.

Yes, she was indeed wearing a Man's gray Overcoat
Resembling herself in the picture I held in my hand
Next to my own text
And as I looked toward her
The room's low lighting seem to reflect
the sparse "Black and White" filter of the photograph
and she was also wearing what looked like
the same Man's gray (Houndstooth maybe?
She Looked ALL filtered through "Black and White")

So the intention seemed to be that I was reading,
or perhaps presenting, maybe even pitching?
to Susan Howe. ("And how!"-might have been the before-or-after gag I might have used to anyone who new how it was going to go or how it happened-what gamey fun, these puns be...)
Susan looked on with penitence, as if prematurely unimpressed...
I look down to the poem I was expecting myself to read, and realised...
why the ******* did I choose that?

It was a poem I had written several years ago (well, if several means seven, lets say six)
Its subject was a young Canadian (possible Motorway Crash Link? Perhaps I misremembered her as midwestern?..) Muslim student whom I had shared a class on Hellenistic philosophy with back in the first or second year of my undergrad in Dublin (oh the hedonistic, sunsplashed, affordable Dublin of those days) and whom I had shared a flirtatious rapport with, innocent enough of course but always backdropped by a underscored leitmotif that instilled the threat of a problematic outcome across religious and possibly less so cultural divides

(Breath)

Nevertheless, she laughed at my jokes and self-deprecation and would squeeze my arm tightly when particularly amused , would hug me enthusiastically at the end of every class and although I never saw the full profile of her under that headscarf her ****** features Vogue beach fashion shoot stunning and after the module ended I never saw her again oh but how rare and strangely puritanical the lust...

Regardless, the poem began as such:

A Stir in Yemen/ must have been the catalyst for the smokey condensation/ in your gaze/ the mocha swirl in your pupils/ and the vex in your smile/ alluding to double meanings/innuendo that treads together like an Ernst canvas/ a blessed triptych/thrillingly

This poem was typed onto a model of Nokia phone which I have been made aware has since gone out of fashion, like it's producer.

Max Ernst-the surrealist painter, of course. A manual in style for most of us.

In response to my reading, Susan Howe merely nodded silently, seemingly all knowingly, as if she had thought the poem written for her or contained an interpretation that I had unintended (or, if asked by the real-life Susan Howe, would pretend to have intended all along.)

And there the Dream Triptych always ended.

As I said at the beginning I dreamt it twice more that same week, once intoxicated. It always followed the same sequence, and I don't read books on dreams so I have no idea what it meant, why it had three distinct parts or whether if most likely it was all a bit of nonsense. But at least it was INTERESTING.

Make the rest up for yourself.
The time has come forth to ponder and think,
about the spiritual planes that are reluctantly unforeseen.
Of the dimensions that are surreal to those who use emotion and feel.
The mind creates an undeniable creation that disguises itself to be real.

Enduring and speculating on the thought of consciousness and love;
one will realize the reality of our minds perception defying the dogmatic breeding brawl.
Although our minds potential is finite and cleverly obscured;
we will begin to witness the marching of shooting stars so pure.

Imminently clear, we begin to reach a higher plane of degree.
Meditating to the point where we become one with the universe without plea.
Encompassing the ethereal and uncovering half-truths,
perceiving the ultimate correspondence intelligently and shrewd.

Where will one travel amidst the taunt of death and fear?
To a place that is all well too known, a herd of aimless tears.
Lacrimation will enlighten those when they have fallen in the solstices peak.
To experience a world that was previously known as a philosophical creation by the streams.

Metaphysical questions will mark its toll to the soul who learns to decipher no more.
Otherwise, contentions will cause despair and half truths will then have to bear.
Inducing a different consciousness to a degree not explored before;
one will embark on a alchemic journey of the mental transmutation to the inner soul.

Mental creation spurs the ****** of the universal degree of spirit and mind.
An illusion so concurrent to the law depicted within our eyes alter-mind.
Deception will avail to those who blindly believe they have prevailed;
when attempting to solve the riddle behind the creator of the tale.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Leonard Green Jul 2013
I wanna be your soul at peace
tranquility, gratifying the discontent with optimism, completely
I wanna be your soul in pain
anguish, suffering the life with tribulations, relentlessly

I wanna be your soul with joy
paradise, capturing the bliss with consideration, continuously
I wanna be your soul in heat
passion, inundating the fantasy with eroticism, imminently

I wanna be your soul with hate
antidote, conquering the disgust with devotion, endlessly
I wanna be your soul at dawn
witness, observing the beauty with admiration, unselfishly

I wanna be, inside out, not the outside in
I wanna be, feelings amp, not the quiet type
I wanna be, love unleashed, not the thick-skinned men
I wanna be, simply one, not the one-half hype
I wanna be, realized dreams, not the wishful wind
I wanna be, living the words, epitomizing love so effortlessly.
Nitika Small Oct 2015
When pain escalates, your mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Thinking while you sink
Sinking while your mind attaches links to other links which create memories
Vile memories that participate in your habit to erase them
To remove them
By ripping them from your mind with force
Using the high of that blatant eight ball as your source

When pain escalates, your mind begins to deteriorate
As you ligate your mind frame with a plateau of mistakes
A gust of emptiness floats uninvited through derailed spaces
Generating issues on top of issues 
Imminently transforming you
Fabricating you as two addicts in one body
Two addicts in one mind
Two addicts in one soul

The mind excavates on the level of your thoughts
It digs deep
By means of unique technique
It leaves your heart weak
Like a fading light in the middle of the dark
It'll pull out your distress with raised instructions of defeat
Then attaches a link that involves a ghost that sets your mind a bit free

A bit free, a little empty 
The voices go quiet for a time
Your heart can now slow down as your mind continues to unwind
The high of it all makes your body want more
Reaching into your subconscious
Making you believe you need more to be cured

Sinking while you think, your mind provides solutions
Excavating while you sleep, your heart decaying from contortions
Contortions happening in your mind and soul
Contortions that have the ability to leave you body a bit sore
Masking the fears of this uneventful detour
Cause when pain escalates, the mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
NuurSeraph Feb 2015
We are the Children of the Sun,
Sister to Moon,
unyielding to none

Rushing gracefully to outrun
the warring tug of our orbit
brutish and unrelenting
naught to be forsaken

We are tokens of synergy
an Ocean of Energy
flaring flames of Inferno
waiting, imminently
we promenade 'cross spaceous sea
to engulf the fragile faun in flight
Hell hath no other to share this night

We are the dark and undetected
electrically affected
magnetic resonance of the One.

*~ forever we will be the Children of the Sun ~
A poem about cosmic radiation and other space things that go bump in the night sky
Onoma Jun 2018
city heat in hard

black attire, superconductive

glow of a serpent chasing

its tail.

asphalted lay of holy land--

whose bedraggled pulse snorts

in ****** laughter.

roadside augurs fester while

tying the laces of traffic, through

passed out archways.

bird's beaks are broken open,

in mad waterless monologues.

as the nucleus of this wizened apple,

casts oblique shadows... for curly cue-ing worms

flirtatious doom.

sped billboards imminently flattening the world,

under a Columbus-blue sky.

going, going...gone!

ice cream trucks mangle dueling theme

songs, sloughed off by sensational tides of kids.

distraction's lustful lick, an informationless

tombstone busy with curves.

here, whole-body shaves of renouncement...

and steady showers of salt, will make

worthy the truest Himalayan meditation.
[February 13, 2017]

The emerald forest radiates lustfully, humming a constant melancholy tune
Reverberating off trees of sadness, beneath the sorrow of a cold graphite moon
A storm echoes imminently, sinister clouds stretching from a frigid ruby mountain
In the center of the madness, amongst the sapphire rain, footsteps silently pounding

Her shimmering tears glisten iridescent underneath the evanescent dim moonlight
The vicious snarling follows close behind, the howling smothering her with fright
The thick, chaotic mist swirls beside her, blanketing the ground with mysterious fear
Snagged on a gnarled root, she collapses into the mud when the beasts appear

The veil dissipates around the enormous, savage shapes of starving silver wolves
Leaping towards her with jaws parted, with immeasurable furiosity uncontrolled
Her scream pierces the atmosphere as a sword suddenly materializes out of thin air
A lean man stands over the pack in triumph, the breeze blowing his long raven hair

The volatile storm rages above, further dragging reality into the depths of an abyss
The blanket of fog thickens, a bell chimes in the distance, sounding the apocalypse
No discussion, dashing through thickets in a labyrinth weaved from a song of despair
Hand in hand they are tormented by the infinite horrors of a hopeless nightmare

Lightning crackles across the ominous sky sending waves of fire through the clouds
An explosion rips apart the melody like shattered glass, siphoning the world of sound
Flaming wings emerge from shadowed obscurity, shrieking, rumbling, rolling thunder
Smoldering towards the barren battlefield transformed by ancient dwelling hunger

A malevolent silhouette reveals its unnatural presence from quiet concealed rage
Iron rattling within its grasp, a phantom riding stallions contained by leather reins
Born from corrupted suffering, their charcoal fur hidden by silky midnight manes
Crystal hooves thumping against firm, packed soil as they charge into level plains

A pillar of electricity discharges from the collision of two forces at supersonic speed
A phoenix billowing molten embers at an evil apparition and its demonic steed
Haunted chains tracing through the air, creating swirling vortexes of wind and debris
The pressure deteriorates the land, awakening a statue as mortals escape the trees

Frozen in time at the edge of blood-nourished roots, lone figures witness in awe
Hellhounds racing towards the scene with curved canines and sharp granite claws
A fierce roar splits the fabric of existence as a mighty golden serpent soars overhead
It plunges to the earth with an eruption of dirt, stimulating a potent aura of dread

Infernal demons of unknown origin clash with relentless power, using no restraint
An obsidian knight wields a wicked blade, opening wounds and splattering paint
The canvas becomes tainted, filled with unfathomable memories of forgotten peace
Oils of countless colors blend together, sentiment reflections within a crimson sea

The maelstrom intensifies, a whirlpool complete with mayhem, emotion and will
The battle is consumed by its own hatred, a grim picture stained by a poisoned quill
Water evaporates, the exhibit solidifies and the vision fades as the instruments play
Her agony gleams on amethyst cheeks as she walks into the center of endless decay

Malice snaps and tension shakes, a chasm filled with hostility breaks, infusing hate
An inferno incinerates diamond, emptying a bottomless pool of lingering fate
A distorted sculpture is formed within the horrendous tempest of mutilating torture
When sickening smoke clears, she lies within a tragic crater of a scorched orchard

Turmoil subsides, the weather calms and light beams on the war-torn earth
Deities gather near her burnt mangled corpse, finally able to feel remorse
The ashes of reincarnation flow through their fingertips, reviving innocence
She awakes to harmonious music, embraced by its blazing magnificence
Author Note: A collaboration of my previous poems within my gemstone series.

Obsidian Knight [February 13, 2017]
Category: Fantasy/Gemstone Series VI.
martin challis Feb 2015
One

The body is a song
Beat after beat the drummer keeping time
Saves one beat for you and one for the heart of the world

Two

When humans care for orphaned gorillas
They are human beings – being human
The gorillas
Witness to an endangered species.

Three

Three wise men arrive in Las Vegas. They're confused. The city of stars accepts their gifts in return for chips and exchanges their camels for Pontiacs.
Eventually the three men run out of goodwill and are asked to leave the star-city.
Now each of then wears self-correcting sunglasses, far more cautious when following the brightness of artificial light.

Four

The world is a box with clear sides
Through this we see the sky dark and the sky light
We see four directions on all horizons
And constellations that rise and fall
Shut your eyes and listen carefully
You can hear the lid open every time one of us enters
And one of us leaves.

Five

The lad in the schoolyard solves a problem with the same
Mathematical precision of his father
He counts on his five fingers and divides them
Into one tight fist
With this math he gets a perfect score and
None argue with the result.

Six

When all the world clocks stop ticking.
They will each tell of a different time: during rush hour, before the interview, at the moment of martyrdom, just after take off, when war is declared, the date and time of your birth.
On any given day each one will tell the truth - at least twice.

Seven

Seven sons were seven suns a'shine on everyday
Yet seven suns one day went dark to shine another way
Seven dwarves in darkening hue imminently benign
No longer to bright any sky and none would see the sign

Eight

Eight accounts of starving populations
Eight charity organisations seeking aid
Eight million raised per quarter
Quartered by eight reasons to extract a share
Before the rest is shared to the rest
Who continue to starve.

Nine

Nine millimetre cannon kills you with a slightly larger calibre than eight millimetre cannon. Makes a slightly larger hole, travels slightly quicker, has a slightly longer trajectory, provides a slightly louder thud or thwuk when it hits the target.
This knowledge may not prevent you from coming to harm; but at least if killed by nine millimetre cannon, you'll die well informed.

Ten

How many cynics does it take to change a light bulb?
As many as it takes to be satisfied with this as an ending.



MChallis © 2015
PK Wakefield Apr 2012
the futures always never immediate
imminently futile brief furious
not like fields outward sprawling
instantaneously 'neath an entire
sea of stars faultless unheaving
pastoral breathless catches you
sharply between your *******
quivering elated passing immutably
into dust

                (and i just laugh and pull
                 the finite immeasurable
                 lust of thy beginning kiss
                 into a trembling pile of lips,

                                                                '

                                                          ,


                                                                     ,



                                            '



                                                                                .
HelloFrance Oct 2014
My heart's a paper written with **
Crumpled, crunched and dumped.
I've always wanted her to feel it.
I've always wanted her to see it.

But her sight's blocked by desires of her own
She'll never see what she doesn't want to see
What I want is an abhorrence to her
A horrid scene that's imminently inexistent.

Never imagined I could hurt this bad
Never thought I'd be wounded this deep
I once thought in metal armor I am clad
But there's one thing she did, and my carcass exploded all over the place.

Wish I could slap it on her face how it hurts
Wish I could feel her caress and apology
But all I have left is me
All that's left for comfort is me

Cannot nail how this makes a square be four sided
Love won't, doesn't work one-sided
This double-sided life I'm living,
Will leave me in the end of the story grieving.

She never feels pain
She never gives up everything
She never let her walls come down
She's a one tough kid.
Falling Awake Oct 23
These knotted guts
eject my pulsating heart,
while I wait for my welfare
to imminently crumble–
I’m lunging from my vessel.

I frantically survey for danger,
but the culprits remain covert–
I turn up empty on my basis.

But failing to subside, I wonder…
do the wires of my diagnosis
wrap me in incessant neurosis?
Or has conditioning to trauma
trained my brain to fear?

Regardless I remain engulfed
by this looming devastation,
and my neck constantly aches
from looking over my shoulder.
Megan L Jan 2016
Tell the people that I love

that I'm sorry.

Sorry that the wounds on my skin will not be healing

sorry that my eyes will never be opening

sorry that the mess I leave behind requires a cleanup you can't solicit from me

sorry that I won't apologize anymore.

It feels like every time I pick up a pen to write

All that comes out in the light of day is sorries.

Maybe I should write poems in the dark

I wish I preferred the dark

but in reality all the dark means is another missed opportunity

at telling someone I love them.

I don't even know who I'd say it to

but maybe myself

if I ever got over the fear of rejection I will imminently face

staring at the mirror

whispering the words until love turns to hate

and I **** in my stomach and wipe off my tears

and I give into the headache that has never left my mind.

Tell the people I love that I was sick,

and I was angry,

but I'm done with all that because the minute my boxcutter met flesh the anger and the sick gave way to scars

- I am a master at making scars -

and ebbed at the shore of my life,

my life is the sea

AND I AM DROWNING.

Eons ago when I would spend time with friends I felt empowered and happy

but now when I do I realize that I am no longer new or shiny or even worthwhile

and my friend's crossover into being just an acquaintance kills me every time

even though I am waiting in line

to end the tortuous tiptoeing myself.

Tell the people I love

that I am not sorry,

just at rest,

sitting beneath the dark shade that death provides

steadily freezing to death in a bath tub full of ice because

ANYTHING is better than you making me feel like garbage again.

Tell the people I love

that screaming at my grave

would be better than bringing flowers

because at least I could have something real from you.

Tell the people I love

that love is not a race;

you don't need to be first to be winning.

Tell the people I love

that I know they love each other

too much to spare any love for me

and that's okay.

Tell the people I love I won't get in their way.

Tell the people I love I won't apologize

for this.
Like an adversity onrushes imminently,
Thy evolvement feeble you,
The assailant of my riches at most,
Impede this generation to limp down,
Falling on your entangle, twitching studiously
In an advertent common knowledge,

Knowing your existence that your part of me,
Even when I’m not, terrorizes everything I touch,
To whom shall I convey my incarceration?
The reluctant of my righteous to scheme you,
Strung the extension on the same leash,

Sweet memories inhabit this shack,
This house, these cars, this fame, I know sometimes I
Wish I didn’t have this life, these tenacious memories,
We had nothing but a felicitous life, having only grains
Was enough, depicting a smile with pain,
Fear and joy on my school Departure,
But you never grouch

Your silence became tremendous,
You perished on the face of earth,
Thou never subsisted till my wish,
Through asperity, fear and pain
I am who I am for you
The tracker has his mark

he shot her as she yelped and barked

now he hunts her down

there is blood in the snow


The hunter knows his prey is not far away

he knows it will not be long to the timber wolf has gone

she the last of her kind, had cubs last years

but hunters found her hide and demolished them with spears


Now she limps and drags her wounded bleeding leg

how crimson is the blood on the white snow

she howls to the moon as it appears

knowing her death is imminently near


There is no mercy where the hunters heart resides

for he wants her life and her coat of glory, her hide



By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Run Jul 2013
There was this boy
He appeared
In my dreams
When I needed
Rescuing

Black hair
Black shirt
Jeans
Can't remember how he looks like

He was the only
One
In a world
Of delusion
Distortion
Nonsense
Who seemed
Real
Who was
Sane
Who cared
Or so I think

Miraculously
Getting rid
Of all the dangers
Saving me
From an
Unpleasant
Fate

I still remember
The last thing
He told me
In the last dream
It was long long ago...
Caught in a web
Like those pyramids
You climb
With danger
Getting imminently
Closer
Climbing through
Steadily
I was frozen
My fear of heights
Made my movements
Sluggish
And slow


He turned to me
And said
"I'll go draw him
Off
Go
We'll meet
There"
Then he vanished

Ever since then
He had never
Come back
I wonder what's happening
In that chaotic world
Sometimes
I even wonder
How he is

Even though
He isn't
In this world
He isn't
Flesh and blood
But he makes me feel
Safe and
Secure
Grounded
In a world
Of chaos

Oh where are you...
I kinda named him "Dream"...

If you took the danger
Away
Why don't you take
Me
Away as well?
HelloFrance Oct 2014
My heart's a paper written with **
Crumpled, crunched and dumped.
I've always wanted her to feel it.
I've always wanted her to see it.

But her sight's blocked by desires of her own
She'll never see what she doesn't want to see
What I want is an abhorrence to her
A horrid scene that's imminently inexistent.

Never imagined I could hurt this bad
Never thought I'd be wounded this deep
I once thought in metal armor I am clad
But there's one thing she did, and my carcass exploded all over the place.

Wish I could slap it on her face how it hurts
Wish I could feel her caress and apology
But all I have left is me
All that's left for comfort is me

Cannot nail how this makes a square be four sided
Love won't, doesn't work one-sided
This double-sided life I'm living,
Will leave me in the end of the story grieving.

She never feels pain
She never gives up everything
She never let her walls come down
She's a one tough kid.
MS Lim Nov 2015
LIFE: THROUGH  MY EYES

Forget, better still ignore
what the great philosophers had said
life is but a point of view
only I and I alone can shed

meaning from my experiences
unique, individual, lonely and tumultuous
life is in the singular and the roads
I have travelled are unknown to the multitudinous

no outsider heard me cry nor witnessed my tears
like a caged animal how often I had been trapped with my hands tied
also  imminently close to drowning and I struggled against the tide
my freedom to regain---every means I courageously tried

and promised myself with the words
'   I was not born to yield
   ( proud philosophy is no comfort nor succour)
    I  was victorious as I fought without fear in life's battle-field'.
NIL
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2013
Is it beautiful?
Or terrifying,
the way love can feel.

Raindrops drip from your fingertips,
only to imminently be evaporated
by the sun’s wave of smoldering heat.
Do you cling to those raindrops,
because you crave the touch on your skin?
Or do you wait for the sun,
because you crave the warmth beneath your curves?

I have felt the rain,
and weathered the storm.
I have danced in the warmth,
and soaked the sun beneath my feet.
Both equally making me feel complete.
Both teaching me things about myself I never knew.

It is beautiful,
to love.
It is terrifying,
knowing love can be lost.
But like the sun rises,
and the water nourishes
its merely unavoidable,
but necessary for growth.

Take my hand,
and let us walk in the rain.
Let the sun dry out the emotions,
flooding through my brain.
With the warmth of your skin,
and the storm of your eyes.
I will be fine.
I will be fine.
Every day, except on the week’s tail,
We’d reunite afresh for the ninth time,
This period away from campus,
Behind this small, lonely brick house,
An outcast beside the field of active childhood,
Shielding ourselves within a concrete square
At the edge of the earth,
Where a new world always awaited
For its only population’s arrival
With a train still resting and rusting on old tracks.

I get caught in the moment of happiness.
Your back is up against the wall,
And I am your reflection.
My fingers are warm and moist
As your cold breath is beating on my neck.
“This is what love feels like,” you said surely,
With your cute high-pitched voice,
Adjusting your physique out of self-consciousness,
To attract my shy, indirect eyes for enhancement
When you were more than enough at that point in time.

Glistening sludgy flesh covered with soaked material
Clothed over your bewildered mind
As my heart tried pacing along with yours,
Aching to be one harmonization.
Your excitement was interrupted as you reached the ******,
Still craving for repeated relief and desired euphoria.
Cradling with naivety and no weight to carry,
It was easy to slowly sway like friendly fish at first,
Only a pile of shaky bones rocking back and forth in unison,
Just like the last dance you saved for me four years later.

Then two having the option:
To sit and recite sharp words and hide from selfish society, where promises would imminently be broken
Or lie and make blades dull and stare straight at the blue screen, where judgment would subsequently be found.
Those imaginative and nonfictional stories we told carelessly,
Seeking the sound of our comforting voices,
Just to create conversation and an entertaining impression,
Embodying our lives back into the kids we used to enjoy being.
After the parade, we knew we’d eventually sell out to a cliché.
Laughter would become closure after your departure with the bees,
And our sacred place would transform into any other ghetto by one of us.

At the end of the adventures of Lovita and Stopacho,
I couldn’t resist inhaling missed, edible hope,
As I perpetually did of poetic infatuation,
Near the spot which changed my life alone with you.
I must keep this setting alive for both adolescents,
So we’ll never die like your presence did,
Most importantly, because there was truth in all of that.
Maybe an alternate universe is reserved for us at the same disfigured location.
Those were the most delicious slush floats ever though.
Now they’ll never taste ideal again. Never again.
Hadrian Veska Jun 2016
The clock has been set
And it's counting down
To an inescapable doom
That we feel so imminently

But the clock is just a construct
Devised by man to tell the seasons
Time itself holds no weight
In the grand course of things

The clock will eventually break
When midnight is struck
Signaling the arrival
Of humanity's end

In our aftermath
Creation will carry on
As if nothing of consequence
Had even taken place

And truely nothing had
Levottomuus Apr 2019
Stoic amid the tranquil tides, the temperate zephyrs
But a fluttering spark, travelling through the aeons
Witness to the wonders of time, yet ever fleeting
The bearer of that which outlasts this eternal folly

However, for a certainty, even this steadfast paragon
Does not foresee what the clock hands have in store
And the fallen mouth their soft, intelligible rhymes
Thus the air carries this ephemeral elegy of euphony

But as the voices dance within those hallowed halls
Sound brilliantly in harmony, a display of fervour
The mosaic of echoes dismantled by fate's clutches
Changes imminently, unavoidably, flawlessly

Alas, the decadent phantoms of the days long gone
In their irrefutable devotion to their fallacious lord
Seek naught but to extinguish the astral avatar
Embodied within the solitary luminaire, ever vigilant

Does the final line of defence lay dormant even now
As the messenger of the deep beyond revivifies
The illusion dispelled, disenchanted, disengaged
Situation growing direr, the peacekeeper absent

Sealed within a decrepit maze, the mirrored world
Drawing parallels between the unimaginable still
Lost its own essence in the steadily rising entropy
For none are safe; the fabric of reality is wounded

Tendrils escape from the fissure, liberated at last
Come what may, the very barriers between realms
Once separating life and death, light and darkness,
Brought down in a prismatic flash of scintillation

And as that which tore this rift open runs rampant
The spectres of the past in their perpetual undeath
Whisper but a single innocent inquiry of naiveté
"May we reclaim our corporeal selves once more?"

An epiphany unlike most defeats wishful thinking
The clairvoyant beholder, the ever-present observer
Held their answer for as long as the currents of time
Although hope succumbs last, what is after hope?

Thus, in the demoralising wake of the bitter truth
Let the untamed flames of fury loose, such tragedy
Doom befalls the woeful, weary and withered worlds
For the inconspicuous spark has ceased its motion

The end justifies the means in the mind of madness
Created on a whim. I don't understand myself sometimes.
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…)
Parable  Gen-Resolution:
Geraldine Taylor Jun 2017
Many a flame, brightens the sky

Such events to re-enact

A plot in vain that would underlie

A pre-determined pact



Brought up as a Catholic child

Beliefs that would not wane

The distinct view of Protestants

Reflecting royal reign



The disapproving treatment then

Catholic Priests and all

Of secret church services

Hidden holes – no fall



A venture to the land of Spain

Discover and to fight

A brave and learned soldier

Gunpowder to alight



Plans devised, against the king

Thomas Winter’s plot

Fawkes informed and now assigned

Such tales were not forgot



A secret meet within the Inn

Robert Catesby lead

A gang adjoined as one to swear

Our plans will go ahead



A parliamentary opening

Imminently placed

For barrels rolled into the night

Hidden without trace



A letter sent to Monteagle

Reward for such a warn

Uncovered act, to light a fuse

The truth of which be sworn



Hidden in the cellar below

O’ Guy to now arrest

A plotters display of guilty heads

The ending of their quest



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Thence, to rise and to shine
Shining Shoes like the boy who dreams to shine guitars
With a box full of things, that I don't even know
What they were meant for, a semblance of freedom
Or some kind of splendid intertwining of these circumstances
My preceding circumstances could be less like my inhibitions
This is the house I always come back among old and missing things
Like a sold case for lost typewriter
These screenplays are written on borrowed time

I come in thy lassos of the sky
Really, is time an object and my preferences are lying about
I am pensive near the fire that I so desire
The attention I aspire for, and the friends I'm grateful for
I gratuitously ingratiating my missing pleasures
The road was taken, and some freed were less
Lost by the surrounding *******, I made haste
Landing upon a metaphorical desert
I was forced to look at ways to leave this road for dated people
Who reminded what it felt like to in the fast life
Theoretically and tersely, I make debate about things I understand
I have hopes and dreams
Being humble is one of them, but, I cannot think of any reasons
To be arrogant, but, you bring out the best in me
And make haste leaving me in my hate and agonizing feeling
I preeminent and imminently expectant of the recesses of sextants tanks that thing in this ziggy stardust
You were once a roll-roll star, you lived by your words
But, they reminded of how you never thought you were an artist
Until someone proves you wrong about your ideas
And exchanges them for incessant doubt
Like a man at sea looking at broad horizon
These are parallel perceptions of how you are brought about
In your life
And my life
You might be slovenly, and that makes you the title
Stolen by some man at sea
Instead, your heart was stolen by the man with the telescope
On a midnight cruise from a distant lighthouse
That signals through the cloudless climes and surrenders ships
Forbidden, like a sea of endless *****
Fulcrum Reaction And Loathing
It’s Twelve to midnight,
The cold moonlight shines
so bright across the October night.
I go outside for a walk with my dog.
The sky falls into a dark void filled with nothing.
The world stands still.
An owl coos in the pitch black
crooked trees that stand tall.
Surrounding every corner I go.
Each foot-step crunches beneath my feet
With leaves scattered across the concrete.
Screaming in pain.
The wind sings under the Harvest moon,
like lost souls.
Sending chills down my spine with paranoia.
Streetlights shining so grim and dark
With a yellow glow that shows the way
Through that cursed path that leads beneath the dark.
Crickets chirping loudly through the dimmed,
quiet neighborhood.  
My breathing becomes heavy.
Each heartbeat grows louder and louder with anxiety.
Feeling this unease tension in the black void.
Feeling like I’m watched.
Stalked through my night walk.
Then a crash breaks the silence.
A trashcan falls over.
The night swallows the sound whole,
Followed by a creepy whistle echoing through the night.
I turn around…
Under one streetlight,
I see a tall, skinny dark figure just standing there.
Its eyes staring me down with its wide,
uncanny smile. Like I’m its prey in its sight.
It felt like a while.
Its arms and legs contorted and crooked,
Bones poking through flesh of its skin.
Then for a moment
I hear an alarm on my phone.
It’s an Amber Alert…

“A creature called
‘The Crooked man’
lurks in the neighborhood at midnight.
A total of five people went missing last week.
If you see this creature,
Stay in shelters imminently!
Don’t let anyone in and
Don’t trust the voices inside!”

There I stand.
The light vanishes into darkness
And the song stops playing.
I can’t see for a moment.
Then out of nowhere,
it lunges at me.
The last thing
I saw… is its smile.

I wake up,
Past twelve through midnight
In my bed.
It was all in my head…
Or is it?
As I see an Amber Alert on my phone with a message
“Don’t let the crooked man in…”
Then…Whistling…
Camilla Peeters Apr 2018
then there came a long period of passion
enticing stories
the books were given away and
the interest slowly
melted too, just like the owner dreamt
every day
about the two of them, they would hang over the fence
until he sent them away. after that they left

it is possible that the owner in the
past had had much to do with
age and nature. the moment they were hanging over the fence
she would wave fiercely and imminently with the
syringe. at once
these events kept the interest
alive
"i would want to buy everything
he puts his syringe in"

killer? he looks exactly like those kind of people, who
spray venom on others
do you remember the man in the
Mystery, whose rake
was poisoned? i think he is exactly someone like that
it's probably best we ran away so much. i bet you
if we hadn't
we wouldn't be alive right now

— The End —