Is it indubitably unsuitable
to be suitably incommunicable
on the undeducible deduction
dubitably deduced
to be immovably unmovable
or doably undoable?

Or can a crazy conundrum communicate
the incommunicable indubitabilty
of the undeducibly suitable deduction?

Simply said,
such is doably suitable,
or indubitably deducible
if the doably communicable deduction

deduces down
to the suitably suitable,
Movably reducible reduction
that's indubitably doable.

I was dead
You brought me into reincarnation.
My heart was broken into microscopic pieces
You merged those pieces together.
You monitored me into Loving and trusting.
Now that I am immovably tenacious they want me back.
I don't want them.
You are the one I deeply love.
You gave me life for it is said a life without love is not life.
You are my soulmate.
They see that I have found my soulmate now they want me back.
What You and I share is mindblowing.
You are the only one for me.
You are all I need no one else can touch
My heart like you do. There is none like you.  
You are mine and I yours.
Eu te amo tanto querido  
Beijinhos

This blancmange of dusk—of melted coral lights
has tugged the softest from the heaviest of heights.

Its face the color of yearning—cast down as mine.

Barely grazed round the head I must be bound inside
the verge again—between what now may be moving
and what has immovably since

the frozen wavescape of circumference undefined.

I’ve been wanting to be touched by a light
such as this, but even urge when satisfied
really quells nothing much—just like
a tender eye lightly daubed in steady brine;

a song I play with passion that never will be mine;

the way I shuffle them, without one
to settle on; the silence that I usually find—
the kind that settles none.

Twilight shows me faint—the wait being time

we pine for clear desire—beyond this lacquered  
veneer of sky—vaguely painting fire.

After the departure of the Romans
we were our own bosses again
at war with each other

The sergeants took over
first the peripheral areas
then the middle land

Only behind the mountains
the residents still resist
longing for a king of their own

as once
his sword shone
his sword shines

immovably stuck
in the eyes of the people
dreaming of a peaceful life

a passed-on promise, for once
but unfortunately
the sword has disappeared

no man's land:
a healthy dose of could-be-worse
for the idiot who equates
the quotidian
to the epicenter of a war.

a special place in hell
for people
who ask for advice
that they can toss
over their shoulder
like a dying cigarette:
instant, capricious gratification.
in hindsight, he shouldn't have cared
for what his friends thought.

like me, perfect role model:
as in control as a truck with faulty brakes
as much fun as falling asleep at a wake
as resilient as a fibreglass dream.

sees the situation that awaits
around the corner
in the alley
that pulses with pathetic light.

cowers
runs
cries
says:
"i wish my skin was as thick as my skull"
and immediately, immovably, refuses to change.

“I rebel; therefore I exist.”
― Albert Camus

The herd live normal lives.
What's a normal life?

Isn't it to taste again a retrieved piece of last night's meal from between one's teeth?
Isn't it an old lover, shriveled and lame, trying to re-experience the ecstasy of his first teen love but lost long ago?
Isn't it to rekindle a calling when passion has grown cold?

A normal is an old movie.
A normal is stale saliva.
A normal is stable center on a spinning wheel.

A normal offers a shelter, but no home.
A normal binds two together, but no love.
A normal sustains life, even luxuries, but no joy.

A rebel lives beyond.
He is fluid nothing.
His home is anxiety.

Only Zeus is immovably still, unchanging silence.
Out of boredom, he creates time.
A rebel is a ******* infant of Chronos.

Hotter than hell, the sun is burning
The firm, fixed earth that isn't turning,—
The fixed, flat earth that's very, very,
Verily, very stationary,—
Immovably firm on its foundation,
As God has made it, His creation.

—and in that moment
I was immovably still;
stone, impassable—

i almost can't believe that i write
my best poems,
  and then completely flip
****** with the cursor button
                  and ****!
              it's... gone...
   and i'm left with scraps...
            bits and pieces,
            sayings out of context,
    like:
           only rich boys get to play the
"chase" game women so romance
about... when i hear of "the chase"
coming out of a man's mouth,
   i start thinking, dude:
      enough of this david attenborough
****!
        ****, nothing noble can
ever come out of my mouth these
days,
          when you say: the druids
speak for the gods,
       i say the tongue of a poet
is owned by the people...
     i could have written this wild
poem about the myths of
the Faroese,
      i.e. the sea of ragnarök at Hvalba,
or the ones seeking wings,
               descending at Lønin;
watch enough lion's ***
  and i'm pretty sure it'll soon
     turn into a mouth of a monkey...
there's is nothing accidental
about this world,
    the rich boys get to play
the chase game, i.e. chase women...
the poor boys?
      just have to, ******* live
with them!
         i'm already "claustrophobic"
having a shadow...
         mind if i say that i like
those dark places:
       where the two of us meet?
there are places like that...
    pupils dilate,
        the shadow disappears...
        we, one and as one alone,
toss the autumn leaves into
a fire to abscond from perfumes
of decay...
          and then listen
to the meat heads...
          bashing, grizzly grinding
a chewing sound...
      and the tongue of man, became
the foetus, in the yet to take form,
within a woman's body...
     for man the coward,
then woman: the chandelier
         shackler...
               upon who's duty?
to play a game with women is one
thing...
          but to live with one?
                  i typescripted
the conversation between
dr. isak borg, marianne borg
   and dr. evald borg for ten or so minutes...
   and i found that:
after a while...
             this will never be
what i have already lost...
         and in that what i can only
gain is a similar answer
   we function to our own needs,
you have a **** need to live create life,
to which she replied: so what are your
needs?
           i need to be completely,
immovably... dead.
              as one might say:
for man the already apparent
burial...
        for woman, cremation,
and reincarnation...
           if women wear the veil,
or not...
           no woman is worth
being remembered...
         men ought to fertilise
the earth with a burial ground...
while women, to ease the pain
of not having either a lover
or a mourner stand by her grave:
be... cremated.