The stars still shone last night, and tasted pretty like my last sonnet;
And I still loved thee; and imagined thee 'fore I retreated to bed.
Ah, but thou know not-thou wert envied by t'at squeaking trivial moon;
It seduced and befriended thee; but took away thy sickly love too soon.
Ah, t'at moon which was burnt by jealousy, and still perhaps is,
Took away thy love-which, if only willing to grow; couldst be dearer than his.
But too thy love, which hath-since the very outset, been mostly repulsive and arduous;
And loving thee was but altogether too customary, and at gullible times, odious.
Ah, but how I was too innocent-far too innocent, was I!
Why didst I stupidly keepeth loving thee-whose soul was but too sore, and intense-with lies?
And at t'is very moment, every purse of stale dejection leapt away from me;
Within t'eir private grounds of madness; but evaporating accusations.
Ah, so t'at thou desired me not-and thus art deserving not of me;
But why didst I resist not still-thy awkwardness, and glittering sensations?
Oh, I feeleth uncivil now-for I should hath been too mad not at the moon;
For taking away thy petty threads, and curdling winds, out of me-too soon.
And for robbing my gusts, and winds, and pale storms of bewitching-yet baffling, affection;
But in fact thrusting me no more, into the realms of death; and t'eir vain alteration.
Ah, thee, so how I couldst once have awaited thee, I never knoweth;
For perhaps I shall be consumed, and consequently greeteth immediate death; within the fatal blushes of tomorrow.
But still-nothing of me shall ever objecteth to t'is tale of blue horror, and chooseth to remain;
And I shall distracteth thee not; and bindeth my path into t'at one of thy feet-all over again.
Once more, I shall be dimmed by my mirthlessness and catastrophes and sorrow;
Yet thankfully I canst becometh glad, for all my due virtues, and philanthropic woes.

I shall be wholly pale, and unspeaking all over me-just like someone dead;
And out of my mouth wouldst emergeth just tears-and perhaps little useless, dusty starlings;
I shall hath no more pools or fits or even filths of healthy blood, nor breath;
I shall remembereth not, the enormous fondness, and overpowering passions; for our future little darlings.
For my love used to be chilly, but warm-like t'ose intuitive layers behind the sky;
But thou insisted on keeping silent and uncharmed-a frightfulness of sight; I never knew why.
Now t'at I hath returned everything-and every single terseness to my heart;
I shall no more wanteth thee to pierce me, and breaketh my gathered pride, and toil, apart.
For I am no more of a loving soul, and my whole fate is bottomless and tragic;
I canst only be a lover for thee, whenst I am endorsed; whenst I feeleth poetic.
I shall drowneth myself deep into the very whinings of my misery;
I shall curseth but then lift myself again-into the airs of my own poetry.
For the airs of whom might only be the sources of love I hath,
For t'is real world of thine, containeth nothing for me but wrath;
Ah, and those skies still screameth towards me, for angering whose ****** foliage;
Whenst t'ose lilies and grapes of my soul are but mercifully asleep on my part.
I wanteth to be mad; but not any careless want now I feeleth-of cherishing such rage;
For I believeth not in ferocity; but forgiveness alone-which rudely shineth on me, but easeth my painful heart.
I hath ceased to believe in my own hand; now furnished with discomfort;
But still I hath to fade away, and thus cut t'is supposedly long story short.
I hath been burned by thee, and flown wistfully into thy Hell;
But so wisheth me all goodness; and that I shall surviveth well.
And just now-at t'is very moment of gloom; I entreateth t'at thou returneth to her, and fasteneth yon adored golden ring;
For it bringst thee gladness, which is to me still sadly too dear, everything.

Ah! Look! Look still-at t'ose streaks of blueness-which are still within my poetry on thee;
But I shall removeth them, and blesseth them with deadness; so that thou shalt once more be young, and free.
For what doth thee want from me-aside from unguarded liberty, and unintimate-yet wondrous, freedom?
For thou might as well never thinketh of me during thy escape;
And forever considereth me but an insipid flying parachute-to thy wide stardom;
Which deserveth not one single stare; as thou journeyeth upon whose dutiful circular shape.
And a maidservant; a wretched ale *****-within thy inglorious kingdom;
Which serveth but soft butter and cakes, to her-thy beloved, as she peacefully completeth her poem.
The poem she shall forceth to buy from me-with a few stones of emerald;
To which I shall sternly refuseth-and on which my hands receiveth t'ose climactic bruises.
For she, in her reproof-shall hit me thereof, a t'ousand times; and a harlot me, she shall calleth;
And storm away within t'at frock of endless purpleness; and a staggering laugh on her cheeks.
And I-I shall be thy anonymous poet, whose phrases thou at times acquireth, at nighttime-but never read;
A bedroom bard, in whose poetry thou shalt not findeth pleasures, and to which thou shalt never sit.
A jolly wish thou shalt never, in thy lifetime, cometh anyhow-to comprehend-nor appreciate;
But should I still continueth my futility; for poetry is my only diligent haven, and mate.
In which I shall never be bound to doubteth, much less hesitateth;
For in poetry t'ere only is brilliance; and embrace in its workings of fate.
And sadly, a servant as I am-on her vanity should I needst to forever wait, and flourish;
To whom my importance, either dire profoundness-is no more t'an a tasty evening dish.
And my presence by thee is perhaps something she cannot relish;
I know not how thou couldst fall for a dame-so disregarded and coquettish!
To whom all the world is but hers; and everything else is thus virtual;
So t'at hypocrisy is accepted, as how glory is thus defined as refusal.
But sometimes I cometh to regret thy befallen line of glory, and untoward destiny;
I shall, like ever, upon which remembrance, desireth to save thee, and bringst thee safely, to eternity.
But even t'is thought of thee shall maketh me twitch with burning disgust;
For I hath gradually lost my affection for thee; either any passion t'at canst tumultously last.
And shall I never giveth myself up to any further fatigue-nor let thy future charms drag me away;
For I hath spent my abundant time on thy poetry-and all t'ose useless nights and days;
As thou shalt regard me not-for my whole cautiousness, nor dear perseverance-and patience;
Thou shalt, like ever, stay exuberant, but thinketh me a profound distress-a wild and furious, impediment.
Thou hath denied me but my most exciting-and courteous nights;
And upon which-I shall announce not; any sighs of willingness-to maketh thee again right;
nor to helpeth thee see, and obediently capture, thy very own eager light.

And when thy idiocy shall bringst thee the most secure-yet most amatory of disgrace, turn to me not;
I hath refused any of thine, and wisheth to, perfunctorily-kisseth thee away from my lot,
I shall writeth no more on thy eloquence-for thou hath not any,
As nothing hath thou shown; nothing but falsehood-hath thou performed, to me.
Thou hath given none of those which is to me but virulent-and vital;
Thou art not eternal like I hath expected-nor thy bitter soul is immortal.
Thou art mortal-and when in thy deft last seconds returneth death;
Thou, in remorse, shalt forever be spurned by thy own deceit, and dizzily-spinning breath,
And after which, there shall indeed be no more seconds of thine-ah, truly no more;
Thou shalt be all gone and ended, just like hath thou once ended mine-one moment before.
All t'at was once unfair shall turneth just, and accordingly, fair;
For God Himself is fair-and only to the honest offereth His chairs;
But the limbs of Heaven shall not be pictured, nor endowed in thee;
To thee shall be opened the gate of fires, as how thou hath impetuously incarnated in me.
No matter how beautiful they might be-still thy bliss shall flawlessly be gone,
Thou shalt be tortured and left to thy own disclosure, and mock discourses-all alone.
For no mortality shall be ensured foreverness-much less undead togetherness;
As how such a tale of thy dull, and perhaps-incomprehensible worldliness.
By t'at time thou shalt hath grown mature, but sadly 'tis all too late;
For thou hath mocked, and chastised away brutally-all the truthful, dearest workings of fate.
And neither shalt thou be able to enjoy-the merriments of even yon most distant poetry;
For unable shalt thou be-to devour any more astonishment; at least those of glory.
And thus the clear songs of my soul shall not be any of thy desired company;
Thy shall liveth and surviveth thy very own abuse; for I shall wisheth not to be with thee;
For as thou said, to life thou, by her being, art the frequented life itself;
Thus thou needst no more soul; nor being bound to another physical self;
And t'is shall be the enjoyment thou hath so indolently, yet factually pursued-in Hell;
I hope thou shalt be safe and free from hunger-and t'at she, after all, shall attendeth to thee well.

And who said t'at joys are forbidden, and adamantly perilous?
For t'ose which are perilous are still the one lamented over earth;
For in t'ose divine delights nothing shall be too stressful, nor by any means-studious;
For virtues are pure, and the walls of our future delights are brighter t'an yon grey hearth;
And be my soul happy, for I hath not been blind; nor hath I misunderstood;
I hath always been useful-by my writing, and my sickened womanhood;
Though I hath never possessed-and perhaps shall never own, any truthful promise, nor marriage bliss;
Still I longeth selfishly to hear stories-of eternal dainty happiness, for the dainty secret peace.
Ah, thee, for after thee-there shall perhaps no being to be written on-in yon garden;
A thought t'at filleth me not with peace, but shaketh my whole entity with a new burden.
Oh, my thee, who hath left me so heartlessly, but the one whom I hath never regarded as my enemy-
The one I hath loved so politely, tenderly, and all the way charmingly.
Ah! Ah! Ah! But why, my love, why didst thou turn t'is pretty love so ugly?
I demandeth not any kind purity, nor any insincere pious beauty,
But couldst thou heareth not t'is heart-which had longed for the one of thine-so subserviently and purely?
For I am certainly the one most passionately-and indeed devotedly-loving thee,
For I am adorable only so long as thou sleepeth, and breatheth, beside me,
For I am admired only by the west winds of thy laugh, and the east winds of thy poetry!
Ah, but why-why hath thou stormed away so mercilessly like t'is;
And leaving me alone to the misery of this world, and my indefinite past tears?
Ah, thee, as how prohibited by the laws of my secret heaven,
Thus I shall painteth thee no more in my poesies, nor any related pattern;
There, in t'is holy dusk's name, shall be spoiled only by the waves of God's upcoming winters,
In the shapes of rain, and its grotesque, ye' tenacious-and horrifying eternal thunders.
And thus t'ese lovesick pains shall be blurred into nothingness-and existeth no more,
But so shall thy image-shall withereth away, and reeketh of death, like never before.
For I shall never be good enough to afford thee any vintage love-not even tragedy,
For in thy minds I am but a piece of disfigured silver; with a heart of unmerited, and immature glory;
Ah, pitiful, pitiful me! For my whole life hath been black and dark with loneliness' solitary ritual,
And so shall it always be-until I catch death about; so grey and white behind t'ose unknown halls.
And shall perhaps no-one, but the earth itself-mourneth over my fading of breath,
They shall cheereth more-upon knowing t'at I am resting eternally now, in the hands of death.
And no more comical beat shall be detected, likewise, within my poet's wise chest;
For everything hath gone to t'eir own abode, to t'eir unbending rest.
But I indeed shall be great-and like an angel, be given a provisionary wing;
By t'is poetry on thee-the last words of mouth I speaketh; the final sonata I singeth.

Thus thou art wicked, wicked, wicked-and shall forever be wicked;
Thou art human, but at heart inhuman-and blessed indeed, with no charming mortal aura;
Thou wert once enriched indeed-by my blood, but thy soul itself is demented;
And halved by its own wronged purity, thou thus art like a villainous persona;
Thou art still charmed but made unseeing, and chiefly-invisible;
Unfortunately thou loathe scrutiny, and any sort of mad poetry;
Knowing not that poetry is forever harmless, and on the whole-irresistible;
And its tiny soul is on its own forgiving, estimable, and irredeemable.
Ah, thee, whose soul hath but such a great appeal;
But inanely strained by thy greed-which is like a harm, but to thee an infallible, faithful devil.
Thou art forever a son of night, yet a corpse of morn;
For darkness thriveth and conquereth thy soul-and not reality;
Just like her heart which is tainted with tantrum, and scorn;
Unsweet in her glory, and thy being-but strangely too strong to resist-to thee.
Ah, and so t'at from my human realms thou dwelleth immorally too far;
As art thou unjust-for t'is imagination of thine hath left nothing, but a wealth of scars;
I used to recklessly idoliseth thee, and findeth in thy impure soul-the purest idyll;
But still thou listened not; and rejected to understandeth not, what I wouldst inside, feel.
After all, though t'ese disclaimers, and against prayers-hath I designated for thee;
On my virtues-shall I still loyally supplicate; t'at thou be forgiven, and be permitted-to yon veritable, eternity.

What is Poetry?
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.

When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.

When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.

When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.

When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.

for Ruth Fainlight

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand,a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it ***** out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? ----

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That ****, that ****, that ****.

I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin

We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously

The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning

We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever

Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.

Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.

My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.

The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.

But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.

I have an illustrious dream,
     want to be Leonard
          Cohen's gypsy wife,
he's kissing my lips on
    Boogie Street,
impetuously we dance
    to the end of love
       'til closing time
       midst his secret life,
he serenades me with
     I'm your man
         when we take Manhattan,
bewildered by his poetic beauty there
     waiting for the miracle to happen,
a sip of wine, a cigarette
         in love we disappear,
   here it is, you got me singing
        be that dog in heat,
I'll take this waltz and
   another please, cause
             everybody knows
     I hunger for your touch,
  his famous blue raincoat
         and the dew on my thigh
goes a thousand kisses deep
   in the cave at the tip of the lily
  with its very own breath of brandy,
slipping into the masterpiece
             where Lenny is eternal

With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"
And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: "They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;

"Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil."

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.

A troll sits open-mouthed, awaiting the spoon
that stirred the porridge; this ritual has been
ingrained in its brain – a sloshy, lifeless fossil
that stores villas of pain and ineptitude.

There is no water under its bridge, and all wrongs become
manifest as an attention-seeking wart on his soiled skin;
he wishes he could shed it, as this losing game of
snakes and ladders is beginning to wear thin.

Day by day he rolls the dice, but can’t take his move,
confined by an undying dread of slipping and sliding
on the loose gravely ground that he dreams of climbing;
and whispers of chiding.

Neither a sanctuary nor a prison, his home is a waiting room
on the Styx; from it he hears the echo and call of spring lambs
as they cross to taste the apples on the other side,
which a child impetuously picks.

Searching aimlessly for his reflection in the stone wall –
grey and every type of cold - proves futile;
he turns to his shadow asking his name,
shoulders slouched and mouth wide open all the while.

Seeing only darkness in the silence, control is lost -
he pictures tearing down that wall, but is unsure;
Self-muttering eases the certain fragility, and calming down
he tries counting to five - he can only count to four.

you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen

The down of the gown of the dawn of some gone day,
A ray day that has downed and dawned at sunset,
They have diabolically colonized our divine state,
Belligerently gang ****** our stupendous democracy at will,
The demonic bloodthirsty ******* barbarians,
Declaring a violent war which no one wants to fight,
A losing warring war of one against all.


Impetuously slaughtering our defenseless defenders at will,
Turning the blue-clad fierce hunters to the fierce hunted,
The hunted that are being haunted,
Hounded and hunted by the hunted,
Converting every corner into the hunters’ hunted ground,
The church and the charge office,
The home and the street,
The here and the there.


Who will protect our “toy gun” wielding protectors,
Protect our trigger-shy protectors from the cunning detractors,
As one by one they are won one by one,
One by one by the one that is supposed to be won,
The defenders of our slate state,
The defenders of our democratic democracy,
The defenseless defenders of the defenseless.


They have been plunged under siege,
As every one of them personifies some certain demise,
Every one of them is just some subterfuge death in waiting,
Some truculent death just waiting to happen,
Bust, rust and dust in the waiting,
Stylistically stylistic starving yawning mobile graves,
Prey of their own prey,
The ultimate fray prey.

As day in day out they live the life of a cigarette,
On one side they are smoking,
On the other, they are being smoked,
Any attempt to fight back is regarded criminal of the worst order,
Police brutality,
We forsake them, they forsake them, the law forsakes them,
Who will defend the mighty defenders?

With trembling fingers did we weave
  The holly round the Christmas hearth;
  A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall
  We gambol'd, making vain pretence
  Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
  We heard them sweep the winter land;
  And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang;
  We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
  A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
  Upon us: surely rest is meet:
  'They rest,' we said, 'their sleep is sweet,'
And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;
  Once more we sang: 'They do not die
  Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;

'Rapt from the fickle and the frail
  With gather'd power, yet the same,
  Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
  Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
  O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.

Approaches with adoration:
Beckoning benevolent beauty being blessed
Countlessly with contouring cryptic          cuteness.
Dazzling, distracting, divine.
Elegance that will endure
forever.
Grateful for the gracefulness and
Heartfelt feelings.
Impetuously invoked by each other,yet  
Joyfully jump starting and
Keenly kicking off
Lasting Luck for two.

Midnight Confession to Stingray  III  

And suddenly awake. i think i heard the phone ring, but long ago that no stingray called me; it would be absurd. who call a forgotten man, yearny of themselves?. And suddenly awake and crying i wonder what i have done to live this. why i can not die? what's stopping me? god kills for pleasure, i would do it out of necessity. i end with my life and the importance of being earnest.
    
Outside roars the sea. the waves claim my life, my life claim it and head on a silver platter the almighty, responsible to no justice. ha! justice. Consign it everything to god is to add an extra shadow existence. whenever i get depressed i confirmed the existence of nowhere. already said my old friend Andrei, "the soul craves harmony, while the world, reality, life, are full of dissonance".
    god! i do not want any harm to feed my humor. and i tell you because i know that fate is but the unilateral decision of a supreme being, without the intervention of the creature that falls. you and your **** decisions!
  
I must then settle the illusory permanence of my bad steps taken. after all, the man has not been done to exemplify rebelliousness.
Insert - cans carrier some catching film and rolls a finger cuts / , looking at his finger and begins to move circularly, leaving his palace versailles topic decorated, full of blood stigma. then  an arm and his shadow the succor envelops faucet cracked.

insert final -
you always give back things to their original order, no matter what man does or does not do. when the world ends, will only continue the deserted streets where consummating the drama of solitude, loneliness of man. solitude, that awe you feel your son, more powerful even than the fear of death. loneliness, ontophanicus element of childhood fears and unrecognized face of the adult human animal.


Insert - Snifp    opens window, moist your hands with rain, seals his hands, making a drinking vessel of your hands. someone you back then close was noting his eyelids his old love visiting him - Snifp shudders take turns and trafficking in their eyes hands that image. followed gets humming a ditty ... continuing with your thought the song of your song - only the first two lines sing, the rest is with musical pacing phraseology showing on time images:

  "  maybe everything is reduced to ideas. the great wars and the huge advances in the history of mankind are due to them... what is most important for the soul to believe in change? the flowering of ideas! proclaim them the wind and see how they are trampled, but when they die, they will be remembered by them.
    yes, i know, when my turn comes, or not taking into account what you have said, i must kneel before you. "

Insert - Snifp - in your room like versailles, kneeling before the accompanying idol behind his cabin. it was a huge torrent cans with film rolls. some were leaving your movies its packaging. on the upper part of torrent was an eye that turn that also glinted colors and eye on pared scenes showed pictures romance film and expressionist cinema.

  " something happened with spring and winter, only took one night to erase my life. everything i've done, everything i am has been solely because of my insecurity even look at my letter, is confused, irregular, insecure, unfinished, unfinished, ugly to my way of translating the letters on paper it is unsafe. That's why i am where i am. it may not be the best, but it's comfortable. i should not deal with anyone but my ghosts. "

Composition: the whole song - this song in passive voice - before each pause they call Snipf, her father, her mother, she the same calling it self doing choir with letter of the song telling you enter is late and that not early to work everyday continuing - voice feels off, but the darkness appears immensity of arms in clothes ragged and *****, treating him to speak. every aspect of song be supported by allusive as a documentary imagine.

[insert images]: Mr Snifp. this in a paramo isolated, everything smells rancid stink and essence with her mouth glottis churned a finger as mayor, the three items that were deposited in calderon reddened by flare. Their beards 90 cm, crisscrossed end of pointed shape. mr. Snipf it took out glottis your hands together his cross to remove the book and the lenses pipe. While he continued impetuously making this movement of his arms, lashed out on the top step your home room your nearest death, and if it was confused casket 60 cm or a 2 mts. such was the fan accession that uttering which carried from the limbo of house untouchable pantheon, but it was not, all the servants threw it out of doors sliding down the cobblestones, while Snifp kicking as if to take revenge until the last priest perpetuity oblation gave to your existence non tyranny.Still getting off cobblestones, planters keep falling, cornices. carnations falling on follow your body wood caged.

Removing Snifp appears in Calderon lenses, pipe and the book, but this time he has in his hand left the book, and pipe right. but when child, walk the avenue where would buy tidbits, seeing through the showcase  the owner of the commercial always had in his right hand a book and left a pipe.

Snifp lying on his altar Calderon churned with thousands of books, lenses and pipes, falling to tiring and suddenly the ground with his right hand possessing a book of phrenology and left a pipe smoky reddish. it was so faint Snipf and only with boiling essences smelly around.

[insert end].

Zooantropomorphic Basic Kinetic Theory:

In the room, three and a hommo sapiens stingrays. Located facing each other. how to illustrate and in between them appearance with animals, and acting daily activities.

Every stingray, is an object and subject to time, the eyes of Snifp, but more remarkable is that each of them can auto refer, as having instincts and feelings, which alternately men intimidate and used in a extended range of possessions and physical, and electromagnetic powers psychic. "

Snipf in the room seemed feeling redeemed, because they came to help him, came to the town of his abode. A hold a escape. but to think and think and read what rugs you wrote on the wall concerning this theory, he reminded inescapably on fatigue years of thinking, to nearly multiply your ideas on every beat of your heart as an avalanche in your own heart

And they continued typing:

... Thousands of years sail the seas for fixing without ours where our dreams console conditions. we have seen many events, births islands, shipwrecks _ at that time Snifp, he takes the head and can not believe what you tell manta rays, being very shock and sorrow.

He told ...: as you, enjoyed the freedom to grow and believe in my labors happiness. up next to toasted you hiding the sun my skin. trying to follow them confine of the seas as well wishing one day be as you but i saw growing up and that my gaps growth . interrupts writing one of them on the wall:

... Birds and we seem confused in the sky and the sea. its movement is a great similar  infinitely ours. by instance. for reproduce places and we are in very favorable temperatures. Our food to go for a  tractile  movements resort in places, where our hunger and thirst unite to hunt our prey. There are certain movements, seemed birds river near the sea; with love that in a small ball enjoying our offspring thousands of kilometers from hunting place chosen.

My father strand a day in the pacific sea rivera, seeing some odd birds in groups, moving choreography of side to side, changing their appearance or disordering composition, rare birds when they reached another species, but enough with birds are you were visiting for them with their move to, they give the spectator the camouflage invisibility, violated them to be your space.

Snifp: but the move with air allays tour and return either in any direction. and when i feel abandoned by my wishes of faith or of love, which will be the right move?. One of them says: the movement may not porte nothing, or also something ruined, importantly possessing energy for all be alive call the highest levels rising to pay for that move your body energy; something like love for fuel survive, perhaps not frustrating not to have to turn disoriented when we storms at sea with boats and we want trap, without relying on a moment to pray, to save our destinations. Snifp, think that as you suffer, it happens to us. the blankets impassive, floating on the piece and brought them to Snifp the miles genealogies and exhausted by origins of existence.The cornerstone of movement, time division yours and mine, separated by both affected synchronicity things for immense currents.

Snifp replY: if, if you !!. but both to animals we  vanished others because you have eyes for men only see your interests. Snifp as if you are thinking _ ourselves the told, what confusion ... not !!.

Then  in men, animals are invisible visible and motion forms. But yes, each generation of movements different article, since each margin regarding your drive specific functions  changing the man, what you plenty of activity what to generate be blinded  no recalling the advancement finally  to not to repeat their mistakes. Snipf words in good men living in a house of fears caused by collective and not totally bad habits subjugations evolved animals. An animal, a being who owned and self contained and do nothing  not self  supply materiality.

We do not pray to  God, just keep your policy creation and preservation, just keep your commands as a whole to vibrate, knowing and ignoring sometimes. This is our Creator. Stingrays sailing in my Mind  and in  the spreading architectural dreaming.

your tenebrous image enraptures me
future’s heat brands me with you
your silhouette fills my vision
but all your features are hidden

calling to me in a voice I know
but have not yet heard
a shout made a whisper
you are so many years away

always I have known you
sensed you by your absence

I chafe and fret, anxious and
expectant of your arrival
believing it imminent

eagerly I shut my eyes to
what little I know of you
trusting as only callow
youth allows that no
more is needed
than my open arms

I see you everywhere
impetuously I give my heart
only to find no synchrony
even the lineation was wrong
each time it is not you
you are still
far from me

yet I am wrenched forward
I lurch undiscerning, heedless
pressed forever into rashness
by all consuming urgency for you

endless, fruitless searching
confusion and despair
my constant companions
lost in a torrent of nothing

like one freezing
in lingering polar night
to stop is to die, helpless
I stumble towards providence

What legendary parts
Can we play.
Might we emote sullenness
And find a sheath for our daggers;
Act impetuously and stab at rats;
Be susceptible to lies and hankies;
Do we speak proudly to our friends
And countrymen;
Should we go mad, be foolish
To float on laurels, and drown;
Are we advisers and know-it-all
Busy bodies;
Will we be friends, and die
Sacrificially in the end;
Should we cut out our tongues
And gauge out our eyes,
To draw pictures in the dirt;
Why be so courageous as to fall
On your sword;
Will we smile and be a villain,
Then fall off our high horse?
Or
Will we give new meaning to love;
Replace the stars in their orbs;
Control the elements for our children;
Bear our friends like princes;
Accept harlequins at court;
Be gentlemanly in any state;
Love more than ten thousand brothers;
Support our partners in what they will?

Script your part.
Life isn't all comedy and tragedy.
Shadows don't offend,
And life is more yielding
Than a dream.

I'm a little surprised
It took til now to realize
That I'm a little more than a
Little attracted to crazy.
Maybe crazy isn't the right word
That spark of divine madness-
The muse incarnate.
Sometimes they look very similar
And it takes months to figure out the difference,
In your case I think I just called it close enough.

Crazy beats boring, I suppose.
It overcomplicates things, that's for sure.

I don't know what love is any more
Because I've now discovered that one day you can be in love
And the next day find yourself the cuckolded brunt of a very brutal existential joke.
At any rate, that drug-fueled madness we shared, trying to fix each other so desperately,
Trying to feel something so impetuously,
Whether that was intimacy or just validation,
Collapsed. Go figure.

Madness at its finest,
And it left chaos in its wake.
For me at least. You seemed alright.
And I use the word "alright" very loosely there.

Stoicism rules impetuously and as resonating as a thunder clap, self-preservation long fallen through and this cocksure apathy has assured me I’m justified in standing idly by. Time pools around my ankles like melted crayons, each individual tainted to the same docile brown you’ll find reflected meager and muddy in my eyes. My perceptions are skewed, I’ve accepted it. Somewhat idiosyncratic but I’ve learned to love living in and among my restless thoughts and delusions and I might be lost without them after all. I still find myself surprised that people notice I exist but if they stopped could I continue to claim this as an existence? The Chicken or The Egg; I try not to give it too much thought but that’s laughable because despite the exhaustion weighing down my bones I can’t seem to satisfy the florescence permanently burning behind my eyes.

We were walking along a road
Hand in hand
Late afternoon
And in the near distance
A skinny brown dog was standing on the curb,
Sniffing the concrete
Tail wagging.
Impetuously, it decided to cross the road
As a speeding car was approaching-
Oh, it was ugly.

She let go of my hand
And buried her face in my shoulder,
Oh, God, no. Did you see it? No, no, no, no, no, no. Oh, God, no.
She wrapped her arms around me tight
And there I was
Listening to her slow, pain-stricken murmurs
And looking at the mangled pieces of flesh and bones,
A pool of blood rapidly building up around them.

What could I do? What would you do?
Because I just stood there, staring
Disbelief in my eyes,
Helplessness
In my palms.

Morning meditation.... eyes closed,
Impetuously, it connects with me.

Geometric spinning images
Smiling faces drone closer

And then, a large "A" strobes,
Followed by a large "M".

I immediately think of Alan.
"Is this a message from you" I ask?

Faces begin to move into focus,
A tear runs down my cheek.

I question "Is this really you or do my closed eyes deceive me"?
This is answered with my name spelled out letter......by......letter.

My breath goes cold, I can't feel myself
What in Gods name!!

Orbiting motion, whirling faster as it surrounds me
It's as if it lifts me up defying gravity.

"Enough", I scream out
At once ...the visitant departs


And I open my eyes.

if a clouds’ tears were to pummel away at the pane of my bedroom window any time before then, i would’ve impetuously disregarded its entire existence and drifted to sleep only to dream about festering psychedelic abstracts.
that wasn’t the case, though, not that night.
rain fell in pounds from the leaden sky and the only thought i could conjure
was you
you were a thousand miles away, but every rain drop that danced leisurely down the glass, just inches from my face, felt like they could be you
they embodied the fluidity of your mind
i felt like it was
you
so much so that i wished i could leap out to lay out on my roof top and soak up every droplet till my body became an ocean
if it meant i were to finally feel you
because you are nothing short of
a comforting scent
a song
a dream or even
a poem
so when you finally do become tangible
in my arms
it will be reminiscent of smelling a rose or a daffodil
or the way a song makes you feel
or the mood a poem can bestow upon you
and the imagery it engraves into your skull
you shall embody that which cannot be felt by bare palms and indefinitely more

With that incredible brain in his skull,
he drags this country through the mud
like a child drags his blanket.
His enormous, mighty hands grasp
impetuously at his phone to plop out
****-like tweets to his army of bots.
That statuesque frame, upon which his ill-fitting
cheap suits drool down, stumbles around courses
in search of new ways to lie about his lies.
And his striking eyes, squint and squirrel away the truth,
deep in the soul of his heart, which is bigly, and grate (we know).
Oh, we know, Donald. We know. It’s hard to ignore
such an enormous heart as yours. So big indeed,
that this country needs to get out from under its weight
before the inevitable cardiac arrest. It’s a democratic test,
while the Feds investigate all the best people
hired to sell off this country’s assets
to net the richest more riches.

If my tears could grow trees
with every drop
from the pain you caused,
the world
would flourish;
growing like the sadness
you impetuously bestowed.

And lo! The soul worn thin
And so the story begins

The words feel swallowed
Hollowed by their meaning
And with force followed
By desperate screaming

For purpose and strength
To face the wild future
Planned for at length
And dashed in good measure

Errrreeeeeeeumumunumb
Nerevum nerum numb

Blazed into tomorrow
Carrying things to yesterday
And accidentally making a point
About the illusion of time
and the inevitable conflation of meaning in words

There are things that words cannot describe
And emotions cannot grasp
Things that are unbearably simple
With depth and meaning vast

Things that the poetic form cannot possibly imagine
Things so sublime
That men fall silent and bow their heads
And angels sing in the hearts of noble song bearing birds
Where unintelligible jibberish is the only thing that you feel
And the words flow freely, feeling as if without will
Or manner or flow or ugly grumbling pensive cynicism
Where more words are ripped out of the dictionary for affect
And boring recursive narration is the only option left

As the mind jumps from topic to topic
In an unending string of free associations
Listening to a man with white hair and beard
A young writer blathers impetuously
Longing only for sublime novelty
And castrate words of biting wit
And pure and simple truth
And lyrics of pure aesthetic
And also fame and fortune
**** it all, he wants it all

Jean Baptise Clamence said ‘…in all things we are merely” in a way” ‘.


I possess nothing, but what’s in my heart.


But what am I to love? – the cherub morning, my sovereign hands-the sea?
How to love, how to love anything?

Turn to my silence voice of a voice.
Here whisper of you, I have been waiting.

In me you have inspired countries. Strange
devastating realms of cold lands, wet fogs
and steaming lakes.

I am full of canals and you are no where.
You do not even know, that I speak of you..

I am swarming with your absence and you
do not how do you not know my name
or that it asks of you.

Here and elsewhere, littered. Partments.

Untouch my hand that you ungloved so impetuously.

I cannot place it.

You have inspired the only light in me for miles.  
And here I am, talking to myself again-

My eyes become jeweled, the colour of dead leaves.
Yet still you will not choose me.

Fog of smokey neon.
At any rate, you run a great risk.