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Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Note to you: The rythymn-in-strument strums in stone geo-time.
To the drummers,
dis-passio ey okeh,
woodwinds dim-
inuendo
oboe join in mit piccolo on the hummingbird whistles
simulating
Breezes, in the shade of a great rock,

real life rock, granite composed of not so tiny grains
of ground up uther utter star-stuff, side-
real asif intended for goodness
sake.

otherwise, how petrified I'd be come imagining the forming
of the
very
foundation of my life, as I know it,

it is un-believable, therefore
no lie,
if
the riddle arrives after ever begins

and, word has it, dear reader,
may
is your word now.
You may believe anything you wish,
with no
un-intended after math, after ever
began

Do you recall...
youth full quests completed alone?

Quests, Johnny Quest, Future Quest V.B.S.

believers, true believers being formed from childish hopes,
manifesting in grown liars stricken with

hidden child sym-drone
in the middle of booming thirty-something phase when
pressure
starts storing all the old stories,

building energy for the seventh decade fracture/crushing

blow
sh
soft blow breeze of free and easy musing re
songing a reason to belief
in
even in
a realm where lies never die.

Recall the old days, balance
bubbles and crossed hairs and roads
...
Balance factors, bubble balancing lead weight,
deligate
the Whole Earth Catalogue
as
tipping-point
balanced by the weight of the roof on Notre Dame being
melted along with the rest of the Greenland Ice sheet,

so superman eyes in our skies can see to the bedrock on
which the

Principle Thing
spins
---
The root of evil has reached this point

this is after all that. Time-wise, in the arrow scenario.

Fair tales always win, sh'eros live for your examined life'sake

--- ranting old men come running down stairs
--- the hidden child has arrived

The golden headed child, meek and cold
locked
in buried treasure

chests opened one last time for quadrupal by-pass

--- He's a donor
--- givem awish foundation
--- make this sacred

Mi-da's, well, he wished again,

he wished he lived in inter-sting times entertainment-wise

inward touching times imagined
in the addled golden child
Adler
brought to life in a virtual, al-most verifiable asnot art,
but not

very-fi-able, semper-fi-wise, if you

swore the oath. (It's a game, right, now game vows link for
in of by logic gated
Jungian
mazes, do they? Amazing.  ) See,

from above, as below, pretend you know

all things, you can imagine

in my bubble, in the absolute absense of your
at-most-fear

let. that act do. let us, the objective aspect of we,
the people who hold those famed

troothz, verities of any examind re-ality-ifity-isms

self-evidence for we

be letting be, believe me, that's no lie, you can doit, you can, you can
I imagine

and I accept we may mean more to me than thee,
however now
hapt, in qualia quantumical if-I-ability
entangled meanings
link us through
my-silly-um,

Disney-fictionation endo-crenalation, --||T|>>>--->
times half
formed
Crea-nullated castle
wall
link that sparked the aitia ifiabe
first caused
fall from the well
on the mountain

jack fell downbroke his crown
jillcame
tumbling after bling bling bling

--- the sorcerors's apprentice was fired
--- they found errors in his
--- sin-tax

We can forgive such over-sight.
Blame the mycelum clan

or,
better yet,
blame the clay eaters, no,
the clay wearers?

the clay bher-ers?
Ah, the clay bakers, fersher? Nae?

The clay, perse?
The dust we shuffle as we dance atop the stone?
The way of the rolling stone,
grinding, rolling-downhill-stone,
the stone rolled away,

the stone of the sysiphus-seen-hap-iuna
cult?

Blowing in the wind, lifted higher

Ax d'maji-yo, he know. 'Zeke 17, seven with a caballero v,
y'know,
callit Macaronic be-bop

dodat, yankee doodle morph t' resound,
like poetry
slams

at the gates
no enemey ever breached. The key truth, is that,

believe it, if you think you may.
Macaronic language is text that uses a mixture of languages,[1] particularly bilingual puns or situations in which the languages are otherwise used in the same context (rather than simply discrete segments of a text being in different languages). Hybrid words are effectively "internally macaronic". In spoken language, code-switching is using more than one language or dialect within the same conversation.[2]
the symptom is happiness
ritualistic ignorance
the family structure of apathy
the family structure of whiteness
that is the politics of slavery
the problem is that
it is barely possible to survive
for most who are satisfied with their lives
I know they are addicted
to the life style slavery makes possible
the whiteness that made slavery
the sugary crystals cotton indulging
inuendo ****
still even though many rotted into reincarnation
for those still claiming to be white
their scales have to be tipped
or they will never realize in time
that our fight is their fight
that we do not sleep at night
make the world just as hard to bare
not safe behind the glass shattered
razor sharp explosion in a living room
becomes the same dying rooms
of the procreation of free labor
and what is a union
whiteness would have never known
without the business of black revolution
the physical offensive of violence
that with lethal blows
says
your not better than me
you are all worse than blackness
worse than terrorists
worse than all the fears
that you needed to sustain your delusion
of being white
so you could watch on the outside
eat the sugar
wear the clothing
listen to the music
of a suffering superior human being
evolved past the decrepit imagination of the white American team
maybe if it became hard enough
you would have been with us
you wouldn’t have betrayed us
pretended to be hip
pretending to be sensitive
to the feelings of dying for being black
for being too compassionate
for being too forgiving
for being too intelligent
for working too hard
whiteness we will not go down with you
Candented Jun 2020
You do what you do while I fall in two
Sleep in the window rain fall overview
Drowning inuendo our will subdue
Betray on the daily Ohr the taboo
Make thee a new
Empty sounds, my head
quite a business keeping warm, making friends
missing them when they move on whichever
way

the coffee affair with pods and seasons is recordable
into a small book, a journal of morning feelings while
i use a spoon for instant gratification . the modern
is much improved on the old ways

my gran used camp coffee (with no inuendo those
days) syrup in a bottle and tasted alright in warm milk

though i never liked milk solo and felt it a punishment

i deserved that
she said so
she said so many things that i believed because
why not
it may have been true

for some reason i remember lampeter and the feeling
of well being

my new glasses are red and the keyboard is clearer
and slightly domed

as is the tregaron bog you know.

— The End —