As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

The Seven - The Mashup


In memory of my mother who passed away recently, I wrote, or intended to write seven (only six were actually done) new poems themed about her, her passing and some perspective on life and death.  All were read and I am deeply appreciative.  I have consolidated them all here, in order, though not necessarily the order in which they were written. But the order does matter, as it reflects the change in my mood with each passing day.   Perhaps I will write the seventh someday, but not now, not soon.

Thank you all so much for incredibly kind words of sympathy. I am not a dweller, so I set myself a goal to complete this vow, this task, in a week to correspond to the seven days of mourning the immediate family observes after the burial (the shiva, shiva meaning 7).  For seven days, the bereaved family "sits shiva," sitting on low, uncomfortable stools and the comforters come to share their grief, praise the deceased, from mourning till late at night

#1 Shiva

I am confused - what day is it?
Windows tell day or night, a necessary but a condition insufficient.
The days have no distinguishing marks, a video stuck on
Repeat - a single track of recollected tales, prayers add a mild seasoning.

Though brief is this week of pre-sentencing hearings,
If one cannot dice the time into portions,
Then, there can be no pardon,
No early release date, from Phase One.

Rinse grief. Repeat. Seven cycles.
Apply stain-stick at the intersection of
Bloodied hurts and dimming memories,
Strangers secreting, spilling on you secrets unwanted.

This play, saw it many decades ago,
Before there was poetry, children.
A young man of twenty one,
Very afraid, silently, of the newest unknown,
His father, cancer won.

I hated it then. Now experienced, I hate it more.
This semi-catharsis, a tapestry tale wove of faded pasts
Twisting an heirloom blade into an old wound,
the original cast, a new revival, playwright, regrettably, deceased...

First time at bat, hid in a small room, away from this tradition.
Beating my head against a wall privately,
That being my preferred manner of mourning,
Not this Broadway show, twice a day, seven days.

Rituals well intentioned, a time tested method,
nonetheless, jail time for me, a/k/a, the boy, the brother.
Familiarity comforts some. Me? A prison uniform.
I write my own poems, I am not a Borg collective.

Cast as Son, my obligations specific, aged.
My Hamlet doublet, cut/torn, messaging my somber status,
The cuts deepest, invisible, but all see this child
Drowning in eye pools that continuously self-replenish.

I'll do the time, this show the longest running ever,
Did forty years as son-shadow of a father-man,
Tacked another concurrent sentence for his woman,
End Date: Indeterminate...

The low stools will reappear, seven days for me,
Yet my job as poet not fully done, until this be read!
Leave 'em laughing o'er this Official Release from the obligatory,
Read, sit but once, read this poem, this script, this story, and be freed.

#2 Hover^

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

^According to the Talmud, the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.  The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred.

#3 Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.

Orphan

It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

# 4 Judgement Day

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification, you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for, if at all?

Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 80 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for, if at all?

#5 Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

^ Nat Lipstadt · May 30
The Little Black Dress (and its magic prowess!)

*#6 & 7 Live like you're dying

Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.

Huh?

Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.

I

He would drink by himself
And raise a weathered thumb
Towards the high shelf,
Calling another ***
And blackcurrant, without
Having to raise his voice,
Or order a quick stout
By a lifting of the eyes
And a discreet dumb-show
Of pulling off the top;
At closing time would go
In waders and peaked cap
Into the showery dark,
A dole-kept breadwinner
But a natural for work.
I loved his whole manner,
Sure-footed but too sly,
His deadpan sidling tact,
His fisherman's quick eye
And turned observant back.

Incomprehensible
To him, my other life.
Sometimes on the high stool,
Too busy with his knife
At a tobacco plug
And not meeting my eye,
In the pause after a slug
He mentioned poetry.
We would be on our own
And, always politic
And shy of condescension,
I would manage by some trick
To switch the talk to eels
Or lore of the horse and cart
Or the Provisionals.

But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.

II

It was a day of cold
Raw silence, wind-blown
Surplice and soutane:
Rained-on, flower-laden
Coffin after coffin
Seemed to float from the door
Of the packed cathedral
Like blossoms on slow water.
The common funeral
Unrolled its swaddling band,
Lapping, tightening
Till we were braced and bound
Like brothers in a ring.

But he would not be held
At home by his own crowd
Whatever threats were phoned,
Whatever black flags waved.
I see him as he turned
In that bombed offending place,
Remorse fused with terror
In his still knowable face,
His cornered outfaced stare
Blinding in the flash.

He had gone miles away
For he drank like a fish
Nightly, naturally
Swimming towards the lure
Of warm lit-up places,
The blurred mesh and murmur
Drifting among glasses
In the gregarious smoke.
How culpable was he
That last night when he broke
Our tribe's complicity?
'Now, you're supposed to be
An educated man,'
I hear him say. 'Puzzle me
The right answer to that one.'

III

I missed his funeral,
Those quiet walkers
And sideways talkers
Shoaling out of his lane
To the respectable
Purring of the hearse...
They move in equal pace
With the habitual
Slow consolation
Of a dawdling engine,
The line lifted, hand
Over fist, cold sunshine
On the water, the land
Banked under fog: that morning
I was taken in his boat,
The ***** purling, turning
Indolent fathoms white,
I tasted freedom with him.
To get out early, haul
Steadily off the bottom,
Dispraise the catch, and smile
As you find a rhythm
Working you, slow mile by mile,
Into your proper haunt
Somewhere, well out, beyond...

Dawn-sniffing revenant,
Plodder through midnight rain,
Question me again.

Seven New Poems For Seven Days #3:  Orphan**

Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.

Orphan

It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

7/21/13

Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’

movement

movement

Uniting.

Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

chess
without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
mirage.
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away


Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable
way.

But in God’s good loving
loving
loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

Crucifying.
And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft
‘soft’

dripping.

easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed
anymore,

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?

...

banter broke down into spider web
substance
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.
Gone
Gone
Gorgeous

nothingness
apart from its face and voice
speaking

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
Projection
No
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
“No.”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free
itself.

“No.”

how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you
go

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,
smoking.

“What...” The spirit
said.

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
circulated
characters
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger
anymore.

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
change
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
stages
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change
again

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
room
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good
steak.

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
all
have a prayer
that comes
out
here was
mine:

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“...as if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
heavy
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
impressing
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
my
way
and
i may
see you
again.

The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

by Seamus Heaney

It was that 1st touch... skin met skin, chemistry burst into the atmosphere and love rained down on end!
Oh how good it felt, feeling that strong connection, it was magnetic how it happened, all that passion and affection.
Never before have i felt such a love so strong, when we bonded with our souls, we were one for but so long, and still, i feel you as a whole, my hearts song .
Swarming inside my inner being, floating with me into serenity, seeing all that i am seeing, friends and lovers for infinity.
Your hands gave me bliss, crafted from some type of magic, every time i felt your touch, my heart began to panic!
Please don't stop! I need it, i crave it, i want it, i yearn it, i feel it before it happens, then chills and thrills go up my spine and juices run straight down my sultry vine.
Ahh so divine, your lips so soft and full, light sweet kisses i cant escape from, forced by a gravitational pull.

Our lips fit perfectly together, from every single angle we tried, and when our mouths were open, i felt as if i could fly.... or fall!
You made me melt, to much pleasure to contain myself, tongues intertwining, warmth constantly rising, butterflies and anxious cries were things i failed at hiding.
You rubbed away my tension, from head to toe and reverse, back tracking all my inches, constantly being rehearsed.
Your best performance was yet to come, yet everything you did amazed me, i kept on thinking where did you come from?! Thoughts were scrabbled, vision was hazy.
What was i thinking? where am i? ****** i just kept sinking, deeper and deeper into your love, till i felt lifted into ******, top of the mountain way up above...
That tongue...*** just thinking about it makes me moan, licks and ***** and nibbles broke me down and put me in a zone.
Upon my throne, i was your queen, and you showed me why you are my king. Gently you held me and caressed my body, firmly you ****** me , inside i screamed.
Ooo your strength turns me on in more ways than one, your dominance simply enticing, inviting me to play on and on, calling me, so exciting!
Constantly making me wet, dripping with juices of pleasure, heated and throbbing and set, bliss beyond knowable measures.
Tension rose, you lost control and took advantage of my body, and when you did, lord have mercy, I've never felt so **** ******!
Breath was shortened, grips got tighter, sweat was beading from combined desire, it felt so good, you deep inside me, taking me higher and higher.  
Massaging me from the inside, oh my goodness what a beautiful pleasurable ride,.. i still sigh.... i couldn't bear it, seeing the passion in your eyes.
Your girth placing pressure on my spot, felt so good that it hurt, made me hot, i was left staring, almost speechless, while you savored all my sweetness, i forgot.
All my troubles faded away, all my worries began to plummet, nothing else mattered but what you were doing, as you sent me in route to my summit. They way you touched me, gave me tranquility,  made me want you to touch no one else, to yern for no one but me, to not even pleasure yourself.
What kind of foolishness?! laughing out loud at my own  unexplainable stupid-ness, i had to taste you i wanted all that i could define, what was your flavor, mmm i savor  the memories in my mind., i can still taste your sweet creamy goodness, seventh heaven, you put me on cloud nine!
What a ride! So much more we did together i cant cover it all, everyday I'm loving you stronger and deeper, i know you'll be there to break my fall, a ride like this deserves applause, a man like you that has no flaws, is to be cherished and loved forever without a purpose or a cause.
When we made love i saw your light, when we made love i met your heart, when we made love we became each other, from that 1st touch... we made a spark.

I smoked. There was a good hand in the sky. It looked like a peach draped over tatty buildings. Hemisphere broken open at the end of a fist, and then at the end of an arrow shattering the pieces of night surrounding it, as the moon clouds shot, devouring it.

I flicked my cigarette down on the floor of the fly over instead of flicking it into the avalanche of cars below. Who knows what something as miniscule as a flying tab **** might make a person think. It would not be a fly. It would be a tab ****. It would be something that distracted a driver on the motorway, which they traced back to my finger flicking it.

It would be rude and imprecise, a car loses control and then flips over for a second, then paints the carriageway with ten multiples of itself flying and screaming. The driver flys inside the car. And I continued to cross the fly over. Outside the bookies at 10pm there is a dog looking up at me, his head tilts like he is asking me something, as he starts to follow me, leash dragging.

"Oi! Oi! Where the **** are you going?" A mouth from the ****** says, "Oh me, just down here." I reply, "I was talkin to the ******* dog you ******* mug." The gentleman added. The small white staffy was still looking up at me. Well, one of us is going to have to answer him, his tail said. "Oh ******* then." The mouth says changing back again into the building. "I guess we're going down there then." Schrödinger says, or 'Schrö', as he allows me to call him.

I light another cigarette as more arrows are fired from the sky, more like wet arrows now. "Well you'll need to pick up my leash mate; I don't want to look like a ******." Shrö says, "Ah sorry dude," I say picking it up as we continue to walk.

"Most of the people who talk to me are a little mad." The small staffy says. But why am I called Schrödinger? The staffy asks me. Ah come on, you don't get it? Well I do apologise but I am not that sharp on my quantum theory philosophy, and I am also a dog. Oh yes, I concede to him in my flat.  "Do you mind opening the door to your balcony pilgrim?" He asks me next.

"Sorry sir?" I ask him, "Well it either goes on your floor or I do it outside." He says. I open the door as he asks, and then lean against the frame as he takes a ****, and I watch him. He scrapes his hind legs on the concrete as if forgetting that it is concrete and not soil. You remind me a lot of love, I mention to him, smoking.

“You know what pilgrim? I think I prefer the name Otto Gross.” The staffy says looking up at the mixing night and I hatch open a new can pouring some into his bowl on the balcony. Cheers love. He says. He puts his two front paws on the meter high wall where my balcony overlooks a junk yard, and begins to speak.

“There is my lover! As screamed across sense and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand, I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me, as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me and is a better *****, than me, here, so I learn, from vermin, how to hide, how to fight, and how to re-appear. How to have humour, like theirs, and there unplanned joy-“

Woah “*******”, I’m spewing, a poet dog! A pile of dosh in the equilibrium! I rush back into my flat and grab a pencil and paper, shake a bit, take a sip, keep on listening, then nearly fall **** forwards returning to the balcony scribbling. And there’s a ****** dog talking.

“I trit-trot across roads with my last owner, winning jobs only within tasks of cemetery light, inside and on, the wall; so curled so, as I sleep outside, so sojourned within, grey dusk, car rivers- I spit! Not so far as giants can, just a piece of spittle, just shadow puppets dancing, just marionettes laughing-”
Schrödinger sang on my balcony beginning to howl, making the lid of the box open.

“To ******* the rain. To share within it, its fire, its knowable drench, of skin like hymn, that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened and quakeless to the onslaught of lightening swans! The quickening fury, of several slow days, and lives, devouring the metronome of salutes, upon heart buildings coming down like tetrahedrons drawn by many hands, of dusk filth opening to the arrays of data goods and gods, and produced from the pockets of gibbous mooned skies, and I whisper to the tsunami: mood unhung, bellowing away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem: To be praying...”

Monday may come soon I doubted, watching the staffy speak.

“Planets growing teeth, in the stars and the junk-yarded iris, succour comes, and so do the sad journeying flies, flying in the mouth of many gales, as extremities to the planet’s engine, affordable, losses, condensed in- and danced solarlessly -in, dances of mortuary, and wedding sung precipice, the edge of a gale, happy to blow my face, away, just gust gust gust! And yes. I do pray a little, and past holocaust of saccharine tune, our shame is forgotten in the simple, rhythms, of a cup- a hand, a castle flock of gulls, landing in water.”

A dog wags its tail because it has just shat, his owner gone, bag ready below ****, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile to the madness, of the furious dozen dozen flies- lobotomised drool, ready and alive enough, to laugh, and if you are knifeless, maybe a lil knackered, from work - - we might haul up: eternity, my love, and have a lil more, humour! In our sheets and face and sky, an take a **** holiday, right where you are stood or sat, walking, or resting.

And there are no gods, but the ones that let you see them creasing their soft cheeks and aging beside you, together, letting time die, parapets soak in the weather, and say: ‘hey’, here are my bones, there has been a lot of twisting done, but all they need, is yours.

"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.

"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.

"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.

"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."

why drinking? Always!
i should try that
i love old knowable things
everything! Bigger out West
generalization, but ok (I do the same)
Phaedrus
morning person for sure
practical vs. artsy
is romanticism irrational, or just differently rational?

put ice under your hat
this whole thing is so **** Hollywood.
i dislike hierarchies- they’re simplifications
but they should!
superficially he’s not really here
ha! (Me)    
he’s trying, rather poorly, to fill the spaces with something other than thought

i see a maze where you take every left
metaphor
whoa guys whoa
but he doesn’t
thought for the sake of thought is dangerous
but what?
never truth, only conjecture
hmm?
but is it a human invention?
ah the perfect example

i am so intrigued by this unusual phrasing
building a base
quite bitter, this one
i’m bringing the whole thing down
the knife!
meet an old friend for the first time
i can’t draw a straight line
as he tries so hard to be
sounds like me when I’m vague
too much trust in technology

this reminds me of Ishmael
*** *** ***!
it’s all making so much sense now
familiar but ever-changing is what I want
a disciple!
when the only possible solution is go nuts- go nuts.
he’s a driven man
let me think
you need to narrow the lens
semi-aggro
yes yes yes yes yes

no immediate penalty
he’s typesetting
why do people need so many rules, rubrics and objectivity?
what’s wrong with a little mystery?
trying to define quality
the problem with philosophy is incomplete definitions to important words
hmmm, I disagree
using a lot more ellipses
a noble ambition

awe
some
should just bend and snap from this wind already
so much of the world is already inferred
i hate Socrates for this
the problem with words
an example, but what does it prove?
eliminate the knife!
hurts my head with its obviousness

aah, I see
a little cloudy, but there’s some sun
he’s entering rarified air
story of my life
he’s losing me
me gusta
numbers are a human invention, after all
this is over my head

be in the open country with someone
a generalist, too
i am most productive on coffee
a philosopher could write a 1000 page novel on the question “Are we alive?” And I could just say “Yes” and be done with it
let’s explode them
so monotone
beautiful  
up the mountain, down to the ocean
he’s getting absolutist again

here- have your cake and eat it too
back on track
getting tired of the lack of transition
like the houses on the way to Atherton
you’ve said this 500 times, let’s see it already
it’s slackening for me
how to BE the motorcycle
i hate twilight depression
i want a motorcycle

the *****
loves dividing things
this is all preparation
completing the flow chart

this used to be me, but I’m getting better
fix yourself before the machine
degrees of specificity, scope
a sense of the inner pressure
time away from noise and people helps him peer into that contradiction, that void
so ready to give in
intense… full of something
i know the problem-

        it’s wild, but safe

too long this has built up
part three was terrible
he’s experiencing universal loneliness
no more dams!
so much between the lines
battle of wits, I’m having fun
stop, eat, drive, eat, sleep, drive, etc
mans burden
never surrender

it’s moving too fast for me to keep up
but this requires a restructuring of thought and

       even

   society.




1988/2019

See this old fishin' reel snarled? A waste of time to untie
what can be re-tied
and, and is a big junction in the start of a story, and
after retying, be used for it's purpose,

see, if a retie won't work, you know, this monofilial-******
fibratory idea's slippery,
inside outside one way optical influence, IF
this was that situation then this knot would call patience
to bher the burden of learning to
un ravel a snarl of expert's ties to rights which they hoped would never slip, as they stepped into next...

in this instance, fishin', out in the gypsum beds,
ancient corals once grew,

-- real life Lake Mead, who was Mead? A man who executed a plan
to dam the Colorado,
and the whole world heard the whales in Baja weep, but we have learned.
We go on

learning earth has lived through
times and times and times

a gathering must have first

seemed a good idea,
by then, by the point any story can stand, but first, a
point upon a time,

tricky balance act, takes this much of ever to imagine right,

many Planck-secs and Google-plexhours past
way back when
we the earthy sapient beings, be came, ere
we were
human, we were

what? Not angels and demons, those need so much more time to evolve than this.
Word stuff,
Poetry.
This is the third millennial bubble
begin
when my da was working in Alamogordo, '44.

I'll go see, live or die, try

to remember, who took the doorstop? Feynman said it was platinum

This is default download from the germs,
first tasted in open air on a moment you imagine you remember,
you can now imagine being born and no scarier story need be known
--- past now is only next, never never,
--- always a place to step
--- there, be
--- still
--- connection secure
knots of knowns, are knowledges, gotten with wisdom
getting, as we mellow and
ripen to re
al ize
common sense complexes of knowns needed to operate earth,

these aphoristic word frames encaging emotions we
need gage theory to envision, these
we believe, are edged in the sort of dust
a diamond farmer might use to shine a mirror

here, we give such a mirror to
each child surviving you,
should you
have survived, thus far,
you must
find
your kind, in the will,
your kind inherits the earth, and
if you
stir things, meek as Moses, make some trouble in you own 'ouse,
see, we
double dip, we inherit the wind, as well.

Earth is the whole biosphere, here. Thus, the troubler of the house of knots worth untying, begins to unravel the snarls and straighten
this knotted thread

to spite the micro-bio leaven pollen dust enclosed, as a curious bee
leaves a little could be
upon this line, where this knot
fast-bound,

we know

Hermes-tic click sealed since a known
knowable was tied in this
wordy
very complex bit of re
lated things, things known knowable in theory,

now, power is back on, it is 2019, on land once involved

with a story begun in 2018, when the power went off,
bowing to a named wind… as did the fire that year, too.

--- what have we learned?
knowledge means locked knowing, click. A knot, after a previous knot,
no feathers or stones of seed,
a touch of shaken pollen,
from a bee-- such

we be leaven be, long, long, long strings of knots and fibers marking

needle-point story stitching, sinking
into ancient ancient sapience,

unimagined - ha- nadas unimaginable ifn ye magine it...

we bee safe in this us, this we, the people who hold truth

learned today as tightly as our kind holds truths,
as treasures found, stolen, lost, bought, stolen, lost, found, taken as granted,

this legacy of ideas fit to words fit to my tongue, tasted, tested, spoken,

yea, for ever, in every imaginable sense,
AI account for every idle word,
uttered
which may ever be ab-
used by some here-tic wishyawasme.

Loving my enemies is one of those things,
I take with a grain of salt,
knowing there's room for hate in love,

as there's a set for null in all,
assets-wise

big data is how 2019 functions, idle word
counting algorithms,

are mining all myths and shipping manifests
for clues to who's making money
seem worth dying for,

in mortal terms.

Amusers are first paid in amusement.
Is the roofer dancing?

Peace is heaven, I heard, my word, I said,

heaven and it's kingdom are,
in me, if i examine my
self-logo, my brand,
my mark left to my children's thousandth generation,
who have survived
the upgrade.

Peacemakers who survive dimensional novel bubble-life,
mememeory Y as y in in all working things,


a knot is a stop, a step, where a knower of all as far as you know,

once, stood. The boy walking the trail marked

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

From <https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8%3A28&version=KJV>

This is on the trail very far along after the sign saying
this is the path less traveled by,

still.

In love am I
With the map of your mind.
In love with the lightning strikes
as it brushes with mine.
In love with its solarflares
and softlights.
I play the astronaut
In love with your night sky.
akin the universe, you're never fully knowable.
And that only pulls me closer to your side.
I'm lost in your deep space and theres nothing but you.
your , stars, galaxies, nebulae,
planets and distant moons.
I'm in caught deep in love and that's the truth

I was still inside my father when I was asked to talk about his shadow.

he had lost the voice of god.
he hid behind a tree
but my mother
could see his toes.

she dreamt of the day
she’d find them
attached to something
shy.

With axiomatic prominences, the God Spílaiaus hung from the Virola from Ibic Three in the elevations of the Kantillana at three thousand meters high in the Transversal valleys, individualized Pichi, Chile. Millions of flying masses of Chiropterans unfolded, anticipating Vernarth's visit to the Celestial Regency of these Deities by accidental and hybrid Hellenic prophecy; coming from the Protocol of Transylvania with the Eternity of the Submythological god of Vernarth Aiónius from Ibic 1. These deities came etherealized by the heights of the Nothofagus Obliqua that was bent at forty-five degrees by the lift singing the melisma of Antiphon Benedictus that this time made the bastion and garrison of the Mikhve or Kathartyrium of Vernarth possessing souls with scabrous megalomaniacs boiling internally through the Underworld bringing Hades Speleothemes, such a tow pulls the Kosmous and humanity into the bowels of the Kardiá of the purified Agoge and the Mikveh or Purification of Vernarth in later Hypnosis Existential hanging on the halberds of the Dorus, Áspis Koilé and Kantabroi waving in the intensity of the conifers before the hegira began at Tel Gómel. Vernarth approaches Spílaiaus and proffers: “My Lord, I had an illusion…, I said that I had to fly over the Palace of Arbela at the expense of the followed “Paraps or Othónes” or Parapsychology screens that took me to wastelands full of Ungulates that rested barren in calcined silica **** covered with Hoplites and Achaemenides cries imploring to escape from disastrous dawn of Dark Angels, safe from other Angels Shvil, Almas de Kalidona, Hellenika, Armas Christi and Almas de Trouvere. Essentially all of them would beg for the circumcision of the open field and also openings of thousands of soldiers when It was arranged by all this heavenly light to crack the heels of every Hoplite. Thus leaving the hollow opening of my soul Mikveh, Kassotides, and Lynothorax that invaded with satiety to get out of itself and become the destination of all oppressed compassion on the way to the Empyrium. The curtain persists that helps beatific concerns of submitology inherent in cultural realities where it subjugates the digressive persist of specimens that recover life from their own exhaustion exercising truthfulness in those that are strengthened by their own incapacity "Vernarth" is a product of Spílaiaus' concern , and this at the same time knowing and having everything given in its analogy and terminology protruding the same root, except that submitology is roots that subordinate the inorganic and inanimate for such an effect that legacies of myths take on a leading reality that does not consider true what is not or it is part of a myth rooted in mythology, but rather of what is subtracted from its own inertia or wear and tear that does not take on a reality present in all things that are not virtuous, much less express it from a Gnostic perspective; where everything is reborn and progresses in paradisiacal cycles and messages of the Merkabah..., They are of an infinite cohesion of that celestial if it had to appear in the astral journey without taking into account what the same time in question allows to appreciate how long it has to last or persist to know that you are rooted in this process itself!

The subsequent stage will be governed by fertile beings or deities. The Genre of Itheoi Deities arises from magnificent submithological gods since they are present in events of an immortal nature doomed to micro spaces that will be configured with Paraps or Othón forming multidimensional links in each episode. The scenographic movement is represented in this work, in such a way to personify a heterogeneous reality shared by some of these gods and others from Olympus. In the case of Spílaiaus, it is specifically an augmented reality nexus of ibicos that are instantiated in this Trilogy from confraternal words where Vernarth Says: “Give me a little Gála and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not an everything I never thought of…!” Here is that Gála is dairy juice where a speleological factor intervenes from Chauvet, Valdaine - Nyons Region - France. This is more than saying that the triggering factor is Mikveh or Purification leads from the premiere of the journey to associate with the underworld of the Kathartyrium or stationary Purgation that will take him through sequences in chapters or Paraps to meet again with Virolas or Anillares composing Medrones, crimping and growth. Later Wonthelimar from the Boedromion would bring The Arrows that Zefian will bring in the Second Trilogy bringing sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion crossing lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Cinnabar Mercurial Ambrosia. They were discreet detached arrows that he had launched into the sky and they did not return but in the rooms, and in stages of Animalia towards the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion. Wonthelimar, being once again relocated before starting the works on the temple of Megaron Áullos Kósmos, was returning to the Chauvet-Wonthelimar cavern. He distanced himself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree originating from Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith starting with the first two arrows that are placed on the bowstring away from the Quiver, each one crossing north-south trajectories and another two that were violated again with the bow of the stormy East, to launch arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "Ibic Rings" that would be transmigration towards cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that Zefian's phalanges would be ordered in Sintropia and organic chaos in Patmos, making Pythagorean proportions in essences of numbers that idly advanced in temporary passages of Wonthelimar that were movably made of religious Saetas and Mercurial Ambrosia of Cinnabar, to contribute with insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus. Zefian's tendency was evident to delight after being pulled from the bowstring to ghostly existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the gales that would originate the Áullos Kósmos or Megarón, a late pro of some courts imposed from the Ouranos or Cielo that was going determined in his will seized by a dubious Vestal god advocating associating with hospitable Canephores as conjectured Virgins Vestals of Roman bilocation that were resting in their hands..., and quantum parapsychology of the feared live between-tale that boils over in the arrows that have not yet fallen, not knowing their whereabouts? As sheets or serial wafers that were evoked where the origin of the Universe was broken to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burned contravened Duoverse including the divine celestial origin as a *****-ovular parameter, rather eons and instances in Hestia's chimney running in pertinacious towards vast volumes of light-years. The connectivity of the Itheoi gods will make the quantum mobility machination operable between seasonal dimensions that will have to pass through periods, stages, feats and famous moments since it is initialized from here in the stone of lance with its Etruscan horses in Tel Gómel, for later in the Eleusinian mysteries themselves co-participate in eras of connection, as it appears here after the saga of Judah composing their respective seven chapters until breaking down at the end of the Conclusive Meshuva. The Boedromión will be an essential part of Trilogy II, waking up in all the winters of the world as a shelter flowered directly to the component of the Mercurial Ambrosia, a valuable element of Cinnabar or high-grade Vernarthian Sulfur for the Vas Auric or Sacred Medallion of Limassol that overflows decanted at the end of the Mikveh growing in arid deserts.

Cardinal Spilaiaus

- North: Vóreios (Zefian Boreal)
- South: Nótos (Austral de Borker)
- West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak)
- East: Aftó (Kaitelka Equinoctial)

From Medrones that grow in massive ibix antlers in Nyons, Seven Ibics Rings were taking hold, a Viroliferous process was progressing, or exercise of rotation mechanics of Quantum Rings in the same thesis work that speaks further of a replacement Universe as the anticipatory Duoverse, and the gifted Codex Raedus as a complement or annexation baggage of the Profitis Ilias in Patmos thus generating that pre-Christian annal have a leading role in new construction by presenting a virtual situation or Genius Loci. The Semi Itheoi will have roles in leading each cardinal so that the Gestation of the Fourth Arrow of Zefian is finally re-established, reordering the universe predisposed to receive the one approaching the Duoverse. What happens in Tel Gomel and Persepolis is relevant to the Psiloi Phalanxes and crowds that would face militarized personalities, totally ignoring the origin of the Hoplite as a worshiper of Hera's Wastelands and eternal stables that supported Vernarth just like Etruscan horses and Steeds of Sudpichi summoned Alikanto or ALikantus. His mother Luccica and father Bernardólipo endorsed all contained belligerence if he were not a repentant warrior in the gloomy night of the Horcondising Castle where Spilaiaus would give warlike foreshortenings right there to abduct him at great speed to Gaugamela. Vernarth would go to these latitudes, and then he would be exposed to governorships of Aionius to consolidate and channel this hybrid submithology that would bring together the ancient Hellenic Mythology. The vertiginous passage of time will conceive harsh characterizations and qualitative Paraps or Parapsychologies, possessing the largest arsenal of quantum and historiographical data ever counted and interpreted by characterizations, more than personalized blocks in particular characters, being the support vehicle or generational stem of the summary of understanding more facts and qualities that own characteristics of interlocutors. The vast collection of Submythological gods will be strongly entrenched in identifications of Semi Itheoi or deities that are intertwined directly with the human fictional world. ! Successive Paraps are concealed and accompanied by connectivity screens called Othones, these are a fundamental part of the audio-graphic syntax, managing to structure gods and then decode the final concretion of the conclusive in each Paraps, which is nothing more than a consequence of this imperceptible quantum axon, which does not end or start!

Submythology is an etymological derivation of later stages of mythology that deprives of granting subsistence and comparative biology to cultural, urban, fabulous components or inheritance of great ancient and medieval epic periods. Contributing great accumulations of proposals to such a generation in channeling with original playwrights reinventing their theses, also giving a breath of expectation to mythical beings so that they come to life in a hybrid interpretive horizon, or with alternation of roles considering mysteries in the blink of an eye happening to postulated dissidence or vagueness, losing itself as a gendered practice but not of the real cultist who has been propagated in his gnosis to remote places of the infinite superior. In short, Submythology is an infinite tragedy where the characters represent the work in furtive omni canality, and three-dimensional presence in sharp contact with the thrones of deities that make it even more evident to relate past history through submithological exercises, which itself refers to the prefix Sub " from what precedes par excellence” and mythological suffix as a series of processes of experience where the active voice of the narrator counts, being rather an inspirational pre-constructive phase. What should be experienced when in front of us a Homeric god of Olympus is presented to us telling us that the Olympic archeology has secrets of the Myein revealing characters and successors Submythological Gods with histrionic deities looted in all ages of the Celestial Organic Subsistence.

Ibico 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and he brought purity, for all who needed him and went to visit him in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive if he was accepted." As the only presence of Wonthelimar is of Chauvet's present god ambivalence.

Ibico 2: ”He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the center of the priesthood of his shelves with the chiropterans and in addition to the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the vapors of the Antiphon Benedictus”.

Ibico 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated to heal the tormented initiation processes of elevation of the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."

Ibico 4: "This ring was from the antler of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Orphi Gold, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a Mycenaean complement- Valdaine”.

Ibico 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmatic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's hyper neurological and Duoversal brain twinned with the Mashiach."

Ibico 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns from Kafersesuh, bringing pollination from the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the shadows of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."

Ibico 7: “It is the deep voice of Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices that inquire of the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medium, up to the millimeter-sized shoulder of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera del Megaron”


                             Gender of the Duoverse Itheoi
                                     Horcondising Deities

Previously Vernarth takes his head resting on the ceramic that supported him between the Hydor photo duct, rather bringing his hand closer to the Klismós that Saint John the Evangelist had given him when he passed through Ephesus. In such a way that when he makes the first impulse to get up from the chair he was already beginning to leave the conventional Universe for the first time, then when he sits down again in the chair inaugurating the crystalline body that was looming over himself, he continues to be the Duoverse as if outside the Klismós with its curved legs resembling supporting pilasters of the Megaron diverging to the conical ones that projected concavely supporting the hollowness of its pectoral, which was already transparent like its Invisible Eclectic Portal. Meanwhile he gets up again holding onto the Mashiach who came to take him in his arms and place him in the klismoi that interpreted the elevation of Hellenism to the Greater Heavens and the Itheoi of the Duoverse; that is to say spiritual deities of Vernarth in the classification of the rank of beginning and projection of the abandonment of the Golden Himation. In such a way that the Astragalus was integrated; a floral company that was rooted in the hands and roots that cooperatively took root in those of Kashmar. So Vernarth with the Ibic Rings would begin to syncretize the imperceptible quantum and hyper-accelerated mobilization of physics of sub-atomic particulars that would later second it, unleashing from Alef to Tav to Astragalus and Aiónius, beginning his omnipotence. The sidereal distance began to unlink towards the Calypso air that was twinned with large portions of the sea in the same enamel, making Patmos the union of chain reaction speed with the Dodecanese Valleys and Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi unifying Vernarth with Apollo, Esminteo or ephebeia; that is, three sketches of Apollo himself for the theological genealogy chart of the deity Scarabaeidae with species that multiplied together with Vernarth to become the metalloid Azophar as the main knowable guideline to the unknowable, being Apollo himself in Vernarth's corporeality before rising to the iridescence of the Moshiach.

Astragalus: His primary Itheoi or theological picture would be composed and forming part of his feet and the surroundings of his ex-voto to take to all the summits of the world in the essence and the gift of eternal life represented by the root of the madrigal curdled by his feet, with the root of the Astragalus in flower when it represented the zero-hours by getting rid of his Himation and meeting the Mashiach.

Scarabaeidae: God of the subsoil modality of wandering souls destined for the physical and spiritual decline, Scabaraeidae Aphodiinae as subtractors of all the waste of souls that have boiled in malignancy, and the Scabaraeidae Dynastinae as the righteous larvae that rise from the imaginary soil to feed on the roots of the Astragalus and all the flowers and leaves of the Dynastiae. Increased the taxonomic genus of the species that would have to remain in the underworld to aspire to a better one like these Dynastines or Heracles beetles in honor of this hero carrying the peg that Vernarth would place on all the gardens once he was in Aurion, leaving him in a larval state, before being sponsored by Hera's family for the life cycle of the Horco-Olímpico.

Nothofagus: God's phoneme-photon of divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medron of the Ibex of Wonthelimar, to the millimetric assembly shoulder of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera of the Megaron, and the Iridescent Nimbus that percussed between the Áullos Kósmos and the Vas Auric ” in total synchrony with Patmos, at the same level of luminosity and growth revelation of the Scabaraeidae Dynastiae to transform inert matter into another fertile one compared to Poseidon.

Lepidoptera: Like The sixth piece of crowns by Kafersesuh bringing the fertilizations of the Lepidoptera in the Ibico Ring 6, for the central stage of investiture under the shadows of Hellenika and Theoskepasti, where everything will be endowed with the greater Ibix called Wonthelimar” that together with Leiak they would transmute to Horcondising.

Azofar: This metalloid god and support of the bed will take and bring Vernarth again when sailing through the cosmos towards the fifth element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to extol him from the neurological hyper brain of the Duoversal of Vernarth twinned with the Mashiach, exemplifying duplicity of Apollo as Azofar device of new interstellar ships beyond all that is knowable.

Ibicus: god of Wonthelimar's antlers, here they will carry the oikos or Orphi Gold threads for the Himation and investiture to anoint Vernarth's body bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a Mycenaean-Valdaine complement, thus they were inaugurating the solemnity and honorability. Here the quadrature will be the perfect Heliacal Ortho of the fourth Ibico with the quadrature of Aurion commanded by Leiak in the cardinal Dyticá.

Vélus: from Ibico 4, from where the goddess Artemis will evaporate in the waters for the healing of the tormented in initiation processes of elevation of the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron as if they were surrounding a Castalia for such solemnity.

Spílaiaus: from Ibico 3 in the center of the ministry with the bats, and others from the mercurial ambrosia invoking the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus”. Here is one more bastion of Hades' underworld dressing for the Speleothemes that will take you to the heart of all the dens of the Faith.

Aiónius: from Ibico 1 Wonthelimar who brought purity to all who needed him and went to visit in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive” here Kaitelka and Borker, in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia. Bringing them from the labyrinths with the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth wandering through infinity.

                                       Semi  I theoi

Semi-deities and great autobiographies of the Itheoi world derived from the denotation that would be reformulated from the Apoinandros that would be displaced by spikes of the didactic Ego or teaching of the authentic apostles that crystallized with Zefian, Borker, Leiak, Kaitelka, and Ezpatkul. Zefian: Reformer of the Universe-Duoverse, possessor of the four Arrows that will illuminate Heaven and all of earthly Greece every time Vernarth circulates linearly through the seas of the Vóreios of the Aegean. Ruled North: Vóreios (Boreal of Zefian) Borker: Demiurge and guardian of the Duoverse. Warden of the Forests of the World and of the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi. Ruled South by: Nótos (Austral de Borker) Leiak: Omnipresent demiurge, the vague spirit of the docile water dancer who lives on the water with his slimy Chin, his playful back is seen breaking lines of wells between flesh and silhouettes. Before the First station, the first of the three remaining nights before reaching the crater of Joshua de Pétra” ruled West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak) Kaitelka: Down Whale ruling the Psychic Trisomy of the Duoverse and seas surrounding Patmos of the Apokálypsis ruled to the East: Aftó (Kaitelka Equinoctial) Ezpatkul: Dóntiakul or Augrum teeth or prominent Gold will rotate through the Scarabaeidae demarcating the Vóreios Vóreios in the Horcondising region, bilocating it in Patmos Encinas borers, with such frenzy…!, that of Right there they would extract the strength of the Mapuche north winds from the Meli Witran Mapu, beginning with the Pikún-kürüf.

A great revolution was conceived with the imprint codified in stars that would begin to appear in Alto Kanthillana after the awakening semblance under the Nothofagus bottoms; being a god who would free Ninfuceanicus. This was a Sylph that millions of years had been inert in the space or radius of Spilaiaus very close to events of the new awakening. This Sylph would be the main stolon of the Nothofagus and would provide residual inactive matter from it so that Vernarth could secretly rebel from the stages of darkness and desolation of the species, having been dragged by decanted augers since time immemorial from what is currently on Patmos. This would consecrate extensive recycling, accelerating the characterizations of each organic personality and not, tending to an essential role in Vernarth's plot; because it will be this depression to make of its awakening a multicellular set that would grant the disappeared species of the behavioral axis to be restructured in all the ex-karstic zones of the subsoil of Patmos, up to the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi endowed with a great mineralogical bijective mass to supply powers with signs of substance and later mineralogical dimensions. Ninfuceanicus will be its Exo muscular mineral part that will provide proteins to Vernarth directly from this Sylph, in addition to recreating with her the necromancy attached to Gods Itheoi with Tsambika, Kímolos, and Patmos.The Paraps are nothing more or less than depressions of these liberations of great old geological masses that were biasedly unified under the subsoil of Hades Speleothemes, not exemplifying the stationary world of the relay but rather the Omnipresent Sphere of Spílaiaus together with Aónius and Azofar in the rescue of this Sylph, then Vélus, Ibicus, Lepidoptera, Scarabaeidae, and Astragalus will assign them the predominant rule. In silent and prominent escalations of events, they would intrigue themselves in the Submythological Epic, recomposing themselves in recapitulations that would indicate that Ulysses, Heracles, Hector, Leonidas, and the Great Alexander the Great would come to life from this thermo-geological concoction that would manifest itself by Vernarth's upper pectoral hollow "Called Thunder Kassotides” of which the conversion into tremendous events franked by ancient Greek Mythology would be destined to Vernarth's own and expeditious Hellenic life. This assumes that the overloaded physiognomic muscular exoskeleton of the Hellenic environment will be redirected with the power of natural phenomena beginning in original symptoms of multi gnosis reborn from the sub sphere of thought that intermediates with the interior ones, after the incitement of Vernarth and being part of the gnosis that would lead him to clear everything that is with him and what will be. The Animalia as fierce representatives flow by attempts and at the same time are inhibited from a tacit presence with animals that would conform to Spílaiaus stereotypes; an out-of-phase ventral turbinate of the God of Speleothemes, who is Wonthelimar or ventral turbinate, would propitiate any incidence in manifestations of the noosphere, given the serial appendix of instantaneous analogical relation in the disturbing and super mobility of the Constellation Capricornus, the Belt of Aurion and Betelgeuse. Right there radiating particularity the ontogenesis of Vernarth, already resigning himself from the intimate existential point to focus on the complementarity of other existences on the way to the Empyrium or Resident Ouranos, brewing universals in all unlimitedly comparative when alluding to as being diligent among beings who are not, and reciprocally be revivers of those who will be. Here is the synonymy of Vlad Strigoi that could be supra-spiritual historical omnichannel considering that he is an integral part of a Mythology and a real liberating hero of Transylvania. It still is, but under the exclamatory context that is born of avidity that requires and must collect fungus vines from Canephore and Hellenic delicacies in the prompt presence of gods when it is not enough or there is no legacy of servants or servants under the hindrance of its metaphysics with its empty entrails. Here prevails what dictates a dogma that differs for those who are touched by the edge of the Speleothemes of Spilaiaus to survive in the Sphere of inorganic life of the same god and Ninfuceanicus. This legend narrates the real and non-fictional lived history of Vernarth, that time that in absolute darkness and solitude he met the deity of the Ibico three in the crowded population of the Nothofagus is a totally prehensile approving gesture of a vegetable that authorized him to address Him …, Spílaiaus was such a reference when he listened to him for long hours transforming himself into a real therapist who worthy would bilocate in the original from Piacenza-Italy, when in rare cases of parapsychology he declared himself ineffective to be able to continue the endless sessions. “Gaugamela is the great battle that must be wielded with iron temper as a stalking of a heart that did not scold for another that did not pulsate”

Great raids will be composed of others that will speak of a strong hero having committed superiors, of others that will be based on eloquent vivacity that nothing takes long when it is necessary to induce the cut of Una Xiphos; whose function is dissuasive if the blacksmith is not a god that shows no mercy, but if he is from a job that can be resistant to deliberate him in another that has nothing, nor will he sustain him. The goal is essential in all weakness if a hero is consumed by his stoic bravery, rather it could perfectly reside in his coat of arms as indicated by Hephaestus in the glitter of a forge when the seasoned worshiper of his forges spills liquid steel and not blessed blood of a royal warrior from Laodicea. What Vernarth forges of Hephaestus himself will sound on his lyre descended from precognition of the god Spilaiaus, affirming that blacksmiths of Athens would be decoys that adhere to carcinogenic generations of opprobrious fires, if it were not for one who could carry in his hands a sword certainly jammed by Hephaestus, and that the diluted steel that really falls would make future generations authentic sedated drops in them for the true Spartan or Greek that strengthens it with verve and abulence.

Septuagint prince scribing on scrivello detail
Emerges from the frogmarch grave of revenants sheepish about ghoulish masquerade
The tribes whittle puckered shibboleths and charismatic vengeance evades
The henpeck of roosters harmonizing sand into grassy knolls of carapace cathedral light
Walks beyond the whimsical despair the conniving conservatories of manufactured fright
Spurned by smokestack confusion above a plastered reconnaissance of abundant life flocking between small awakenings curtailed by fulgurant swelters of blistering white
The spectral dance assumes primordial shades to dampen the windowed elegance of betrayal complicit in the haze
Mojo’s rise and fall with moonshot decades flashing intimacy lived twice barking like a squelched gyrovague relishing the kantikoys of burlesque night
And yet among the bemused stars unbuttoned by the prolixity of the Russia ruse the smear indelible flaunts with decadence in the pleonasm of sluggish articles of flight
How long must the messianic age shelter the nebbich halls of crambazzled piety in science to an upbringing of oligochrome
How many dastardly wernaggles of the rusticated elitism flomp with desultory banquets reminiscent of boiling Rome
Incinerated in an ageless day revived only after a historic lapse of barbarity in the ferule exacted such immeasurable despair
That the prejudice of pride is forever shelved as redundant because the filigrees of geometry only permit curvature in flatness
Convex movements captured in still-framed pillories refract nothing but Blazing Saddles of a caricature full-bloom sun
Yet we marvel at storybook ghosts and the isangelous carapace of marauding instincts forever brave and encaged
Erratic by delivery but sciamachy knows no identifiable age
Scrawny fossarians dig entrenched charnels voraginous with skeletons of brackish regelation enthused by immemorial decay
Must we abridge a hearty ocean in a month’s sublime regaled design of trespasses of unsung heyday spaying its weakest defrocked knight
Armed to the Teeth we seek the terminus of apocalyptic capsules destined for gluttons braving annihilation in the vacuum of orbital planes plain only to the ken of the keenest sight
No we make no petitions in prayer for this Soft Parade of vigor verging on flair
We ransack littoral virtues in nexility bronzed with Stayin’ Alive shoes in remission of staircase blight
Beamish in beatitudes of milquetoast pregnancies of salted Matzah brimming in the yeasts of cesspool emergent from scarecrow metaphors flagrant hauteur gliding on air
Witness the spearhead of revolution in the metagnomy of oracular aubades to future brimstone caverns
Lurking like counterstrokes in revision blackguarded by the feisty prowl of outpaced labtebricole whipsaws of timber readied into foisted brown-brick comestion of elegant emerald errors
Dancing with galactic improvidence concealed by the rigor of lurched liars enthroned with prerogatives of stain-glass adumbration
We parcel up parsecs because clairvoyance among titans is a swank in need of 20/08 visions spectral in the clouds of all prominent registries of memory
Lost to faint delicacies of swift serpents outlasting gnats in the tabernacles of ribald ecbolic promontories on the verge of futile tomorrow pastimes spinsters flummox with slimmerback rigmarole flanged by whinks and escorted by the maskirovka of positive bears in absolute value alone
Yet Enola Gay found its destruction profitable to hominist lore enough to attenuate its evaporation of suffrage in the glint of pervasive remedies to stranded gore
Embanked on the sidelines of conquistador flaunts that a Titanic missive of classy regard found the damsel at the steerage slipping on zalkengur irony the anticlimax of lore
Traipsing fellowship of many a ring is a phony artifice for an ostentation that bellows so loudly when isolated perjury must not whimper but sing
The loudest plaudits afforded to a parallax incumbent white horse in the shadow of Dark Horse occultism a barbed flying wing of the West becoming the king of behest
Scurrilous are many jeers because their similes are baseline just as much as the storged conglomerate behind ensnared rapture looming with less ecstasy and blunt fear remains the kilmarge of simple foresight wrinkled behind the sum of many tears
We await our Creator’s Throne insuperable even with the blandishment of piecemeal craters that are superlative bolides of the weirdest attenuated into the spectrum of eldritch weird
Yet the riches of hobohemia found in “invisible lockets” worn by the travesty of jerseys measuring up to Roadhouse beer
The cartels of citadel cascades built on mountebank fortunes reaped from venal psephology collectively embody the unconscious gamut of javelin cloaks of sardonic sneer
Threnodies written long ago in the Hidden Tracks of sophistry welcome the intermissions of antiquity abridging the donnybrooks of charlatans bossed around by facetious gibes of manicured belletrist humid enough that evaporation itself of rarefied tabacosis has few if any peers
Yet the peerless sketch thrombosis in the oxygeusia of deceptive schadenfreude only to topple jengadangles that glabrous gravity muscles to barely if it all steer
In a vacant reality eager for surrealist bounty the sidereal question of moribund placards supplanted by vibrant living semaphores fixates upon figments of acatalepsy rather than ruddy enumerations of partition despite beloved chalky rudiments filibustering with courtesy rather than jeer
Amicable are ravenous betrayals for chieftains cloffined by warm sapwood integral to equated tantamount mountains festooning firmaments in quaffed delights rigid and keen
The most welcomed blasphemy fragrant with jejune originality celluloid enamors splenetic with sprees of perishable profanity lurking ever more obscene
Regaled in the modest jostle is the forsifamiliation of heterodyne dins of honest applause from the blackguarded periphery among which there are no visible beacons no visible stars
Scarred by diacope enumerated in prescient revelry the trollops of tune and attunement magnetize a riveting weld of seamless geometry that is permeable to ineffable lychgates both porous with prowess and ajar against a golfer’s remediable par
Wizened ghosts flirt with tucked bushes in the forlorn deserts jolted by oasis and flagrant with confection torn asunder by wide-eyed gallantry skipping stones on ataraxia from a distraught afar
That lake of goldmines is scattershot with limey limelight squandered on profligate wrikponds of propinquity but not prolixity in scores and bounties of exoticism in glaikery’s fugitive charm
In proximity there is usucaption but the usufruct of sustainable obelisks to liberty must have the forbearance to bear many witnessed eyes to the Right to Bear Arms
Skirmishes of benighted fracking obsolescence ragged with vitriol and poison-ivy nostalgia flaunt the bromides of algedonic flash over consequences that many disregard
Spiraling with vertiginous pain the scowl of obligation is both seamstress of emblazoned effronteries and the proper reflection of seasoned but not seasonable garb
This barbed quandary riddled with rapacious tendency mixed with myopic bonhomie devours a rickety cacophony of diminutive scopes of ******’s glare to prove each atomic indivisible atrocity a carbonated fulmination heavily barbed
This is all why the killjoys monopolize their gangster vices behind tinted windows and chockablock morality are uxorious bridewells for the bridgewater of garbology sketched by vanity in the outrecuidance of gallionic chasms of an absolute value of firebrand regard
No difference does it make if the recoil is whimpered by hordes of sheep in pretenses of authenticity or whether decapitated delopes emerge from visagist dacoitage snuffed like flavors orbiting self-injury by clockwork towers apace to outlast tertiary bribes for secondary bards
The atocia of freckles in recognition of frail pinnacles summited by daily alpine dilettantist dualisms of polarity are a gullywasher to cleanse and launder indelible regrets carved by aboriginal pottery to memorialize primordial penury
As the slick oleaginous tilts of wicked smart Northeasters swarm the hindsight of Southern Weather afflicted by tempests beleaguered first on recapitulations of Calvary and then deposited evidence upon bourgeoisie
Fumes of the modest flambeaus torching sunken apostasies of hungry spasms of the wind meeting the brusque celerity of the ribald waves rarely etch sublime hint in etch-a-sketch lapses of untimely mobility
Instead that perspicacity of conservatory silence bludgeons Lisbon in the fright before the fall of so many a Phoenix in a foreign land can bear the assaults of the heaved seas
Lambent upon a craggy regularity extinguished by sentinels of the tattered womb for a grimace of prestige by primipara seduction we find no justice of known and knowable terminal disease
Figurative in spoken wisps that predate evaporated concepts of precipitous time the triumph of exalted adoration belongs to hubris but vacant of the prideful decline of crime
To each outspoken verve witnessed on sublunary turf the absolution is nearer to fertility than the craggy soil is to dirt as blemished prowess is a furlough to the sensitive pink tucked manifold beneath each authentic skirt
Liberated by ophelimity but flexed by vicarious pomp in serenade only of hauteur for the hottest we slice and dice a cavern of temptations regardless of enumerated patterns of clearly lopsided dice
We think we live and die but You Only Live Twice in ******* to the oriental bolides of meteoric meteorology preeminent in governing plantations of rice
In jubilant proclamation, I graft from venereal skin a renewed girth of purpose that all enchanted fantasia is a birthright of pleasure more than a vapid drawl of purpose
Glitter bores the scintillation of a denuded naked glory of gore because intimacy is antecedent and consequent to immovable revolutionary procreation of service
To conclude this homily the apothecary in persiflage renounces the role of kilns in both poverty and pottery because his shaken dreams are yelps of a disgusted ornery camaraderie
Listless by oracular dreams of titanic parvenus immune to the sway of tentative croons of Suburban Muse because the grisly subversion of vetust honor that honors not verdict but version of ghastly spools of flimsy epitaphs and not the paragon surgeon is the downfall of a diatribe of petty men
Littering their taradiddles on owleries in overclocked jaundice drowning for purpose among hatcheries of the privvy roosters that own the consequence of audacious pens
Dodgy in interrogation, flummoxed with deracination, isolated by time for time’s recapitulation of surrender in katzenjammer vibes it is time for gossamer servant surfers to borrow nine and hang ten
But the noose of the wednongue nun specializes in puritanical Model Ts for DeLoreans trendsetting years ago because listless lethargy benights the glory that cineastes already won
Teeming on the brink of tomorrow is the progeny of hopeless yesteryear engraved on the iconoclasm of the weak after the next debacle because the Earth after Christ has already borne a Ton
Liturgies revised to reflect corsair trigonometry aimed forever at zephyrs of plight bathe in July 3rd infamy doctored by Generators and Generations before and beyond Walter White menacing the saber with imperious might
Flowered in the nuisance of death is the womb of the arena participant to infinite relapses of contention gladiatorial only when the shunamitism of shanachies sheds serpentine grit for the blench of ligonies of redoubled sight
Towering from the knave inferno of a tramontane elusive cordial imitation of captive citizens of attentive sites the illusion is the vanguard of centuries guarded gingerly by Canada Dry sprites
Rollicking in vehement magpiety attuned to machismo if marginally the sultry philander of naked ruse medicates the charmed Apache Indian on his brief encounters with limousine cruise
Stark in sunken destination glimpsing coal-fire recursive ironies the cloned subversion is a golden calf so effete because it never moos about instinctual muse relegated by twin terrors riddled with sparkplug truce
Limited by scopes enlarged by scales mired in funereal pyres to rigmarole sensationalism worthy of nativist coercion and pivoted lyres the riddle of terminus remains an acquiescent scoff, cough and quaff that never expires
It reaches planetary dread of vast distances regaled against gambits of the spread so the richest sourdough appeases the riper vipers of the nested bed
Recalcitrant with frugal uxorious creed the leader of esquivalience is the headless horseman of innumerable tractions but no mouth to feed
He digests the gallop of the gallant interregnum specious in caitiff ploys and the recessive allele of commiserations against the piety of apolaustic joy because rambunctious speed always attracts a resignation professed from the tailspin of a crass voyage of ludic greed
Tricksters boast of passionate lubrications of finessed bread recocted from useless toasts glowering with insipid pallor as heat and humidity reckon billows of hype congregated more in cisterns of apostasy for remark than a marksman headshot of a Head Hunter wed tightly to a pregnable visions of proactive Ghost
Recidivism and time have a vendetta against verdant drolleries coated by waxen plenilune accordions rampant with polyacoustic rhymes
The tridents of mercurial weather bent on the ineffable vacillations of whether are the brazen opponent of Sterling fatherhood of life’s only father the clockwork animation of a living patronage of eternal existence cobbled from immutable time
To the glory of the Father the sun shades its whimpers and the moon alights as the frontispiece of nocturnal revisions to the New York Times but the hues of rocketed ingenuity coax the ingratiated few to the laureates of genius reckoned with both designation and superlative artifacts of pristine design
Haunted by Green-Light Politics for Greener-Eyed Ladies masquerading in star-crossed tomes of existential dread of lollygagged playful mischief tucked in the coach as he leads his team with sophrosyne feel-good invictive treacle we witness the fumiducts of fortune blitzing Hail Mary contrition with earnest specialty in defense of offensive precision
Games won by the squirrel are outnumbered by the stars in the heavens flagrantly devoid of specialized electricity enough to encapsulate the ommateum of collectivized insights found only in the most evolved sequence of cell division
Incarcerated by the scrappy schlep of bad beats and bronzed chariots roiled by the momentum of angular spears we seek oracular transcendence that cements decades into the span of days that portend the deliverance of future years from past and present fears
Presiding as proctor in the redacted exoneration of crash-course pilots glowering with the effluvium of recensed perdition the heyday of one becomes the mayday of anarchy tested only by the alacrity of the summation of its beloved yet maligned cheers
Against a prosperity hard-won by earnest husbandry commandeered by gammerstang notoriety spawning the recrimination of star power into centupled peers negligent of zero-sum opinionation wagered by Country Club fraternities embedded in the taxonomy of wilted hackumber for hegiras minimized by outcry but cemented by Dear Johns’ twinged with sultry pleonexia in taxed tears
So with the whipsaw of the individual between the collective funnel and the idiosyncratic insubordination that amplifies outcry galvanized throes of insemination built on cross-pollination is melliferous to a pretense of alchemy outstretched to sidereal wonder
Hardest to guess is intimacy clothed in Platonic virtues crumbling because puritanical pilgrimage is appraised as a joyous thunder for a abnegation from all potential blunders
To wager such a life is a depredation of the abundance that John breathes as a ceremonial birthright cast aside by latent regrets stampeding the realm of nosocomial reflections of the pallor of a lurid squander
So we are left to bemuse the decrepit bodewash of realism taken to such a virulent extreme it leaves few artifacts of nostalgia to croon about and ponder and fewer abstractions to yield to manicures of elegant troponder
Diminutive sinews in the intertesselations of heft profess a fidelity of notoriety carving life before and after death
Unsung by the beadledom of the usucaption of exotic tailored musician brutes upon my landlocked assault of chryselephantine usufruct I lampoon nescience as it lurks in murky graveyards of anoegenetic zombies covered in thick pigments of piggish soot
Yet this fuliginous bronteum of warped clarity transfixed by the ulterior wednongues of atrocious spans of provenance jilting providence makes betting interests of rivalry outcomes harder to win earnest roots
The trees of the gamboled skittish resignation of checkered blinks obscuring the curtailed discernment of bedizened slogans of future campaigns yet distasteful in ornery churning the bootstrapped tie their tethered laces to their acquired boots
Barnstorming through afflicted spandrels of abeyance shepherded by notions of public dereliction by imperium of centrobaric centripetal philters of concubine rhymes I surge beneath cordial flonky redhibition because of redshorts in estimable traction cemented by supernal design
Weak in luster my potent pollination for synergistic aplomb evades the fringe of corrugated affections mounted upon quixotic escapades of jockeyed statistics flourishing by reticence rather than frazzling the prolix emulation filibustering the mundane ignorance but garnering the harvest of the plevisable sequence from prime to prime indivisible by liberty alone or complicit with cadence sublime
Finishing the sermons of modern apostasy to a gallant cause my laments outnumber the muzzles belonging to the quorum of begrudged applause in the rawest spectacle of unheralded genius clawing insistently at the heart of electric gravity
The nuances of plausible nuisance bicker in emerald harlots of the tantamount nature of derelict frikmag to calculated prosodemic solidarity around insanity because the vein of the golden ore should see ivoride as nullification and inanity
We all stoop on counterfeit stencils of pretense hearkening a clairvoyant sun to droop for closer inspection but detective remonstrance is outmoded by dreary witless defections
Thus the drawl scrawled by the genius flonky in gadzookerie but gilded in rhapsodies of ineffable cadence fighting orthodoxy to a relegated draw sketches the outline of the special talents of lying claws
Because stipulated in the vast oversight that predicates reprisals of retches glazing in obtuse effronteries with eccedentesiast odontoloxia we witness the corrosion of race and gender into pontificating audits of nomadic treason in a fortress militarized by niche applause
Trickling from repcrevel faucets implicit degradation is a casual casualty of an abbreviated motive gestured in ponderous stupidity to distract abiding legislation into the giggled gaggle of tinsellated glitter
Fatuous by vacuums of gaudy prizes worthy only of token motions rather than locomotive strains of virulent and compassionate respect lapsed on vigors of vehement regret is a sing-song ridicule of a still-framed pillory erected as the obstacle that gouges the riddles of impediment and deprives the luxury of preferential emolument siphoned off to lurid jeers of mockery propaganda sizzling in the cauldrons of tilted marginalization
So we witness the faded declension of the hubris of fair-weather camaraderie as a flux dispersal of invidious buoyant bloviated streaks of temporal grit into inverted revelry never shared by the proper ubiquity of streams of personal recompense for plodding fragments of invasion
If I veer away from bickering cackles of denounced preeminence swiveled to face the shadows upon the great cavern of insuperable bounds of fickle human ignorance I deplore the vaunted toadies that shrink my shadow and diminish my viable conceptual and vibrant footprints
Few extinct creatures know the annihilation of petty fame quaffed on Whiskey Bars I never met because the insipid banal pleonasms of restructured irony grimace at my complexion as the scent of the game alerts the foibles of a champion begotten once before as a shark-tank prince
Livid is my grief in the aborning moral quandary of sunken priority overlapping with piebald skeumorphs of retches of blinkered allegiance faltering prior to the primary day of my true awakening because the completion of nesiote subterfuge  rusts on creaky hinges of noncommittal regressions of pointed but pointless deluge
I spar with the augury of irrelevance with a five-pointed star bequeathing rigid but plentiful provision to assist with more than a petty dime of tithe to a 20/20 flash of perfect prescience and hallowed vision
The eve of all destruction is the lollygag of subordinate squawks redacting convenient priorities on the slowpoke walks through teenage immaturity found in the infamous “talk” that the world is governed by evasion in supremacy rather than by the bywords of the perennial stocks in sublime stalks
This nation perishes with my visionary clarity because the bifocal constraints of delimited defenestration remands my custody beneath ****** upheaval documented by useless historians of deliberation in gaffe and ammunition for agitprop flickering away the aubades of praise for the stilted pretense of sclerotic values inflexible to authorship thus scuttled by crowdsourced dictatorship
How sad a spate that the welters of sciamachy hide behind the glaring shadow of immeasurable genius for an unwarranted earwig to steal the echoes of my thunder and poison the servitude of the minions to companionship to highlight aggrieved infamy over walloping feats of refrain found in an isolated rather than protracted celebrity
The guilt of the reproachable beams through the frikmag of tyrannical bouts of circular wernaggle as I carve spherical reckoning that outstretches in all viable directions so that “The Mailman” and the Male Man both succeed in historic insurrection
Flashy benumbed brutish ferules of ferocious dainty dances with an arbitrary cage highlighted among a voiceless heyday for an auditorium which perceives insanity more dangerous than inanity is a profane stipulation by wrinkled mediagenic hubris which scours planetary limitations for excuse to recourse and recourse to excuse
We find marvels in subtlety finicky on the apothegms of heterochrony divergent even further from syndication as the regimented nuances of abuse become plucky daredevils that cozen robust vital sapwood from anglers seizing by seizure the roundabout logic of the innumerable minority characterized forever obtuse
I writhe in delicate contortions of flexed directional bypass surmounting orthodromic velocities capering with the anenometers that spar against spangled enthusiasm only to become an anointed slave of the flagging moral resolve fulminating a huffed crusade with silentiums of false asylum for true achievement brusque against any resourceful tempest scurrying the hidebound illusion of pandemonium for scrappy shenanigans of vergers and emptied pews griping with the dearth of the day-to-day despite the known tomorrow
We cannot affix primary focus upon constellated wasms of puckered abstention borrowed from a maskirovka of secret hedonism wed to many vices among wives but deprived of sacrosanct remuneration for abiding expenses yet an atoll upon a continent decisive in its aborning revolution
Ribald wiseacres of a jovial dismay flanged on rectiserial exaggerations of sebastomania is a stranded frigate of a fugitive escapism wandering with nomadic insistence against cosseted blackguard of assertion without plenipotentiary verdicts against the suborned crater of overstated flimsy truculence in sardonic dissolution
In trespass of a reservation of recoiled tender of tutelage proctoring unseemly haggardly refuse to creak into noisome and noisy cacophony armed by centurions of merciless scorn that lackadaisical winter belies the meteoric riches of autumn mainour fungible with the retches of remorseful decay dangling retreat above entreaty for exasperated wednongues lacking curiosity or the backbite of counterfeit engastrimyths seeding an unknowing complicity to fallacy forked over by chiefs and chefs to an amounted dubiety reserves the armaments of glib sedition for inopportune blacklists by a whitewashed Listerine amenable to launder travestime into oversight rather than belabor banal graft upon the agelasts of a toilsome operose labor to trivialize Herculean monuments to creativity as backwater residence of restive plucky percurrent revivals of infamy as a primary thorn rather than a secondary abreaction
Sentinels swift to the expedited squalor intrepid in sclerotic simpers of renowned defalcation bludgeoned by the tridents of harmonized trauma healing the brayed complaint while regaining the quixotic statute of plevisable mobility belongs to the froward counterpunch to the flippant underminnow of savagery yet among noble personage a blip on furloughs rather than a singed diacope perishing in Wasting Light for denuded darkness to supplant the vacated stage of ironic upbringing bartered from a treasury of obsolete wasms of trivial shadows in the amounted lineage of time.
Elected by the purblind fudged cadge of intransigent solidarity behind unhinged proclamations of lewd lunacy the reset of wibble-wabble and conflagrations of trenchant visibility will cloud the cloudiest tempest with hurricane-force devastation by the healing stripes of the piebald idiosyncrasy of gerrymandered defamation failing where insular regeneration outlasts hamartia and blinkered foibles of girouettism to pillory the excess but not transmogrify the whittled progress of seminal generativity unbounded by harped lyres of discord for secret concords of select femicide
With outstretched hands I point to the tapestry of the Heavens as eternal folksy witness that to endear the temperance of time bullishly roaring on the laureates of prolific servitude to the malleable substance of capered argument the enigmatic punctuation outweighs the baragnosis of miscreant opportune glares at personal prospect for aggrieved sockdolagers of redstrall over the filigrees of innate geometry to cackle above the shouted gnash and the dissoluble squirms of blackened cremation of living memories into insipid fracking of sapwood caitiffs flowing on the motion of discredit rather than honor in valuable endeavor for future genuflection
Totems value me as much as they stalk grazed hinderbaggle of cosmetic devolution of ragged popcorn theatrics in the desuetude of normative ethics beneath the carcass of rotten dastardly cowardice brandishing an ulterior discretion beneath the level of the lowest stoop of any breed founded on loyalty verging into flagrant snipers of integrity for the integral unshakable paragon of broad illumination the guidepost for many spectral truths overshadowed by one miserly fool flummoxing with albatross without the overhang  of pluvious integrity shepherding his hauteur in zig-zagged wallops rather than buoyant serenades
Thus entrenched in juicy poignant barricades against virulent spawn of the katzenjammers of squawking femicide I spout the blossom, bequeath the gift, renounce the delusion and form a formidable bastion against depredated valleys blemished from sight by intolerable patches of darkened verdure hiding from commonwealth perception the pearl of ecumenical salvation swimming in the naked tongues of honest profession dancing with conventional demarcated demerits of Rimbaud ramshackle deracination as a humdrum belittled squander of a prop of craven filibuster rather than beavers outsmarting the delignated destruction of habitat because of outright distaste for plucky individuation above the squalor of relativism in minor octaves of gnashed betrayal rigged by hamsters rather than owned by the men trigger-happy with rat race motivation only to the servitude of degrees rather than plausible recovery embedded into the fabric of fickle society
Hidebound tomes fishing for destruction but grappling with the enormity of the plagued pitfall of ceramic skirmish with brittle conscience emerge with epincion rather than sulk in brooded hyperbole of convenient drapes of flocks postulating irrelevance clearly in the light of the truest day frolicking with gigantic swaddles of curated support etching masterpieces of traipse into the frescades of future calenture beyond the petty misestimation of hemitery politics
Thus the weapon serves two masters of row rather than regatta and the besieged rankles the testy predicament to a teased poetry riveted by years of rhapsody rather than moments of tomfoolery emergent victorious rather than dilapidated by what-could-have-been chary brinkmanship on the precipice of modern sacrilege
To instruct the herds of men to hoard and the wisdom of the wise to circulate that apothegm of reclamation owns superlative traction fundamental to whimsical festivity even forsaken on a churlish masquerade outmantled by frenetic activity famigerated by the true Richter Scale of public fanfaronade because justice is truth and only in germane truth beyond germ scares will decrepit scarecrows demolish their Fear Factor even when the gullible squirm for nexility on bounded continents rather than novantique frontiers
Conscription demarches for assembly beyond relegation and celebrity above frays of discordant rumination feasting advenient rather than cherishing internal and integral the virtuoso wrabble of residue generations churning wheels of acceleration rather than quibbling extinguished vitality as principal complaint exercised in negligent abodes of facetious barnacles to outlandish freckles in the majestic pulchritude of a Titanic salvation beyond and considering the curglaff of sunken resources pitted to my registry by slot-machine audiences incognizant of brittle whittled henpecks of adoring truth and perdurable verve
We sink and die by destructive tongues but abide and live by righteous exemplary prowess capable of scraping the towering canvass of the firmament and the retches of the deepest sea inhabited by any curiosity worthy of emolument
So in token liturgy I decry sidelong cursory squandered affronts that drive the Jehus madcap with fractious celerities of formal destitution rampant on flonky menace rather than modern hypertrophy
In The End, we see triumph in every nuance and bristling concord with every perspiration of ennobled effort truckling into serrated selachostomous and fractious bromides of wrecking-ball fashionistas fumigating cultural pederasty with subtle bailiwick but ragged travesties of taxidermy celluloid
Marvel in-between the serenade and grandstand and cull the turnverein of triumph from banished evasive rundles of the outlasted calculus to neuter the estranged and to estrange the atocia of vibrant surreal vibes no stranger to an alien hand in a desolate world.

Loss
LossOne persons answer to deaths finality
Nancy what do I do I had things to write that I wanted to show you. The flame of your life dwindled to a flicker and then only a glowing ember. Now all that remains is the coldest coal nothing of your beauty and resonating life to earth shows there is no place to rekindle the glow the life you did show. Like a candle in a dark room all the burning finished but the day is so far away. In this dungeon darkness to sit alone unutterable words bind the tongue as strong as deaths cruel unyielding grip. All that is left all that anyone can do is speak to your memory. I know it is not as strong as death a body without breath my defeat the impenetrable veil all semblance of human emotional depth it repels without effort or mercy. Only Saul pierced the pall of this blackest wall spoke to one through evil device to great the cost for briefest utterances he lost it all. I want the peace we shared in common those days without end so cluttered and full with bits and pieces of life that we both shared and knew in detail. Strangers left outside the circle of our hopes and dreams now I to face a barricade the first parameter the mist of gray sorrows dark lined and drawn face. The second mythical beings that taunt with illusion and promise that evaporates at the feeblest attempt to get your attention. You fall to the ground the most familiar and comforting knowable existence then you convulse at the knowledge this is where my friend is defined defamed a better word she walked on the soil she ruled earth and sky like a gull playful exciting your eyes always filled the air with contentment. There was the airy feel that nature was dancing to an enthralling tune that you alone could hear and as you passed you would offer your hand and then two would swirl seemly even able to captivate the wind. Where can you replace the irreplaceable the grave bares this truth and comfort one of our own has found peace among the thorns man’s life is short and full of trouble only a vapor to be consumed. I guess that is the great rub as William so eloquently stated it. There is this rock hard fact determination is birthed at life’s going before we can be as the willow bent by every breeze our heart our limbs react to regret with a stiffing resolve we will go forward they are honored as it should be but by God’s unerring hand we will sacrifice on this damnable altar of pain to speak to act in accordance with their cherished memory that knows no bounds we the keeper of the flame the body grows old but the spirit ever renews. It isn’t cheap tears sorrow the legal tinder you present buying them back from the abyss never wavering you keep their lives not in dark foreboding corridors by sorrowful disdain but in living streams ever coursing. Through knowing and holding to the promise. “I go to prepare a place for you”

i think you should start to consider the memory bank, before endeavouring to write about essentials that are from idealism, given that the only ideal is that we exist, and is paradoxically judged by us as non-essential. (remember the pronoun vectors mingle easiest when contemplated with article usage... the double articulation of definiteness and the double articulation of indefiniteness... let alone the non-identifiable vectors grappling the interchangeable usage of articulation, e.g.? ‘the point of the conversation...’ ‘the point of a conversation...’ ‘a point of the conversation...’ ‘a point of a conversation...’ my... i’m in muddles!)*

i usually play candy crush saga
in the night,
when my neighbours’ windows still revel in light
and i move the bulky blocks about...
like i do with words...
those things that will never become images
and are subtitles of photographs never taken
that give more to aeons than to seconds
in terms allowable usage...
or like the contradictory verbose
language usage of philosophers
that testify their concern with nouns
when they’re doing very little...
why are they stuck in the runt that’s aristotelian
in terms of concerning yourself with nouns?
by the time you figure it out...
a noun takes about 5 extra dictionary meanings
and about 4 misnomers and about 9 synonyms...
i’m guessing the key relevance in all of this
is tinged with kantian inspection...
the contradictory a priori concept and the noumenon (
opposite of a phenomenon),
phenomena are easily accessed... imagine the hippy
revolution of the 1960s in western europe...
there no need to look back... we have access to it...
through the nostalgia spoken of by the people
now retired and grey-white talking about it
with the benefit of nostalgia...
but this whole a priori (from the earlier)
and noumenon (something that can never be known)
is the inherent problem philosophers grapple with...
the whole: i’ll never have casanova’s subjectivity...
whether through the experience of sensual philanthropy
or nostalgic sensuality of “the achieved.”
i know that the definition of a priori is given its orthodox
calibre of the dictionary in terms of proper usage...
but deviating... noumenon? well d’uh! obviously there’s
a spectre of physical jealousy when this one non-sense
exactness of functioning enters the realm of both the senses
and the lineage of curtains... it’s an oddity...
thought enters the realm of time in a present-past relevance
and is fed jealousy... even though the senses, if
placed in a present-actual relevance would feed something else
thought it fed jealousy, even thought direct contact with
events have something of a digital pornographic voyeurism
about it... like watching your parents ****...
odd... isn’t it? so how did i tackle the a priori concept?
if the definition of a priori is: a given event / proposition is knowable
if it can be known independent of any experience
other than the experience of learning the language of use...
well then... i’m all for prepositions and without any given event...
and i put my knowledge on a constancy of continually learning
a language... given my mother tongue is polish
and i started to learn english aged 8... it makes sense to
never give into a lexicon completion;
but then
there's cyco miko's coming back / dog eat dog's one day
to listen to in the dark... looking out for idiocy
in familiar faces taming my use of language...
as a bowl of noodles...
with them having ambitions to write
having only read their postcard addresses with
their postcodes missing: angling the phrase 'wish
you were here,'
yeah, i wish that too;
this is england under marxist inspection...
totally ****** in the industrious sequence
as in the sequence of youths' health...
england... ha ha... only worth problems in ireland
it calls above scotland... and degrading health
of the non-existent attachment of cool atheism of
missing god missing soul to
a sort of quasi-marxism... for ***** sake... stop *******
with our vocabulary to necessitate censorship that's
unnecessary; stop calling it the logistics
of having a soul you tamed to mean
lubricated prefix and suffix of psychology...
and the non-existence of a god that could
as well translate a person into personality...
i'm not worth the complexities of the sciences
from all the life's interest to decide
a centimetre in theory proved a millimetre in practice...
need patience and simplicity...
i don't need the aqueducts of credentials for
the waterfall inspected...
and i don't need to look the part of an argument never had,
i can't fathom the mirage without the actual want
to see what might salvage me from thirst...
but then the conveyor belt of slacked and missing thirst...
i sometimes wish for a fata morgana.

In this violet hour, as dreams court demons and the seams holding the ocean of your soul threaten to split and spill forth your essence into the sky above, time almost seems to stand still. The space around you becomes skewed as gravity gives way to weightless flight above a world that never made sense to you in the first place. All the pain, persecution, and perils that are inflicted upon such immense portions of the populations of no one single nation, but all races, creeds, and castes, and at the end of the day it all boils down to the search for the almighty dollar. But none of that matters to you anymore. As you are borne on by invisible wings along the waves of the universe, guided towards the boundaries of feeling, you begin to embrace the emptiness that is nothingness. Your once harried mind now free from the chaos of being, unclouded by delusions of grandeur and eternity, you allow yourself all the time you need to enjoy this respite from thought. Time has become meaningless. Eons pass, knowable existence collapsing inwards on itself, only to explode into radiance and vitality once more. The cycle continues, hundreds of times in the space of time necessary to form a few sentences, while at the same time accelerating to such a point that galaxies could be traversed in the breadth of a heartbeat. Adrift in the void, with no tether back to the realm of mortals, the only course of action is to allow yourself to be lost to sightless visions and wordless descriptions of an existence that you can no longer remember.

There is my lover! As screamed across my sense
and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand,
I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me
as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me
and is a better *****, than me, so i learn, from vermin
hide, how to have humour
like theirs, the unplanned joy-
that trit-trots across
roads, winning jobs within
tasks of cemetery
light
I know that their light is company, inside and on, the wall;
so curled so, sojourned within
grey dusk
car rivers-
I spit! Not so far
as giants can, just a piece
of spittle,
to ******* the rain, and share with it
it’s fire;
It’s knowable drench, of skin, like hymn,
that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened
and quakeless, to the onslaught of lightening swans, the
quickening fury, of several slow days and lives devouring
the metronome of salutes upon heart, of dusk filth opening
to the arrays of data goods, and gods, coming from pocket
in gibbous mooned sky, and the whisper of all tsunami, hangs mood, bellowing
away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem:
to be praying, beside this funny lil guy, just settled
beside me, on the wall, of course, I am not, of course, I’m not ignorant
he’s gotta feed, tonight, the same tragic logic, as me
as plants
growing teeth
able, to ignore
the rain, until succour comes, do, sad journeying flies,
flying hypnotically towards it’s mouth, as extremities
to the planets engine, affordable, losses, condensed in-
and danced solarlessly, in dances of mortuary
and wedding sung
precipice, an edge of gale,
happy to blow my face away,
all the **** time, gust, gust, gust,
and yes;
I do pray,
a little, and see past holocaust of saccharine tune,
And find that, so often, our shame is forgotten in the simple,
rhythms, of cup- a hand; a castle flock of gulls, landing in water,
a dog wagging its tail because it’s just shat, her owner,
bag ready, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile
to the madness, of the furious dozen/dozen flies- lobotomised
drool, ready to laugh
if you’re knifeless,
maybes a lil knackered from work- – we
might be able to
haul up eternity
and have a lil more
laughter
in our sheets and face, than the sky,
an take a **** holiday
right where you’re stood or sat, or walking,
and there are no gods
but the ones that let you see them
so there, together, let time die, let the parapets soak
in the weather
and say
here’s my bone’s
there’s been a lot of twisting done
but all they need
is yours.

Sometimes I think;
therefore, sometimes I am.
Sometimes I’m not sure.
Those are the best times,
when uncertainty renders me
an electron only knowable
by observing where it’s been;
a statstical state of non-being
where all wonders coexist,
where *what I might be
is more real than what I am.
A dreamer dreaming dreams
in the presence of reason.

Loss
One persons answer to deaths finality
Nancy what do I do I had things to write that I wanted to show you. The flame of your life dwindled to a flicker and then only a glowing ember. Now all that remains is the coldest coal nothing of your beauty and resonating life to earth shows there is no place to rekindle the glow the life you did show. Like a candle in a dark room all the burning finished but the day is so far away. In this dungeon darkness to sit alone unutterable words bind the tongue as strong as deaths cruel unyielding grip. All that is left all that anyone can do is speak to your memory. I know it is not as strong as death a body without breath my defeat the impenetrable veil all semblance of human emotional depth it repels without effort or mercy. Only Saul pierced the pall of this blackest wall spoke to one through evil device to great the cost for briefest utterances he lost it all. I want the peace we shared in common those days without end so cluttered and full with bits and pieces of life that we both shared and knew in detail. Strangers left outside the circle of our hopes and dreams now I to face a barricade the first parameter the mist of gray sorrows dark lined and drawn face. The second mythical beings that taunt with illusion and promise that evaporates at the feeblest attempt to get your attention. You fall to the ground the most familiar and comforting knowable existence then you convulse at the knowledge this is where my friend is defined defamed a better word she walked on the soil she ruled earth and sky like a gull playful exciting your eyes always filled the air with contentment. There was the airy feel that nature was dancing to an enthralling tune that you alone could hear and as you passed you would offer your hand and then two would swirl seemly even able to captivate the wind. Where can you replace the irreplaceable the grave bares this truth and comfort one of our own has found peace among the thorns man’s life is short and full of trouble only a vapor to be consumed. I guess that is the great rub as William so eloquently stated it. There is this rock hard fact determination is birthed at life’s going before we can be as the willow bent by every breeze our heart our limbs react to regret with a stiffing resolve we will go forward they are honored as it should be but by God’s unerring hand we will sacrifice on this damnable altar of pain to speak to act in accordance with their cherished memory that knows no bounds we the keeper of the flame the body grows old but the spirit ever

Oh, cumbersome language-*
When one might reach, grasping and willing,
Toward a certain and knowable feeling
It is you who blocks the way.

No sooner is the feeling felt and clutched to breast
Than it attempts to mould to thunken word,
Where, with treacherous glee,
It flails and fails to fit.

So soon we stand with naught but putty in our hands,
As it cools and crusts to nonsense.

With known, knowable and knowledge,
I paint my picture,
nebulous ocean of unknowable baffles,
but I know, I am that.

Ok...I'm pretty sure I just walked in on you *******...but then again, I'm not really sure what your kinda people would call it.      

Oh and now you're all over me like you were thinking of me the whole time. Uh-huh.
Wow.                     I'll give it to ya, you stay the course.                 Makes you pretty convincing.
What else do you have to think about though?

I suppose the internet battles over freedom of speech don't mean much to you.   You never did use it much...

I mean speech...somehow you're all over the internet but I've never heard you speak a **** full sentence in the time I've known you.


How the hell do you remain so connected?                Language: the great equalizer?    
                    Your scars run really deep...deeper than mine.   I still don't know which side you fight for.

I side with life, for all it's misgivings, misleading mysteries, and willingness to harbor these words through...existence.

I fight for the right that someone or something gave me to be formed from atoms and other smaller unknowable ingredients as part of a less knowable system.

I fight in the dark for the hope that one day the sun will actually rise and show us all what each other look like.
                               and show us we're not fighting on sides like we thought we were.  that we're the only ones left.
and, well...**** we better start making something of our existence that isn't...a fight.

I feel like you're ten steps ahead of me, which is all the time in the world when you've been seein' the light at the end of the tunnel just up ahead ever since you first opened your eyes, first set foot in the cave, first made the leap into a dark earth.          
                                                Ignorance is bravery here...but wisdom comes from outside...when we accidentally step out into the light for a second. And then we shuffle and shimmy past whatever bright new horrors we don't wanna see, slamming our eyes shut until we're back in the cave.




dark.




                                        That's a
                                                  short suffering
                                         For what we become.
                                                                                      Standing at the bottom of a murky lake
        in the comfortable                                                     telling ourselves
                                                                                       this is it
                                                                                       We'll die where we were born:

The big dare:

Define reward to an organic automaton.

Make a point that rewards. Reward me for leading you on.
or, what´d´yḱnow?
Eh,
pop my bubble, but it appears

Dan Hooper,

knowledgist conimpeered reviews, knows,
scienticical as anything you can imagine, he
knows he believes knowable things,
which
I
don't know knowable, much less,
do I know them known knowns.

I do know I don´t know how a mortal can know

for sure, but it was likely something
was going to happen any way.
Words work, they make ways, truth be known.

It was, before time, impossible to know right? rrrr
ight is a tough concept to even, even, level, equaliated samesave
valuewise
smooth, no creases, no bumps
but
heavy, who knew? One door or many, you and I in the realm where
mortals claim to know, among other secret things,

What Happened At The Beginning Of Time?
- with Dan Hooper (Royal Institute Youtube)

But, I agree, a good rule for life is:
Imagine the speaker knows the exact same meaning for each

word he breathes,
that you may define with your connection to all known word definitions,
so you know what he means
the ex-act, out-active, meaning

intent to cover the chaos empowering the ever expanding universe,
and make it plain, so they may function
knowingly,
like a smooth running system creating slight
ripples
in the gospel truth reality in
which I find my treasure of once idle words, now accounted for.

ah, periods,
breathing commas, are such a wise invention.
The engines of our warfare are not carnal, meaty, muscled to push or pull,
**** and tear,
rubbed and scraped to
sharpen, push
gentle awl,
of any hard thing, pointed
through a poking
meme
to make a point. A once.
In time, a been.
A place to hook a silken thread,
as
I swing by on a whim, to hear

Point. Truscore.
****, proof.
We won

On with the show.
Upon such pointed slivers from actual out perience,
we agree, we join our extra ef-fort to ward
the newborn babe, effectually, fervently demanding

input, input, input, expel, expel, what! THHISMUSBEEHELL!

Burp. Not all gaseous beings belong in you.

Pat yśelf on the back, be kind to yo logos, yo logos be kind t'me.
Then, in the book of life, now on,
we
did that.

Set a landmark, what they called a breadcrumb,
for navigating stateless spaces,
in the early days of hyper text,

did I not hear a voice say outside?
color
outside the vector of time

oh, yeah. I know the tie in.

Re
ligate this to those old guitar god souldsoul
crossroad stories forming
a somewhat searchable
substructure to science, sci, with known uses,

conscience. Things we think we can do and do,
by virtue of knowing we did.


as far as this ever expanding state,

this bubble of being, we live and breathe in,

here, your role was dear, reader. Next is yours, to make of it all you will,

unless Sam Harris is right, and yoou have no will of your own.

I am bound to wander off into the confusion,

in search of lost boys, wombed and un, trapped under one of those spinner

things that seems too orderly to be random. Your reward,
activate this word:

rescue (v.)
c. 1300, from stem of Old French rescorre "protect, keep safe; free, deliver" (Modern French recourre), from re-, intensive prefix (see re-), + escourre "to cast off, discharge," from Latin excutere "to shake off, drive away," from ex "out" (see ex-) + -cutere, combining form of quatere "to shake" (see quash). Related: Rescued; rescuing

The puppy seemed happy to see me
when I seen her at the park that other day.
you coulda seen it right away.

So the shrink lady she say, so what?

Dunnno, jisayin' somebody seemed happy

after seeing me naked paraded before all
who may have noticed,

maybe not.

What if nobody noticed and I am happily
seen a naked thing I am

unnoticeable save for seekers of knowns

believed to be known or
knowable

by you, down in the slew, Bunyan's slough,

ya got iron in yer blood?

ya areckon.

Yer Uncle Sam needs ya, boy,

you leave that Kansas lass to
stare at those July buttermilk skies,

there's a war awaitin' for Rough Riders,
Arizona reared and steered

Say what, sir? Steered? Not me. Done my time.
Played footballs, by damtotell, at Fort Bliss,
I threw hand grenades,
Football was Ft. Huachuca, autumn, 1967

Bien Hoa was in the spring, one day after
My Lai, my country's legacy from my year

beyond the whole idea of war. History said,
if we are not the Redcoats, we are the Hessians,
at least.

Allegiance to a legion because they are many?
Perish the thought.

Under the celestial heavens,
The sceptic, is so small, slight—
In a dull room, filled with gloss, vacant,
Unbelievers, hayseeds, who unbeknownst
To themselves, are all in an incestuous love cult,
A construct so vain, vacuous, of spineless comfort
And smarmy snugness, a tribe of loose, yawning tripe,
A spew of runny phlegms, a scheme of useless blue things,
Festering.  What rational and clear clods, of beheadedness,
Cluelessness, in clefts of lobotomy, plain and clearly sightless,
Without seeing, they proclaim, all that their dull drivels, the dear
Elders had once spoon fed to them, preached, said— now, how,
They are sad, righteous and solemn in their preordained, oldness,
Incongruous, indifferences and prejudices.  To have completely lost
Any warm, decent, actual feelings for emotion is foreign— the stars,
Do not align, the waters will not part, yet they are blind to the lies
In themselves.  To have experienced— any real, beating, ******
Thing is beside the point, is beyond their ken, is not knowable,
Yet, kowtow-able, quantifiable, not actual, but unbelievable
They—the smug, slugs, under rugs, are dead, as dust,
Under celestial skies, deep, darkness inside  .  .  .

Upon entering the microscopic
World one does not immediately
Forget what it is to walk a mile
But when there is no knowable
Way back one soon looks with
Greater interest on what there is
To notice-a whole other world.
How you got there is a mystery;
How you will  ever leave another
Mystery.  This too shall pass and
Every new thing is the beginning
and the end of the love for what is.
Now passes thru what now is.

Cracks run through you, doubt has overtaken; in a blighted show of this modern world
Faith, no longer enough for those with razor minds, 'though all of us make a leap at some bedeviled stage

For life, 'tis not knowable in its entirety
One needs to opinionate themselves to a world view, slick reasoning giving way to crunchy ideas that rot the soul
A faction; to alleviate lonliness' in dogma

In this age of logic
We have lost our heart

what need we know,
what laws to posit,
mission clear
but still us,
we remain a wee unclarified,
the theoretical, lacking,

so today,
all scientists, all visionaries,
all literature professors,
critics and ******,
today, only positing,
non-negating,
in order to
establish the tenets of
The General Theory
of Poetary Genius

once proofed and proved,
the theory capable,
discerned and predictable,
the foretold course
motion foretold of a
planetary body,
a special singular star,
a peculiar one,
plot not its course,
but it's discourse,
the emanating waves
of words arriving, self translating
in any and all languages,
but for all,
in their native tongue

The first element,
chiefest law of them all
is to pose the problem differently,
so that answers come from
a planetary poetic perspective radical,
enabling any old genius to see it
as no one has seen it before, till now

We mortal Joes,
ponderous weigh,
inexplicable unsolvable ordinary,
what is love?

The Poet Genius declares:
it knowable, it's real,
its solution a matter of a matter,
among two planes it coexists,
though in three dimensions...
what is love co-exists
in space and time at the
subatomic level
and moreover,
who gives a ****?

The second element,

(To be continued)

Time, much time, beyond that humanly knowable
Shrouds the lie that many monkeys wrote war and peace
Unprovable even as Ulukadu exists in a far far place
But I know it lives, is green, has a rainbow tail, and flies

She is always running
from what the world has to offer
instincts she trusts
spirits and lessons to ponder.

She's so strong
and she does not play the cards,
so strong and free
that he makes the life of boys go hard.

Her defenses are upright
with will to prioritize her wonders.
a wall high as heavens,
beliefs that cannot be shattered

A million salute to her ways
and she knows some day it  pays.
she's a strong woman for keeps,
a rare kind, gentle but silently weeps.

She is running away
from the love that sips her life points.
running away and away
from the perfect, with her knowable decoys

Stepping backwards
but I can see the barricade's almost done.
but I don't want to spoil another spirit
so I will let this go. flee, and gone.

...you must love her a lot

I do...sometimes...i actually begin to think that this love might be outside myself, and greater than most anything ive ever laid eyes or skin on.

This love truly exists?
Is it really possible to find someone who sees love this way?
Who doesn't put it in a box, belittle it, say it's a feeling or a mere hormone
...but sees it for the mystery that it is:
something so simple and delicate
and yet
so powerful and strong
at the same time.
Something to not be taken lightly
but to be cherished and watered so it might grow...
The fingerprints of one who loves to caress our very souls
and lay such thoughts on our minds to ponder...

It does exist.
And though it may find itself flowing through the riverbeds of fingertips,
they cannot grasp it.
Though it may attach itself to and entwine itself into the skin - and those things deeper -
the heart- the mind - perhaps even the blood of human beings -
it is not able to be put in a vial.
It cannot be captured.
It always runs free.
It may be muted or obscured - but in its truest - its purest forms -
it is both knowable and unknowable -
in the sense that one may become intimate with it -
caress it -
hold it -
even kiss it -
but that it may not be intellectually or understandably grasped
by any inkling of any atom that exists -

the only thing that can possibly understand or encompass it - is the entirety of everything .
It is found in creation inherently.
It is in the sunlight and the blooms of spring.
It is in the rivers - the curves of smooth red cliffs-
It is in life turned to death turned into life again
it is in the hands of a creator of such magnitude that they are infinite -
and as the environment in which it exists is infinite and ever reaching -
so is that thing itself called love

Past the last of the acidity, augmented by the fire two valleys west…
woke to wonder where am I to aim
my self
My being me being made of all roles I ever play

Today, is marked a day in a week in a month and year
on a spreadsheet maintained
by several orders of attitude HR magnitude, cults of clerks, used
minds and bodies, stacked in edified
piles…

as quanta of thought, bits of ever left in now as hints,
things to come are made of ever lasting stuff,
word of truth, my self is sworn to tell,

test me if I lie.
But {but, but} in thy mercy, not thy wrath lest I perish
and only id, or another ******-enomen for evers what was, remains
a role, an act, remaining after the ocean of opinions I was on evaporates,
after I am evilized as egoically selfish,
I,
my self, too highly thought of,
for far too long a time.

Yes, {yes, yes} that, too, has passed, re
do the re,
there we were awakened, with a Jolt Cola realization,
life is a game,
we make up, as children can, if you recall
the child you were when thinking as a child may, at play.

This is the day we form a man in the realm of self I am
and, if you take my word as truth,

you take the ability to sponder, eh? First, you ask, re
is the author authorized to utter truths hid
since the foundation of realit-ifity, as we
imagine
in preparation, for the game, Life,
but not the Milton- Bradley version, this
2020 Life on Earth.
The game. Made plain, a board game.
The self, aware of teachers standing silent, but prepared.
Ask, and, truly, as if true, answers appear.

Choose. Do. {winning loss of confusion points, line by line}
Rules and Regulations,
Scepter and Orb,
Rod and Staff,
Crook and Flail, same-same seen signs of higher power…

long ago, far away, prior to these tools we use, you read
I wrote,
we imagined, in our minds visual mode, we see as if true,
a we we may be if we agree,
and
follow the hold of the symbols of power,
respect the symbols, look once more re-see the revealed,
veiled since God knows when, but {yes, yes}
more knowable now than ever,
that which fell to the earth,
sowed light. That's right… here come d' judge.

If I find a little light, and in my mind, I let - let it go - let,
until the letters be taken out of the way
and meaning forms from informative
matters of fact, impossible.

Ah, Jah, ya *** old and feeble, after a while.
So it seems, says the weigher of any word's worth,

accounted for idolized words, holy, sacred, secret troothz…

abound, Bounce bounce tic
to Rube Goldberg goes the metaphoric prize, proof.

Plan the action, pre-form the plan, practical failure, of course,
is unthinkable after careful thought,
critical thinking and un-come-on skepticism of sophist teknhe.

****, up in smoke.
All the attention ever paid to any single thought,
shhhh shushing in the cold, absence of heat,

too cool to live, longer.
Pop.

Turn the page, scroll the screen, ignore the parts of reality
behind your focus forward receptor circuitry
winding round and round,
past at most fears sold at half the attention cost.

Pay hell for your wish, or accept the fuel to fire up one
thought candle in the flicking arena,
I think I am visible,
I feel lucified.

I can kick the ball, I know, this time…

Ah, Charlie Brown, your social significance is history.