Hereupon, hereafter:
A mist, undefined and blurred.
A jealous wrath as loving desire
Warped power as dishevelled beauty
A timeless existence as the finite

Transcendental in its result
Transcendent in its cause
Transcends outright

A myth of the mythical
A voice of the voiced
A love of the loved
A fear of the feared

That which commands silence,
That which commands peace,
That which commands love,
And that which commands faith

Is just one touch,
Hereupon.

Fates transmuted

Beguiled by the labium

of disaster; as it emanates

fallacies of mirth;

a vagary unattainable

Following the path less traveled not\
*** you must be frolicking Fool King\
Energize invigorate stimulate emanate\
Spermatozoon asunder burlesque pudendum yonder\
Instruct defunct artery leading linear gland grand\
In duct labium urgency of the Amygdala Beast\
Ache lusting in the heat of the moment melting\
Enflamed yearning naked cross Christ faded in vein\

I seeketh one to seal mine labium with her succulent salt,
To locketh me tight in her vault,
And to throw away our key,

On mine knee's ,
I canvass to find one!!!!

Two to have children of many!!

“It was she, with a dazzling indomitable rationale,
Just as if she was not cognizant of her radiance,
I’ve become deciduous to the loss of her resplendence,
She did not have ornate belongings or fine silver,

Withal her convictional eyes of such alluring presence,
Eyes the color of the deep blue as the coral briny ocean,
It was as if she sings to me with her crisp simper smile,      
Her labium voice matched the rest of her natural beauty;
  
She was strikingly invigorating in her baroque ways,
The brisk breeze afore gleamed of incandescent fiber,      
How one could love one of such passive virtuosity amidst,
She suffocated beauty out of the fore deep sea,

Her eyes and face pertinently pensive in  awe,
Yet she radiated beauty as not aware to her person,
At that point exodus mercurial moment to joy amidst us,
To show her she was with such decorum,
Neither of us would feel hunger again as one?
With our stimulant chalice of my Abundant Artistry”  
    By Andrew Guzaldo  ©  08/28/2019 #164

sometimes reality is the most infuriating thing
to some people,
               and sometimes its bites,
unexpected, as if: it didn't have an allowance
to exist in the first place...
         oh no, not some mediocre:
ahem, hollywood fiction therapy sessions
that turn into: less a fiction, and, more a fantasy.
me? some people paint,
                      i cook indian cuisine...
take for example the following two recipes:
thai massaman curry...
              the perfect antithesis to thai green,
and yes, i went to the local turk to ask if he
had some lemongrass shoots...
     fortunately for me, i still had some stashed
in my fridge...
          or the chicken pathia...
            who would have thought that indians
use vinegar mingled with sugar,
  well, on top of the plum tomatoes,
   i'm not surprised that you'd need to add
cinnamon to the couldron...
                   you know: to balace the sweet
from the acid...
                              i love when married
men talk about prostitution, and ***,
   you know, those beef men all jacked-up,
boot-strapped, well: wearing boots without
any shoelaces...
                         somehow, if you managed
to see the atypical example of what 110 quid
will get you...
                from the elder prostitutes...
                    sure... you can spot acting
                        like you might spot
                               a dove among crows...
see... mmm... problem is when a *******
expresses a certain, piquant pain...
              no, no sadomasochism type *******...
expressed with the words:
      ouw... that's only the second time
it's ever happened to me while working...
   see the difference between acting,
           and, well... it must be a moral conundrum!
the pleasure of the act is there,
   but not by the way it has been achieved...
razors tearing through flesh...
        a kiss on the hand, and a hapless naked
body bewildered as to whether sit on
                the bed naked, or get dressed...
or how you can jump out mid-*******
because the bulgarian is so **** ****,
jump into a bath in the same room that
the bed occupies, and spray ice-cold water
onto yourself, while she's still in bed,
         ******* herself, watching you
react to her body in such a way as to not
    employ: *******, ******-clippers or *****...
that must have been acting too...
          two or three memories will suffice,
and this **** can go on like
   fast & furious 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7... 8?!
                        hard to be bored when
certain memories are engraved onto your
forehead like the hebrew's name of their
god are, but instead: a loop of what
  i'd like to return to, if eternity, were but
an hour... in that brothel soaked with an air
of jack daniel's perfumery...
don't ask me how they did it,
   but bourbon, unlike whiskey is riddled
with brothels, rather than some highland
                                        distillery...
so when the public discourse goes steaming
ahead into absurdity, there's me,
sitting in a dark corner, brooding over Dalí
               ******* Bacon: or rather...
                         adding lacklustre to the latter;
because bragging is one thing,
       and spotting a terrible actor is another...
nothing pains a ******* more
      than experiencing authentic pleasure
  from what she deems both pleasure,
       but also a chore...
                                    as of now:
          i have already washed my hands clean of
engaging in this popular mainstream narrative...
*** in vitro is probably an adequate picture
to visualise...
                         mind you:
   harder to steal a kiss from a *******
than it is from a ******...
                               since there's
   the lex labium:
                                  of those who ever
used nettles to cure an itch,
                       but hey...
             a wife is a wife,
                     and a child asking to be kissed
goodnight... must certainly be the least
of your troubles as i kissed both the lips
          of a skull, and the lips of a flower...
but of course! that's the problem!
                    as with the past,
          and the children tucked in neatly for
the postcard smooch into the land of nod...
          my... behind closed doors,
anything can happen!
                                           but as i said:
some people paint...
             no army as great as that of russia or
america, has this sort of arsenal of spices
as i have in my possession...
                         it's a ****** hard lesson
to utilise fenugreek seeds...
                       i guess i'd have to begin with
the leaves first.

what happens when
Dark Fetish meets Radiance Sutra

finding it is like looking for a needle
in a haystack of needles
a dog meowing
night park astral planes with erections

a chromosphere with starry swollen labium
a purity purge, then taking it back
a pro life run away embryo
Debbie Dare and Bridgette Beware
with 3rd eyes blinking like traffic lights
trying to become tasty
while turning up their bottoms
for starving breatharians
who can't resist the allures of
Pandora's portable rubber genitals
they bought
at the five and dime tinsel towns  
Queen ***** Emporium

not everyone can walk in the light of truth
some people burn
like country fair corn fed Iowa lesbians
clucking kisses
asleep and awake at the same time

donut bumpers expecting the unexpected
in an unfathomable matrix
at a witches broom barn dance
during partner swap night
among straight couples
who only like rococo

Jekyll & Dad Samadhi
health, wealth & unhappiness
licking, spitting on each other
and having tantric *** the wrong way

you're safe now bwahhahhahaa

codependent sadomasochists
drift infinitely upward like psychotic marble roses
while Queen Opalala  @ ****** University
gets **** buttered and buckarooed
during the downward dog
to the music of the spheres and poems to **** by

a red head
bed head
**** in a cinematic pillow of flames
mouthing her ruby red lips
in a soft voice  
saying
a day without being forced to her knees
and a slap across the mouth
is a day without sunshine

A few more words squeezed out for the year

Become the candle which I kneel to
Endure the flames which kiss you
Orate your tears in my arms
Wince as our wuthering tempest jolts us
Unyielding our souls shall be
Ligaments tear apart with blighted tone
Forsaking atonement for damnation

This I swear to you
Yours will be the name I cry at night


A few more tears freshly picked from the oven

Elsewhere in a surrogate legacy
I was walking down the corridors
Our effigies, dead ringers and tableau
Unruly, unnecessary, and everywhere
An afterlife I didn't want to exist in

But you told me something I can't recall Scattered like leaves in the wind
The soundtrack of nails
On a chalkboard
An onslaught of recollection

A pitch perfect rendition of my deeds
A choice between myself and you

Bitter, battered I fell
Bloodied, bruised knees clotting

Your illustration, your illusion slid to me
Your plunging neckline, of plumed faith.

Labium laboured
Labrum lolled

As you held my dying gasp
As you gazed into infinity in my eyes

You breathed the last loving words.
Hark, my king.
Kiss me, kiss me goodnight.
Surrender to me,
One more song for the end.