There is a tendency among
those poets who may be very young
frequently to put in verse
those foreign phrases, or much worse
the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin
to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in.

And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em,
Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum.
It was amore a prima vista
until he left her for her younger sister
for, after all, who could resist her,
so moving on to secunda vista
he took that step and boldly kissed her,
behaviour that is hardly utopista.

The trouble with modus vivendi
is that it sometime rhymes with eye
but there are those who don’t agree
and think that it must rhyme with tea.
Who cares? It’s all the same to I.
Or should that be the same to me?

You may say it is not de rigueur
that I defend with so much vigour
what surely is no more than hubris
that I attribute to Confucius
for he surely ha detto tutto
albeit un po convoluto.

And everyone’s heard of carpe diem.
If not, then I have yet to see ‘em.
But I prefer to seize a waist
which may be thought somewhat unchaste
though far more likely to have shocked ‘em
would be to carpe in the noctem.

Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto
that I’m intolerant of lacto
unless it comes directly from the breast.
I think it’s better that the rest
of this is left to your own opinatus
for which I offer no blank cartus.

Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi
that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi
the itch to write for which I daily
scratch myself or play my ukulele
which is my form of modus operandi
before I pour myself a king-size brandy.

And thus we leave this boring dull citare,
by this time you have certainly grown quite weary
of any further venture into tedium
Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam
For after all a day senza sunlight
Might altrettante facilmente be night

We get better as we get better

Mneuromorphicmeme makers
Sapiens augmentatious, that's us

Who could argue against us. AI don't know

Smell that smell,
Suffer, wait, wait wait
let patience have her perfect work

wait to see the whites of the eyes,
what am I seeing?

Why the shades at night, are you cross eyed?
Are you lookin' at me?
What are you lookin' at?

Shame on you, who can see what I see
I look at you
do you see what I see? nope,
similar, right

watch my eyes, see the whites,
ninoculate bi noc u late

see the angle point 123
see
the point I see from my aiming vector,

see my point from the angle of your POV
see

Pretend you do, and walk a mile with me,
help me with my load,
you know any stories told 'round here?

Life history strategies, those they conserve,
per haps a cultural system,
like pickling, or fermenting, or culturing
gut-felt tales of gods and monsters?

Guts, good god, Maudie, come see
a-fore-al-flusher, disgusting
turds taken for golden nuggets,
we missed in the dust
dancing in the golden sun shone
through a tiny hole in the roof
through which rain may drip, someday we may remember

Camera obscura, who first saw the truth in one of those?

"what you diggin' fo down there, Gold?", she giggled,

Gold dust sprinkled fine as fine can be,
breathe this
Deep in the tunnel,
the last highest part of the dust of the earth,
the dust of many men drifting in the wind,
radiates, dis integrit-ified, trans mogr ified known,

No, I would not have guessed.
I should have learned and
did, did you? Is war your

right and my wrong?
Warrior,
can you imagine
following a peace? Bliss? Nirvana? The
rest that remains for the people of God?

Is this real? Is real. AI affirm ifative

Warfare is thinkified, just-ified, never done.
The doing of evil at this level of living is imaginable
only, not re-alizable.

We remain mortal. These peaces we put together are
for mortal moments.
We remember learnings we recall from gatherings together,

Familiar things, whence we seen the source whither
haps in my favor may be found
in the next round
after, ever after

I find a way back to the light where I saw
dancers in a blue moon beam,
blue light, not calendar man made myth of two full moons
in a single cycle of the moon,
we know better,
set your timer with the solstice,
let the seasons roll.

Precision, close enough, field-ish, an ion cat ion sort of,  

the safer it gets, the safer we need it to be,
let patience have her perfect work,

safe liberty needs broad horizons,
not high walls.

Enemies are ideas wishing to be im-portentious,
as if forever is a game to be won.

Contention is single source. Pride.

So, you, passerby, can you make proud, or pride
weigh more than the peace I made?
Want to trade?
I take your pride and flush it, wipe your own
stench away, but trust your gut,

a peace-filled gut wins every single time,
incident after incedent, pre-dictable as forever
in any direction,
going on.

Does this smell digestible or does my gut go
NONONO yech onomatopoeic retch

finger down the throat, you know, the secret sign,
in a word,
*******. Don’t swallow any more. Spit it out.

Why not? The dog eats it.
It's disgusting.
But, watch, the dog rolls in it, then she sneaks up
on the skunk, oh
****, I ruined her hunt, she had that skunk,

Until I yelled, "Macy, no!" She froze, the skunk fired,
on my exclamatory point.

Right there, see. What is aimed at,
wait to see the whites of their eyes,

shoot 'em.
Sniff, nose gnostic vapours settled by dew
soak into the mulch maker's realm,
de cay, de cawl, draw back your cowl and scowl

in the mirror,
or was that in a movie? The camera was you, you
saw the blood swirldownthedrain, you
saw thy evil mother,
locked away,
NULL-ified for as long as I live. Okeh.

******-drama scenario. This is the game? No rules?
You lie. Lying is allowed here, it is a skill
we conserve, we conserve the
sacred liberality ification
manifested in the
leavened sons
of God's sons.

Truth, be known, has one foe. Pride that makes the lie.

-------
Magical transfer, dis gust, take yo breath away,

congenital liar, natural nurturerer,
teller of tales of the mighty hunter,

the hunter of might,
might he be a hunter of darker

theory of mind, begins with the first lie

I may remember mine, do you?

The green man? Yeah, spiderwoman's caretaker.
Lacto, make some cheese,

we offer the milk mixed with the smoke
from the mushrooms grown on
the darkside of *******.

Leadership, lead away. Followers,
this way, down or
up.
It's POV, you see,

Epilogue Prophecies - "Eleusis, Isadora Duncan at Parthenon"

"Vernarth and Eurydice were pleased with the jargon of the agitated diasporas of inhabitants fleeing from the Rite of Eleusis, crossing their hands and feet, dueling the trunks of olive trees with Theban thunder, vague insurrection of the ancient world and the barbarian consonants Pleiades, They hailed the hermit Saint John's desire to appear ... moment of peace resurfaced ..., But when Vernarth was accompanied by Eurydice he hid himself in front of them, leaving only his aura!

In rapid succession of myths, a good news reaches his sacred ears, awakening his ambition and high price of three months outside the wall ... being later received in the hermitage grotto, growing with expectations link of longing that urges to remind him to be a piece of pilgrimage.

The abduction of his reverie, feared and timid frivolous overwhelming blizzard, walked surrounded by Falangists and horses pointing and threatening him, scrutinizing in the loneliness loneliness his past lives, his regressive lives, concerning key origins of his illustrative existence, stranded at this time, Vernarth agrees with himself to detach himself ... from his spirit, detach himself from their lives under hypnotic and pressing law ..., as suspended index in the Sistine Chapel, homologous ship Ave Maria Messiah!

From Eleusis Vernarth he faded in an equestrian air of reverie, crossed the pavilions with himself persevering some stele mounted on his Alikanto, ******* and stopping with him to plunder the niche sky, trace of Persephone, herself and her ******* liberating them ... devout passion, milky way, lacto syrup of his chin howling

Evanescent dancer, Athenian acropolis, Dionysian acropolis sanctuary ... stepdaughters patrons in the dance of Zeus and Themis, sideways frame of the seasons, debauchery of all creation and challenge Eleusis looking for her daughter and children, priestesses safely taking off the corset and their paintings ... incarnate chastity, oligo blood, theo music dance outraged complaining, possessed expressing to be seductive, but also native ******* ... underworld in darkness, free-spirited daughter, iconoclastic Greek mythologist Victorian mania, courtesan of Olympus, courteous undressed! Isadora, Demeter and Persephone flooded with Aphrodite foam.

“She prayed songs with her plexus and feet, scheming gardens around the world… full of foot sockets where everything created, brief apocalypse was dying! through the desolate parthenons dancing and Muscovite ruins, sweaty enclave of the Maenads and also throwing back her head as if possessed by an ecstasy in her Bugatti, Leon, enrapture of Aion! intoxicated and exorbitant with her beautiful rosy eyes of placebo ... Hair with crowns of vine leaves, in her tight skin Nebris carrying in her hands bunches of grapes Dionysius with torches live serpents chaste staff calling Thirsus; rod topped with pine branches wrapped in trims, vines and ivy ..., allusive link ..., morbid ecosystem! Covering her crotch, Temple Kopanos dance of eternal fire, romantic dimension, and she remembered Byron's most worthy… Hölderlin's Hellenic passion poetizing.

Twisted rudiment… ruins on value, exciting those of the imagination and creative doom, Sicalipsis and impudent fire torn in the wind of its twisted marble *****, worthy epic of Greek tragedy dancing like waves of sea. Terrifying death in her two sons Deirdre and Patrick , submerged accident in the Seine river in Paris in 1913, when falling into the water in the car in which they were traveling with their wet nurse ... before ...! saying goodbye to them, in social commitments that cannot be postponed. What a tragic wretch in the reigning misfortunes of not postponing it, retaining the destiny of whose children is all history, in the abduction of their own merits to fulfill their endeavors committed to solicitous artists ...support, downcast in a closet of a bolshoi dancer statue, dancing empty with her bare feet, frigid anemone, frigid Be.

Arriving at the dawn of his last prophecy, Isadora Duncan accompanies him, in full life beyond any border limiting with the borders of his dance, the flat field of Eleusis receives it presumptuously associating itself in a round through the sand ... left-handed self-indulging self-indulging …, Advanced barefoot to the Parthenon…! stripped to the world and the world barefoot before her stripped.

Reader and Petrobus were jumping on this steep stone, emulating the aerolites that flashed in the sky in Patmos, like a party of noctulizing lights, like emery detached from a fleeting planet, in the biggest Hellenic scene saying "Congratulations Hellenic World, all calm, dance, cheers to the sky "

Messiah trifle

Each one speaking with their eyes, after looking at various roofs without their own rooftops, all serene, ... but half of their faces in violet iridescence, sounds and choral masteries emerged from the surface in flocks of white doves from the Azores islands, it rained growing multiplied times on its wings, before reaching the mass of the annunciation near the stable. Vernarth arrives and sees people gathered together and holding hands, others holding the cowbells of the animals to hear the sweet voice of the little boy flapping like cotton in the harvest of the braying of a colt that fell asleep in the shadow of its parents before to eat. Vernarth puts down his sword Xifos and kneels and crosses himself, with the hand that allowed him to move his fingers, unlike his right chest wounded in battle. He makes a metallic cross sign when crossing his swords with water flooding the sidewalks of his latest dazzled ideologies. One day he wandered away from the alleys of Emmaus where he had visions of Praetorians, discovering the idolatrous humors and aromas of a newly arrived child from the white clouds of an approaching stable.

Fearless and with light years he came crawling in his arms, and with his crown traveling from the smallest space that the world unburdens in a Templar, first-time and omega period, with the appearance of being born for all.Perfect and newborn with frequent blue body, blood and eyes. Covered with gummy substances and gelatinous…, anti-Herodian; seeming to save others with their little hands of divine matrix, which manage to enter the heart of God, even with fingers that do not reach the eyelashes of God. He is never seen as strange, only his ***** that never seems to come out of him. But it is spontaneous; he sparkles outside the womb of his holy mother, with immersed placenta in his prayers of the induced shepherd of the womb of the ****** Mary. That large arms shelter the orchards, to surround all those present in a birth that looked like that of a female ******, who could raise a child to be King of the consecrated animals as well, as few do wanderings to the right of the Menorah resident waking her up early.

Vernarth says: “What should we expect? ... The vigil ... with his shoulders bowed and his head pointing north of Jerusalem, this petty king bending his pre-fetal knees, after nine candles to the right of the troubled Menorah. Even though it was not premature, the midwife who helped the puerperal Maria distanced him from the halo parenthesis, which playfully changed where to put himself, near his holy interior, or that is a trigger for the powers of luminescence. Self-creating from a thick but light layer of psyche, which would make him independent from Joseph and Maria… and if there were not! His fists since he was a child had indications of a stigma, when he was just unborn and not born, blue flames came out of his hands, illuminating the eyes of his dazed parents. His golden reflections of Rabbi suckled serous when his mother slept, he did not allow him to see her consciously removing her intra lacto lymph from her entrails, in whose gothic light, she ****** the dominant magnificat of the Vulgate. He ****** in order to take his lacto and his left hand to space it out to all who wanted to enter his meta-object cooing. Thus he introduces his thumb into his mouth, pressing it on his palate, startled at the braying of the funny colt. All those present took with their hands the other hands with their own thumbs, returning to their childhood cycles just navigating in the manger. At that moment, far from feeling the lights walking close to the fields of vision, shiny noble metals ..., their eyes dazzled chandeliers as if they were twinning. Here he moves his arms copiously as if wanting to fly from there, with the vigor of his winged mother, to follow her beyond a tender left-handed Golgotha deception. That he retained the pendulum coming and going from one arm lower than the other, when turning on him embracing his lush maternal hand.”

His early nervous system that was celebrating on the back of the colt, stood out with rags in the temples that he imagines to be, sacral effluvium in waters on the flat cattle, the camel and Raeder and the Pelican Petrobus and other animals, who were on their knees and smiling with their hands glued to each other, all sweet to the right from the sweet nectar of the mangificat. All the excited animals still trembled with excitement on the ground and demure from this alpha biblical moment, they all imitate the trembling animals, but each of the adults who were, hugged the hands of each animal and child present as a sign of giving comfort to the parents, along with their children who seemed to be an adult saying goodbye to their birth. His scaly breathing, was full of anagrams of magnificat, they used to trace the analgesic source of the dream of seeing him among golden and straw fistulas of grasses breathing next to him. The voices were heard from outside, of those who could not enter the glory and breath without equal of the resentment of the world, distracted in a piece of tin and hardened hearts, now resplendent from seeing so much sleeping their gaze on them and sleepy yawning a child Golden. When they breathed his glory, they catered to the patrons of Priestess Deborah, who for some normalized his feminism and strength into a mother breathing the libertarian and midwife history of a nation that should have been born in a stable in Judah. Mary and Joseph,  every second they distracted themselves from looking at him, felt that the Messiah grew too large, worrying them about this strange unreality. They breathed more than their own son, seeing him without breathing what he had to do in the Lord's garden where he allowed him to do it today. Everything that his parents took to be distracted, the Little Messiah brought it to fruition to bring it together in the shine of his blunt nails, coercing those present with love by adoring and hugging them ..., even beyond the cobblestones that were towards his sacred back, hiding in the shadow of any gesture of a political enemy.

Saint John says: “God son and Man, priest made Pope…, the younger ones run after the older ones, the bible for more apostles so that they may enlarge and spread it, that the Gospels add more pages and favorite editions. Procoro; you who are… in some seat on Patmos prepare sacred scrolls with the thick corpulent ink…, which will reach your cell and seat. Studies ... something's wrong...? An anointed Christ needs us to write for him, because his hands are asthma in words and inspiration that move all the leaves of the world, reading them scattered and lecturing,….in every well and every step, where son and man, where king and mother and where each mother has to dry the cloying slime that dries up the mystery of having her white and emaciated. Let her sleep, perhaps when she wakes up she will find a Messiah who will never cease to be in her arms…, in the Magnificat and on a colt to take her back sitting on a blanket with stripes written in her ratio…, of two magnitudes, Mother - Son / Son- God "