Marielle indicates: “Your luminosity, Copernicus vibrating in Giordano Bruno, expresses hypotheses that they revive to Quentinnais from the third hour, from here now I am hospitalized and without light to line the end where I will put my feet evasive. Raymond Bragasse is here where I met him, and I saw him with his holy rosary on his necklace, and on Andrés Panguiette's claw. That you grumble, they excommunicate my sentences, which are that of the rooster that becomes gentle in a Corso, Sardinian or Roman Praetorian, in the leap I relegate to San Gabriel, with its magical art that excites the retentiveness of Saint George. Under what science do they moderate me by joining you, or what century will intuit us with its own splendor, whose obscurantism under his revolution mutes anyone in the darkness of the cave of Dionysius. The divinity postpones itself, to leave its daily chores where souls fly daily ..., they do not stop leaving with their spoils after the fairies that fly to purgatory. But many have passed over me, and I was wondering where to find you, I never thought that I should fly over a swarm of wasps to reach your divine lair, full of regulatory darkness for those who live against the light, and of an Elizabethan garment that dismisses my ring, where Its natural original magic is isolated from our semi-alive body, with brittle Egyptian suns that redoubled where I had to wait for you at the Pentecost bench. What retarding essence dries up who does not show any vital or symbolic avital sign, where the rough cyclicality does not allow me to chastise my hair in any vanity for you. Oh that Moral spellings referring to my commendation, if it is not apostasy! What else would I dare to speak, through the sky flying away from the lunar books of Vivencia, where it is sent from its orbit towards the cosmos free of all and of all with Wonthelimar free of me, confined of Marielle. I know that I am analogous **** of the Libri Dei Viventi, perhaps sackcloths or coats have to be spun in Parnassus, to gird myself to myself, and not Marielle cloistered in her solitude, who does not receive the Vivendi torpor of her paradisiac sacrilege when seducing a supposed daughter of Hecate, fortunately, I have to guess with a swarm, and stay in the nets of your cave. With the stanza that is invested in rhetorical values, I go crazy for love to which I am conjured, but from Marielle now or in hundreds of years that pester on my sackcloth, which will never be used for the liturgy with you, if I revive in the crisis of resurrection in the arms of Saint George in the stained glass window in Avignon, and in his forearm that passes through the worst emotional crypts of my author.

As I have to contest hostile votes that are netted in the puritanism of those who only wear sackcloth in the unstitched Mausoleums of Quentinnais, and in the strident leaves that move elected in his advent, where the subclavian of Luzbel stands. Unanimous I have to dare by asininity ...! Moderating threads of horror and silver light, which revives us in the beasts and in their perches, ad libitum in the lattices where it emerges from the conspiracy of our tragedy. Oh, what an impetuous incarnation of the anti-Christian verb has to express itself in your incarnations of light and restless shadow, in the apse of the discanted in Avignon, and in the acroteria shadow, suffering from cowardice by not wanting to see me angelic, universal predisposition, just to know fit and what to say with your soul lineage and twin life, who only knows how to love you. Our reincarnations are rescued, now that we go to Patmos intimidated, in the sound of shining the veiled Vernarth, reprimanded in his acquiescent morality under his own law and his glasses, born from his rib that ends in the exception of a foul dialogue. It is premature for me to say what I do not have to write, but the particles slowly fall through the beam of their adjective essences, reshaping exterminated historiographies that want to make green, in colloquia that draw the eyes of whoever wants to blind the profane cult, absorbed in sallow particles in four sciences and elements… What unresolved probe and mass can strike your heart poured into you Wonthelimar? You know when we get to Profitis I will go holding your hand in the morning, to adore you and kneel down, we will deal with why we lost ourselves, and why the sun has not stained me with so much fury, carrying me burned in tongues of its consumptive and guttural infinity. After taking the hand of dawn, I will sue the impossible quagmire and its Áullos Kósmos, weakened by theoretical openness, lacking unity, but not far from my vanistory, nor from the sessile fluff of my hair, waiting for you with your stormy return to hold me. Ayia Lavra will declare war on the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, with solidity and sanctity that frees my chains in a single trident, paling in the rust of it, methodological treatise, and where the determination of veracity is annihilated.

Because I have to go to heaven when I want to offer myself to you, without any century that has received me with fewer wounds than those I had yesterday in its indolent septicemia, with miracles and incense burners that burn in imprecate, and provide a pagan theology of human filth. , not portraying biblical when your plurality dressed as a secular thirteenth, by referrals or Greco-Gallic that arise from the love that has no end or beginning in the autonomy of an incorruptible being, and even less when you wear sweets in its lavender lex. Genius Loci, or amplified reality, rather your idea of sticking with me when I have not been, and of attracting me when the future in the portal is made in the perfect symmetry of him, or whoever looms excited in his cabal. The body is no longer inscrutable, overworking with poetry to constrict my torn voice, running at great speed to seize the cosmetic that paints our faces, Selene and her luster aggravate punctuality and the status of science in creation. I have read volume VIII, and I saw that tears flowed by where I never thought ... !, for exchanges that marginalize an established authority, nor with more childish will I undone the garments of his self-description. Mime or jester in front of me in my catalog of the tragic actress with the anemic volume of her, pointing out uprisings in new waves, on seas that did not have them ..., loaded in new skeptical allegorical clouds, on truths that were already understood in the jealous name. It is incumbent on us to navigate with lamps that have to guide us through dark Ptolemaic hexahedra or henbane crusts, which do not manage to go over the sentry boxes of a divine gesture. How to dare to a final gesture of inflaming with you in factions and premises beyond an apocalypse, or of a Penelope that is gestated in a god, or becomes unknowable of a prevailing divine plan.

Charged with our dissidence, we will go far from the unknown burdens, that scripts are annexed in the new birth of our fiefdom and in their great expectation. Now four elytra have been born on my back, who hope to reveal to you the categories of the deleterious vanquished, reduced to only two Ptolemic emetics ..., you and I in a final judgment, which we already know well about, about the seventh eras that await us in the Southern Sporades, and in his final judgment in the eighth. O Jerusalem, I deprive my oldest sin by conceiving, but rather by confessing it with you. What insurgent dualism will make me get rid of myself and be reborn indestructible in its dizzying relish where the multi-chained temptation of redemption runs towards you? Wonthelimar…, I'm here, in this thunder slip writing for you. I have distanced my head united to yours so that it is not destroyed, for all thoughts, where although you are my diluted kingdom, I will beg You to leave me in the growing vertical anticipated flight from my body, but later in my consciousness which is what which will pre-exist with his Roman staff intertwining with his lusters, and in the syntagmas of Vernarth, which come from the Sporades of Patmos. As I honor and glorify Him in the southern part of him, my dear sackcloth has warmed away from my myopic eyes, already feeling your face breath on me, I will be able to vindicate narrated stories after we part before God!

Beams shoot, pierce, being.
Cross light, torch, hydrogen star seams.
The universe fabric'd slightly, by photon lattices,
Making salad, for ingestion purposes, of lettuces
Energy. Chlorophyll. Gathering.
Spectral blue/red (465 nm/665 nm) Smattering.
Frankenstein piece of art worn leather.
Earth is stitched lava, magma sewn together.

Forming the lawn face of all reality.

Reality is suburbia to the string.

They took you across the home
like an uncharted furniture as the walls lost
gait and stumbled.

       Before I could shatter a word without
compunction, they took you before my eyes laid
lattices – they faltered, officiating over space that
fails infinitely when turning you away before

I could understand, say the day again happens
and my grievous art flails like a ******* child.
a deep dream within
a shallow sleep occurring within sundries –  miscellanea
  collected together, put to question but no answer folded

to be sure in its destination other than where they took you:
  the air minting the world on your face wanting to move
  and remind a fate of decay: to be malleable within clay,

and hunger for a face they stole from me.

Oh, that (SHE), who once aglow
And lithe with youthfulness, would know,
That years must come to take their toll
Drape tiny fractures on the doll
Whose porcelain, once flawless smile
Now framed in tiny lattices, compiled
Of wrinkles, faint to puckered lips,
(to complement the shapely hips),
Which, when worn with grace of knowing years
Dispel all arrogance of tears,
Allowing, (SHE) to strut her style
Confounding raised eyebrows, awhile.
Allowing (SHE) to work her plan
Of adoring this discerning man.

M.

The Assignment
The stitched gauze blistering upwards
Warts & ***** matter slithering up the arm
An enigmatic stench of mortality
Solomon in scrubs
A Djinn infected with humility
Wandering for what
Digging up a severe lack of confidence
Entombed with proprietary nuance
Dressed for an exodus
To undermine the decadence
Content, maggots wrapped in hair
Showering the idea of significance
Coiling comparatively, larvae in womb
Tetragrammaton, the seal of metatron
Electroencephalograms, gloved hands and air dripping
Formless in essence, an opaque blur

You are a child, you have no right
No right to reject prophecy, no right
No right to lead us with ink on hand
A town alive
Ushering in sinusoid delirium
The rapture will commence the rebirth
Those who seek utopia
Nor good or evil
Ordo ad chao
Consequential matrice of paradise
Lattices vibrate in sympathy
Sacrament, a doppelganger of truth
Embodied in a pool of white noise
Partials of static, collected
Rotting on my tongue like heaven's night
Standing figures of choked brimstone
******* skin into a wounded mouth
A wish house inhabited with flesh
Reflections to nowhere incubating adolescence
Jack-knifing a model of self
Into an abstract quartz of emotion
Faltering into fog, electric supplements of truth
Journals to which I find delusion

We belong here
Torturing an empty casket
Looking for acceptance, emptied happiness
Drowning in a temporary penance
Cubic zealots anchoring abhorrance
Undermine an attempt at the vessel
Wilting morbidly toward surfeiting iron
Lashed off walls like flaked skin
Encapsulating ***** in infection
meandering amongst godflesh
Bones torn from sockets
The lens to see the chandelier
Climbing into unlocked houses
Settling in amongst the precious

The smashed memories
Porcelain teeth
Pruned fingers & moulded hands
Halo of the sun
An alternative to consciousness
Stumble around the alphabet
Introduce geometry
And let madness interfere
Beothuks & Wynn
Clawing at my mind
Chapels magic, sacred
Symmetry, gentle effortless life
Rogue, effortless entanglement
Mansions painted in nostalgia
Dripping with molluscs
Heralding the other circles
Drawn in red, repulsion

Blue, reversal and probing in my mind
You're not here
Tender sugar, sacred salt
Gyromancy of soaking light
Slaves to perdition
Fingernails dipped in platelets
Haemorrhaging tension
An autumn in fog
Caution is caustic
Melting through your cheek
Revelation, concentrate spectrum
Palace hated acetate in youth

The afternoon light filters in through the shutters,
that look out towards the quiet cul-de-sac;
festooned with houses and quiet green lawns.
My room's walls are licked with yellow slashes
and lattices. Evening smooths the afternoon
into darkness with its brittle fingers and those yellow
slashes are interchanged with a diffusion of white neon
from the buzzing streetlamps. Oh how noisily they buzz
next to the flowerbeds! And people fold their lawn chairs and
go into their warmly lit houses and house pets roam blackened
curbs amongst the hedge delineations between homes and old
clocks wind down throughout the houses in cul-de-sac laced with
bitumen and broken glass.

Wisdom permeated all over Spinalonga, needs were supremely supplied, Wonthelimar was together with Vernarth in the endeavor to honorably defer the Manes Apsidas converts who evacuated the cells of the leprosarium, after the Ottomans and Orthodox priests had left them, the custodians arrived at its end. Now everything has the life and the will to touch the lightning bolts of the blue sun, with the personal image of the Saint's devotion from the origin, and the new lives that rose up through the complex of the sectional rampart. The Palmario Apófisi de la Santa was made of a great awakening semblance, with the Panagia Theoskepasti, in Kimolos. From this labyrinth of the skepazo or "velar" that the Saint smudged from afar the counterweight pallets so that they are not returned through the axon tube that will take them far to this region of purgation, in the Cyclades and Dodecanese. In the bay of Dekas the archpriest of Kimolos would wait for them, receiving them near the small islet Agios Andreas, similar to Spinalonga, where they will live until Vernarth goes, after speaking in Kimol and Milil. To arrive at Psathi with his entourage to exhume them definitively in Court V of Elleniká, seeing the extreme longevity of the fallen of Spinalonga and their leprosy cloistered in a fleeting substance.

Iteration of Marie Des Allées: “The Vas Auric will rotate in all ellipses from here to Elleniká sprinkling crumbs of the purest bread of Arcadia, on a gray Monday with hummus and bobota, to attract the vinegary souls that were in a catatonic state, thus doing more esthetic or in Aisthesis in the reactionary when reincorporating them in the three courtyards in magnificent concordance with Rhodes. At the beginning of the Archpriest the talk derives the prayers from him to the semi-inert matters that were made in communion with the oratorical dyes; with worms and with the distractions of larger snakes that were planted waving, being, in reality, Vermes that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest and the protocol, who circled the universal destination of his elegies to be celebrated from an ambo or pulpit, in classical Latin to propheir the archpriest the form of Era Dies Lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies. On a dark Monday, but full of grace for those in attendance, they would give sermons, to interpret the alabaster courtyards that would lead to Tsambika. The first worms were chased by Kanti, believing that they were games that emerge from the eternal ground. Of whose ecosystem the earth was beginning to ignore them due to their annelid metamorphoses, appearing to increase in their texture, more ultra hadic than the same remains of doubt without sarcophagus, turned into sharp intestinal curves that were depressed breathing autonomously over massive folds of the acquiescent dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká, further away from all sub-divisible organic matter of finite mortality towards the eternal other, contributing to a neural complex of tremors, and in veiled sensations that are lost between itself and that of its own bodies being able to take them with their own disorders "

Vernarth indicates: “long are the hours, and doubt overwhelms me, only my instinct follows me, and then I follow him. Khaire everyone and may the light of Mashiach be with us "

Etréstles reiterates: “my spirit has met Marie des Vallées, my spiritual hers, and my mischievous spirits play with them. Divine thanks, O venerable St Marie, here we are to honor the labiernago that have brought her Marian lattices, their dark green that blends with the layer of her attire, in margins that are found out in their change of shades "

Wothelimar answers: “what fire will extinguish the similarity of the Labiérnagos with the Astragali of Vernarth, when they meet those of the Santa Marie?

Theus replies: "We have been redeemed by his spiritual fire, whose conscience has placed in us in the Apophisi that reproves him, under the joint weight of beatitude"

Vikentios answers: “the Matakis of redemption will filter the doubts of his third person for an inextinguishable, to the degree of the second character that could divert his prerogative. Thanks to the spiritual fire that burns in the brambles that result in martyrdom by already being free from the torment of *** Bei Hinnom and Spinalonga fully expiated "

The protocol is broken and Theus, once freed from the last link of the Apophisi, goes to hug his brother, together they hug and kneel down the rough *****, after the ghostly chairs run wild for a prebend of Mother Marie that from The sky presented them weightless, with the effective of the marvelous Logos of God, and the Rhema of Vernarth, who would make the plate in the aromatic herds of Myrrh, Myrtle and Marjoram, to aromatize the appearance of the Saint and to bat the world of the Howls Kósmos with this triad of balsams for the foreground of the bigamist horizon in bloom, which sprinkles the talc of the resinous species when falling from the serene on this great day. They all looked at each other for more than three days in a row without moving, nobody did it from where they were. Leaving sticky resins, deserting the greased bodies of eternal days, some looking at each other in the infinite time that anointed them with different minutes, and monuments that released their souls moistened with Myrrh and carmine for the muffins of a Hellenic piece, with properties healing for mythology that was reborn in the sub-mythology of Vernarth and the essence creators Myrepsós. Or creating essences for the Saint, condensing from the perfume on all the alabaster containers, smelling of the insurmountable effects of Alexander the Great who appeared before everyone, to support and even in the ferrous breath of the stratosphere, and the island that was reconverted by the trampled waves, which were made to fall on all the megatons of Hellenic incense, which does not lead fights or disputes, only entertained everyone here united in the order and temperance of the frenzy, which follows the fields of fragrances directed towards everyone, also for the Manes Apsidas to Theoskepasti. Supremely Marie des Allées poured Rose concoction, ordering them to have their mouths open to receive their fragrances, and then to be able to expel them to the nauseating winds of the east, where the Beit Hamikdash was free of Gehenna, transferring the Apsidas to Dekas and then to Helleniká.

swift inset of love's Sanskrit,
a thorn of contestations.

make cadence this sensorial music.
centrifugally waiting bodies
to cross Earths.

a plethora of annulments.
lion-telling Sun singes through intersections of infinities:

we cannot wait to quash
the morning, the scent of guava leaves
and the cerement of flour on chicken.
earth-hewn mounds of meat pressed
against beholden kitchen clangor.

declension of memory past wood
and pillars of home. lattices of light
forerunning fingers, let down the curtain.
wind swings with maddened turbine,
afternoons high with deadlock.

of all that is not here, the force
reawakens a long-stumped ******,
beating us back to edges ruthless
with angels entirely curved, singled-out,
wings clipped, dancing at the tip
   of the candleflame.

I am slowly learning to use my words—

allowing the ink to besmirch these immaculate fingers
as I weave out my sloppy cursives around feint rules
like hydrangeas climbing lattices in the early summer;

spelling out vulnerability with every bit of hope
left glistening in these swollen, tear-stained eyes,
and unfaltering love with all five letters of his name.

I am slowly learning to use my voice—

heaving out the dust that’s settled over things left unsaid,
and rolling out my tongue to intimately slip off naked truths
my throat has been choking on in the silence of fear;

drawing constellations between the kisses of my lips
to faithfully concede to the phonetics of needs and wants,
and articulate every syllable with the intonation of desire.

So read between the lines, and listen closely—

pick apart my words and unravel the candor in my stutter,
unzip and unbutton every unsent letter I’ve ever written,
and watch me strip down on these pages in poetry-laced lingerie.

I am no longer that bashful submissive sprawled across the bed,
softly moaning for the pleasure of attention and the pain of neglect
under the crippling fear of loss firmly taped over my mouth.

I am slowly learning to ask for what I still and have always wanted—
I'm sorry it took me so long.

Someday, we will meet again
Like rocks of unchanging nature
We tiddle our barriers beneath,
Silent callings of exasperation
We find our fortune in streams of
Pink lattices drissled in every
Position of pondering

I write this to you
As if you are in my room
Staring blankly at a wall
Or unturned in your bunk bed
While I whistle away our creative bliss
Many will not read this fully,
Because of the vexation of length,
But many do not know you
Or the length of your days
How they were cut short by the change
Of ways,
I sadly recall that I left you barren
For a day for friends cold and brand
I love you my dearest ally
For us life never end
Maybe when Jesus ***** his
Horn of victory we can
Whisp our way to His garden
And steal the night away
Because in Heaven there is no night
Or so the owl does say,
The children are forging
Way beyond their time
Don't forget my friend
Love is not a crime
Until that glorious day
I bit you dear farewell
At all my greatest friend on earth
Atlast we'll sing again,
Breathe for me the air of Heavens great
Delight and bare with me this somber,
Lonely night

“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings.”

The smell of fresh grasses lefts stifled underfoot,
A thousand tiny voices, wheaten, bug, or no,
Can call up to the elderly trees, whose white palms
Gave surrender only moments ago to this wandering eye.
To think, I am but that hole of many in a chain
Of lattices made only by their breakage,
For I relinquish myself to the spirit or biology
Two gods my life’s work has been to destroy.

The sun comes through that shattered mat of life
A fallen crest, defining the morose bedding of
Victim and trap, so that I may hear it speaking;
Strung up and dragging on its gaunt, breathless rot
It claims a stupid animal lived in this body once,
Relinquished itself by flight to the unwavering, silky
Thread of beautiful frailness, or motionless spectra,
Thus, it deserves to lose what it did not want
Since it did not flee life, it did not flee death.

I wanted to study it more, enchanted by the hollowness
Until water came onto my brow, fell onto my passive lips
Uttering, till then, a prayer to fly from here,
Till my eyes color over and I’ve finally escaped.
But, this motif, I see, is overplayed, too trite
For secular gods who prefer the wiles of game
We, the peak of human life, I the most sufferable of them
I, the most thirsting of my image, tend to consume.
If it were boredom, then plagues would sweep hot winds
Everywhere; thus, it is not, it is the constant reminder,
We are but nothing, but flesh to die, unwitting flies
To the spider’s web.

You are wilted
And I have found you climbing iron lattices that I have only known in passing
Like the forget-me-nots you’d pick the petals of
“He loves me
He loves me not”
If only I could become immortal.

I've been stealing from the sun
Squint-whittling spears of light
That sink into my pupils like molding pins
And come alive like tapeworms
Carving a writhing yolk
Pulsating against paper-thin opalescence
A pre-amble to the impossible puzzle

All this war and yet, there is nothing I would rather be.

I have grown to appreciate,
            as a nonpartisan–
            a silent sommelier–
the subtle earthy notes of irony with which
my deflated ego scolds my hollow spine.

I know my own hypocrisy, my instability, my naivete.

I have been raised in the midst of myself–
I carved and nailed these philosophies together to make trellises
around which my elastic grapevine limbs have learned
to wrap and coil and hoist themselves toward the sun.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are distortions in these wooden lattices,
and there are seasons when the grapes grow sour
or the vines do not flower
at all,
but the crop is resilient and the wood does not break,
and there is enough sunshine here
in the summertime to sustain
and to yield something complexly beautiful because it has been weak,
and it has known the cold.

I have built myself,
and I, alone, tend to my vineyard.

There are plots of land far more fertile than this one,
foundational structures far sturdier and more symmetrical,
grapes far sweeter and more robust of flavor,
but there is no wine I would rather have flood my veins;
there is nothing I would rather be.

Teetering on the edge of a precipice
prefaced by an ominous gaggle
of creaking timbers and the wafting
of rot from such great lows

The scene was drab and dark and typical
Nothing mystical or mysterious
about the drizzle or the salty spray
from a far off dark sea

The gulls gathered garishly
hungry with white plumage
that seemed unapologetic to the
plight of those still standing atop the heap

Iron tickled at their nostrils
while bits of gore fell from great heights
as the sea birds did their best
to clean up the rotting flesh

But the onlookers still gathered
placing pressure on the rest
to take the leap
into the heap
below

Where the wind would no longer blow
and the decomposers triumphed
under victory over humanity's last breath

While wanderers wondered what came first,
the eggs all cracked under the pressure
and the violence
and the rage
and the bitter anger won the day
while death laughed at gender
and gorged itself on equality
giving the ultimate soliloquy
on peaceful serenity

Flowers and honeysuckle
grew from their skulls
and their rib cages became
such beautiful lattices for the ivy
Finally!
Something good grew from humanity!

This state of mind, this abstraction or release from reality, has a smooth continuity of which derives from misty mountain tops as my vitality and ingenuity pours like wines, like raindrops, raindrops thru lattices into glasses of fallacy that I could ne'er overfill, overtop, or like this purest galaxy drink to the drains when the delicate string pops, which bearing fears does not bother me, but is honestly to my chagrin, because now and then with tears I feel beyond youthful years, as tho my petals have been plucked; and my color fades like the picture on a movie screen -I can't adjust. But in my dreams thru the fog, the misty haze soon dissipates as a new love cares naught about my age -reality dreams after all.

dripping and naked
underneath the dome
of some outwardly pouring
wet measure
of lip-meander,
or
as if caught
like a hapless prey
stripped of freedom
fastened to liberal lattices
of a kiss and its lunar cosmogony -
and perhaps
a farewell to the gush of
wave carrying with it
gossamer bodies of tiny memories
worthy of forget, worn, lauded
by sepia hue
exiting languorous doors tired
within cold threshold

sweet science of love, unrelenting
afterwards, so strongly bold before.

Whoopsy-Daisy!
There goes half my family tree.

Off into the mystery
of DNA twisting
spirals of ribosomal massive
Building projecting
chromosomal lattices
in a spermatozoatic package

Off into the deep blue deep
of time uncounted
in the shadows of the greats
lifting them on shoulders
and blades
Way back away till god spoke in a burning bud
and called to Joub
and uttered,
"Do not be afraid"
I am the salt of the earth
and the bees and the trees
I am the perfection that you see

Count the petals
(He loves me)
trace the shapes
(He loves me)
Sing the melody
(He Loves me)
Whispered in these
(He Loves me)
Lowly orbs
(He Loves me)
Those soulful
(Loves me)
(Pebbles)
Made perfectly

and to dust will he sow
but not without plucking the best to eat
to return into the fold
that universal flow
To restore and inform
to watch and to grow

It's not a he,
its the trees
do you see what I mean?

They will eat and we will be filled
Will finally know
our efforts unfurl
in the perfect direction of sequence unknown
that leads us towards beauty
(Look out belooowww!!!)
A spiral of perfection in that chaotic void
pushing out, fighting deeply against it
A perfect tao in every step,
every breath,
watching us-- being us
testing us,
seeing us

And when we finally see again,
he will be beauty,
neverend.

Beauty is heartbroken
Like a man with half his face burnt,
Like a child who has lost its innocence,
Like a rose that has wilted and hangs against
Dark lattices of frosted window panes,
Like grape juice that turned into wine

Inside the human heart is beauty, and
Out of it comes word and song
Bursting out of our lungs, our souls
Comes the adoring and broken “Hallelujah”’s

I don’t know which is more beautiful
If I never took to bleeding within,
I would never know the beauty of
Taking a patch, placing it firmly on another’s
Heart, I would never know that with
Pain we merge, fuse, entwine, strengthen

I would have never known to smile
At the people passing by on sunlit,
Tree-lined streets, a teenage boy walking
With a girl laughing basked in excitement,
Traipsing on perfectly paved sidewalks,
When on the other side of the world

People sit on empty, grey curbs with
Unkempt hair, despair, while the notes
Of a little boy’s flute drifts through the
Unconscious, wet and cold air
Yet did you know that here, too,
Is another fleeting kind of beauty?

You and I were made to be beautiful, but
When we lose ourselves to bitterness,
There is another kind of beauty within,
A little candle that was specially withheld
For this very moment, one waiting for
Someone - For someone to come by,
Touch it gently, and set it forth into
Brilliant flame

Bestow on me the gift of inspiration
For me to then describe that strange sensation
That I begin to feel when upward stare
And notice halo of thy misty claire;
By cloud hidden or amidst the stars
Devoid of all the lattices and bars
And still to yet remain in one same place:
The paragon of elegance and grace.
O ‘tis indeed too hard a task to count
How many people on this rigid ground
By light of yours you did imbue to praise
Thy silver sheen pervading misty haze
Near tides what then again by your command
Assault so ever un-preparèd land;
Or when there is no gust or nor a gale,
And when the peace instead of storm prevails
To all the lost and poor forgotten souls
‘Temerge from theirs decrepit, squalid holes
And to begin their marching peaceful raid
To your abode by silvering moon-glade
For if ‘tis not the final path to heaven
Then never I’d prefer to be forgiven

The physical and psychic entities undertook to split each other from the deck of the tetracontero Eurídice, the disparities were uneven with the swirling undulations, without objecting extortions that were spatially independent of different causes of deviations. Everything was gray but lively and full of suburbs that praised the elations of the memorial, and everything alluded to the dream clovers that approached levels of feasibility between material form and space that became antipode when invaded by fewer quantities and accumulations. , believing that they could be dissimilarities of forms of speculation or its counter-architecture of Entasis verging on mechanics of concentric psychism. The Hexagonal Birthright; in its new physical form it traced itself closer to each other amidst bulbous and explosive nebulae, which displayed the agreement of matter and form by means of the Zivug or copula from a completely emanating obligatory law. Raeder and Petrobus were attracted by the law that would make of all inanimate things the new creation that would surpass the imagination and predominance of Mashiach that would finally descend from the Iridescent cloud to invest him and create the emanating body of him as the greatest necessary force of the Creator.

In any case, you must understand that even though the desire to receive represents a compulsory law in the opposite creature that is the essence itself in it, and it is the Kli adapting itself to achieve the goal of substitution of Creation, however, this completely separates it from the Emanating. The reason for this is that there is a disparity of form to the point of existing in total opposition between the creature and the Emanant granted in Vernarth, this is due to the fact that the Emanant is pure bestowal, without any trace of reception; and the creature is pure reception, without any trace of bestowal, thus there is no opposition in a greater way than this. Therefore we infer that this opposition of form is necessarily the one that separates itself from the Creator. A Titanic salvation would make the oceans move that would rise up to one meter the global sea level, snatching coercive in those countenances that exaggerated their actions on all the voids that would derive from the hole in his pectoral, even so of what it deprived him of in the light with the candles of Delos, and of the passers-by of Cappadocia who would concentrate in the rear of the Himation, this being dim and deprived of light in which the Ohr was already more light than all the Lights of the Apsid Manes that crossed the perimeter.

Thus, from the Seven Baptisteries of the Apokálypsis, the titanic separations of its cracks would make Othónes or screens, which would make the quantum shock light of Hashem as it adjoins Vernarth, interspersed with the cypress trees that burned with blazing lights of the Ohr Hozer or reflective light between them, thus they carried the Hebrew garments like a Stampita Gaeta; From where Vernarth, in his past lives, a turbid little picture that came loaded with the silt of Mount Orlando in Gaeta fell from the under bench, it came dancing through the tenement that brought the prosaic wind with a beautiful Sephiroth, which pushed them back with those timid luminances that they were snatched by the Kelim or series of vessels from their Falangists when they enlisted with the florid Larnax of Alexander the Great.

Beyond the Advent Wreath and its four luminaries, it was fought in the Fifth Candle, like the Fifth Chalice of Elijah, entering them not very far away with all his desires to welcome them and consider that under my initial "V", they would find the synchronization of the Fifth Cirio and the Fifth Chalice, which is my "V" in the fifth dimension of the Fifth courtyard and in the shady Fifth of Helleniká! As established in the geophysics of Delphi, close to the elevation that will occur with the meeting at 583 elevations whose essential number will be 16 and six plus one is Seven, and the Profitis Elías is 565 adding sixteen, and its number essential is one plus six equals seven. This numerical command will unify them in reality when their talents would be flooded in the unification of both and composed vaporizations of the Hydor or blessed flow source of the Mashiach, thus creating all the wonder that would explain the allegory for those who want to follow after leaving. the Purgatory of Kathartírio, or the very tributary that would emanate from the frontispiece of its appreciation with the albiceleste presence of subjection of the azurí, creating hanging scales of transfers with the Exile of Ignominies. Higher up a Seraphim was flying, inviting him to a cake, leaving his hands everything he had to attend to immediately so that he could not decline it, but the Mashiach already in front of him pouted to accept the Bizkóto, and that he was also close from him, a few meters from his right, Saint John the Apostle insinuating him with decisive gestures that he will satisfy his restlessness by tasting the Bizkóto of the Lands of Patmos.

All the curious went out to walk through the hills, to generate the favors of the breezes that began to travel the vicinity of the Megaron, which now no longer made themselves unknown with imaginary unbelievers coming from the Siblis towards a present that always devoured them. Their reception position was designated for each one in the same habits that invited them to gather around the Matakis, very close to the twelve shadows that hungrily flaunted, in the essential or preliminary of what they intended to appropriate a primordial one. What else could be said if the same portions of matter extended over them, conceptualized making the memorable ones go through, and collisions that would restrict everything to a totally new beginning, very freed from the exclusivities of dressing soon with the Himation full of clairvoyance, which as a first reason was He would present in different bowls that flew alone through the zephyr of Patmos, like the elements of the Eurydice to be installed in the Matakis or entrance tablecloth of all the souls that would accompany him from the Kathartírio or Purgatory and faithful Falangist's Hoplites, providentially making signs to meet in the Profitis Ilias gorge once again to restructure the Syntagma. Undoubtedly, the mass of the Shock of the Masach or Screen of the luster of his new soul that was being presented by the Seraphim of the Mashiach by Bizkóto himself as a source of pleading humility, so that it could then be transmuted with the divine evaporated water of Hydor that would transform it. in the Alef, or sequential of the number Seven that would emanate synchronously with the heightening of the frame pinnacle of Delphi 583 and then that of the Profitis with the essential of 565, to be instituted in the ranks of the Alef as seven primordial in the plurality of these pinnacles, and of the wafers that the Mashiach instituted with the Seraphim of the indicated beginning of the procession of the Himation or Máza imátiou. Bios was the placement beyond the one who can never be seen behind the infamous lattices, which only extinguish in Lives that are our own, those that are worthy of us, of Bios, of the "V" Beyond death, and of the Verses of liberation, Transformation, and pacification, to channel her towards Vernarth through the skies of Greece.

Right there
I slipped the package
of crackers into the cabinet
and I remembered
doing this before
when the girls
were here
and I had a family
here
crackers

I am a skin floating
inflated by pretense
unseen unpromising
reaching for cabernet
pouring in unfettered
coursing of sound
I abound here

Preaching agin myself
being both sides
Can u feel
the patheticness
the clench
a constriction
the hollow
caves you in

I'll trade this 2am
sploding
this ascendant binge
this holding open

Skin I pass against
sings sometimes
I wonder
at my sensual dishevelment
of sheets
lattices of caress
cascade

This cavalcade
this spectacle
staged live before
my very eyes

begs a listen
grasping a feel
of yesterday's ****
throbbing Robin
flying

and you are similar
only a simulation
my idea of a reader
squirming at the bar
sitting on heat
needing used

Wondering at
the trenches we've dug
to be filled in

the anger over
not being
smiled at
by you

Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis