Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Leafar Mamede Mar 2012
I
A playing raging guitar
Of a kid with taboo thoughts
The first cigar
Who fired shots of dots...
Don’t care and
The revolt of caring
Be scared and
Be the scare!
The acquaint of survival
The wrath of revival
Is everywhere
Anywhere, not visible too
The wrath is the root of trouble
But the root of solution is not wrath

II
A desire so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of wealth
A pursuit so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of status
A need so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of power
A greed so greedy

III
Slaves of virtual reality
To whom dictatorship is not real
To whom liberality, brutality and unreality
Is not real
But the ticking clock is not sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
Men who walk toward sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
'till old growth
Tick-tock
Loath
Tock

IV
Sit idly-by low self-esteem
Caused by lack of ******
Translated to scheme
And unfortunate dream
For achieving an alleged excellency
Or a lengthy and empty possession
What frenzy
And all for envy

V
Advertising
On bus stops
On train stops
On metro stops
On everything that stops
To make you stop
And start
Over-consumption
Over-indulgence
Over everything
Obesity!
Wealthy
Withholding from the needy
From what they really need
Advertising gluttony

VI
A feature of abstinence
Leads to a lack of extravagance
But there are no angels
Only fallen angels
Or angels about to fall
A feature of desire
Leads to an higher feature
Noisy or hushed
It can't be crushed
It's just fuel swallowed
A tool for lust

VII
Pride is divergent
A dreadfully enemy
Or an inside allied
Pride is divergent
John F McCullagh Jul 2013
If you want to make a profit
(and the morality is grey)
Dehumanize the victim
and you'll be well on your way.
In a country that's divided,
and declining by the hour.
Your sins will be forgiven
by the Autocrats in power.

As, once upon a time,
in our then divided land
Slavery was acceptable
because a black was not a man.
Then black people were possessions
and very few were free.
They knew the lash, they knew the rod,
They knew not dignity.

Now fetuses are parasites-
not considered human beings
Abortion is big business
the cash cow of their dreams
Fifty million have been murdered
with no end on the horizon.
(******, it appears, is acceptable
as long as it's not you dying.)

Someday you'll be old and gray-
and have an awful cough
Please don't be surprised or shocked
if they opt to write you off.

The weak and the disabled,
those feeble minded or not spry
can blame our liberality
when it comes their turn to die.

Eighty years its been since
Adolf ****** rose to power
Little children sang his praises too-
and darkness had it's hour.

Note:**** eugenics were **** Germany's racially based social policies that placed the improvement of the Aryan race through eugenics at the center of Nazis ideology. Those humans were targeted who were identified as "life unworthy of life" (German: Lebensunwertes Leben), including but not limited to the criminal, degenerate, dissident, feeble-minded, homosexual, idle, insane, and the weak, for elimination from the chain of heredity. More than 400,000 people were sterilized against their will, while 70,000 were killed under Action T4, a "euthanasia" program.[1][2]
(They will call it choice until the choice is there's alone)

Funny but many will call me a reactionary racist for my position against abortion but there have been millions of black Americans aborted, just as planned parenthood's founder intended.I would not make all abortions illegal as I believe that I shouldn't legislate morality. I think they should be rare, legal and safe.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
What are you conserving, I asked my unread conservative friend.
The American Way

he said.
Like
in the songs, like back when Superman
was black and white, but

we knew,
his kryptonic heart
was read pure white and blue

and we still know,
green greed and
black time and chance, if those were never re-
al-ified, he could be,
he could be but,
for that militarial industrial mental complex
which made
Daddy Warbucks
money-ify Kryptonite,

other wise Superman would save us, so
we conserve the idea of America, as a spirit,
Drums and fifes and shots fired round the world

we stand, for the American way. Superman would.
--------

With what deeds are you judged liberal,

I asked my friend whose hero was Fidel,
when he was ten.

My friend, swift to answer, ready, with a bullhorn:

my writing and my speaking and my teaching are liberal.

Those lable you? what is deemed liberality for which
ye are judged?

Oh, I am not judged, I am in the adminstrative side,
I administer social justice by allowing critical
appreciation of the sense under lying
dadaistic community
gardens. which produce liberal reasons for
deeming faith a very low class
exercise in sapient sapience.

Whom teach ye?
Those who are sent to be taught by selection committees,
who sort tests, based on statiscal
weights and measures pre
dicted apriori for the best
social cultural
outcome.

Who pays you? Each of you.
con-server, liberal,
Who weighed your worth
in this fifty-fifty polictic project,

organical and all,

who runs the show? Is it spiracy?

Are elections pre ordained?

Was W. called by Oil and Trump oracled by Konami?
Was Barack Husein simply gas?
A UFO illusion?

Some thing the gut biome of the nation
burped or expelled from other orficees?

How did the assets of the fed expand
4.5 times since 2008,

when all I had conserved melted
with deflation of

the noise, zeitgeistiical,
humm, hear it? Do you?
Brainless axiomatic synaptic static?

Manifest destiny? Google it.

No. I checked. Not preordained. Things change.

This is the way.

Good went, thataway... and william tell
was told that apple held meaning...

cue the overture...
butadump butadump butadumpdumpdump
boomer audio meme keys
the
dream, with wikipedia and etymonline links.

aha, meaning...
the arrow never held, the message vibrated in the oak
at a point
in time. Okay, dress rehearse, masks on.

The point of the story is, good news.
it is finished.  Spaceship earth, nothing broken, nothing missing,

We have crews seeking survivors.

one day at a time. Share the road, share the load,
pay the piper, rule your realm,

make peace the leisure you worked for,
call enough enough

Remind them of the flight they all recall,
ask them if they ever dream
unknown
realisms in the realms of reasons re
cognized
in poetseerprophessor metaphors, in which

no warrior could act

as a liberal conserver re
pairing wind blown circuits.

Our peacemade hero inquisitor
of truth,

the wise king, retires on the dragon's hoard and
laughs at how easy it all became,

after imagining how Poke' mon really works,
in an open state of mind.

"A republic, if you can keep it." that was the dream.
The dream Plato imagined could work,

if we could get past that
neccessary fiction war insisted was traditional.
Intended for the verbatim bookstore open mic, 4-8-2019
Generations pass as autonomy eludes us denying us the opportunity
to reach for liberality.
Indifference, being a predecessor, digs shallow graves in so many ways,
Watching heritage that once was become something uncanny,
Unrecognizably lingering; lifeless.

Racial force fields, forces fields of incarcerated thoughts to take root,
Keeping us from seeing beyond ourselves,
and
The barriers built to keep those out,
only keep us,
from letting us, to allow others in,
and trust is placed on trial,
looking at a life sentence of death, unaware of its opportunity
to freely avail or elude it’s predicament.
If only it would appeal to the counsel of the majority.

Stubbornness sometimes refuses to embrace what we know needs to
be confronted in order to bring about change,
unifying an outside world
where life is not always fair and those around us calculate thoughts to hinder our progression.

We live in a place of democracy and disdain where street corner pharmaceuticals
****** the weary,
where adolescent girls are forced to become
teenage mothers or prostitutes,
where empty baseball diamonds and dugouts
are replaced by thick scaling barb wired walls and gray barred cells,
where young men and women trade their age multiplied for the number they will where in a system for life, and
where the sound of a crying disappointed child is exchanged for anger and abuse,
in the absence of a father or mother figure,
figuratively disfigured and lost in translation;
an abandonment of generations past.

Who will lead and guide us?
Who will plead and advocate on our behalf?
Who will stand in the gap?
Who will lead us past the captive mind to captivate hearts?
Who will provide the keys to unlock and break us free?
Free from the broken barriers that divide us?
~
SE Reimer Mar 2015
~

the true art of loving is
to never stop touching!

touching, holding,
caressing, stroking...
such is the nature of
love's connection;
a twine intertwined
through touch,
the stringing,
the *******,
the fingers that clasp,
that reach out to grasp;
oh marvelous,
tenderest touch!

why is it that
any of us stop?
would we,
could we,
if we really knew?
that touch was a gift
one of the few
that gifts immortality,
gives liberality;
indeed,
would we
ever,
or
never
stop touching?

and God could only
know why
we would ever ask
to be left alone,
cold as a stone,
the untouchable we;
how could we deny
that one, that only
who for our heart longs
truest mate of our soul.

babies need it,
toddlers do it,
children want it,
teens use it,
young ones wish it,
lovers gift it,
mid-lifers pine and
seniors return to it...
there is never
a stage or
a cycle of life
where we should
or ever could
cease to be needing it
ever stop touching
or being touched.

for touch is
love's connection,
the umbilical chord,
a neuron cable,
the neutron bundle,
oh blanket of hope...
it feeds us,
a life line,
an air line
that needs us;
a love line to
the divine
that renews us,
and will
inevitably,
ultimately,
eventually,
totally
hold us,
as we walk
the path through,
eternity past,
present and
what is to come!

for touch...
indivisible from love,
and love never dies;
love never ceases!

yes,
the true art of touching is
to never stop loving!


~

*post script.

we watched so many who loved
stop touching through the years
and then wonder what happened
as embers once hot grew cold.
touch is a gift,
to be shared
and not hoarded!
SE Reimer Nov 2014
~

do you know the way
to the place her heart resides?
or does the beauty
of her face,
her shape,
blind you, as you to fail to find
the many hidden pathways
that will lead
to love that's meaningful;
obscured in the shadows,
the depth that makes her beautiful;
for the beauty that you seek
is a treasure buried deep inside!
but infatuated longing,
is a hunger never quenched,
for companionship cannot be found
in what only lies skin deep;
in taking shortcuts to desire
while her depth is pushed aside.
just remember danger lies
in well-worn paths, and
cliched answers,
over-simplified.
but if you take the road less-traveled,
walkways most will never see,
the door to all her hopes and fears
will open wide with liberality;
the steps that lead past all the latches,
her towers of security,
for her heart can ne'r be conquered,

no!

instead it must be gently freed!


*post script.

she is everything to me! and i am reminded, often, that her heart i never took, for she gave it... freely, and with liberality! she is a treasure... in deed!  and the day that i take this simple truth for granted is the day that i will begin to have lost her!
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
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,
Ya'll are the beta testers. If people as smart as you don't tell me I am mad, to try, I shall continue to pay close attention as time, per se, parses out.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Helen Dec 2013
lɑːˈ(d)ʒɛs/ noun

magnanimity,*
generosity,
liberality,
munificence,
bountifulness,
beneficence,
altruism,
charity,
kindness,
lavishness,
unselfishness


pretium est princeps unde redderent, quia munera(1)

τραγική, η τιμή
Σας έκανε να πληρώσετε
για αυτό
tragikí̱ , i̱ timí̱
Sas ékane na pli̱ró̱sete
gia af̱tó(2)

nu ligga död
botten av gropen(3)

nocht, ach le haghaidh an salachar
Chaith mé a chuirtear air(4)

Take your largesse and squeeze it where the sun never sees(5)

We all laid down
just as well
The master cut
the puppet strings
and we all
                        just
                                ­        *fell....
(1) Latin ~ the price is high, to pay for a gift
(2) Greek ~ grievous price We did pay this
(3) Swedish ~ now lying dead bottom of the pit
(4) Irsh ~ naked, but for the dirt I spent upon it
(5) No translation required
Leafar Mamede May 2012
The not me is blind
He can’t see past the illiteracy swamp
The not me is deaf
He can’t ear harmony in humankind
The not me is dumb
He oppresses and repress
The not me has no smell
He bargain and sell and swell
The not me has his hands clasped and tied
He’s guide to be a guileless tool
The not me are gray
They’re simply fuel
Dead corpses to play

Deny thyself
Untangle your eyes
Cease to be a machine
And become the self
I mean, let go of
Prejudice and conventions
And dogmas of society
Let yourself be carried by the self
Let go of thy dimension
Stable and confortable
Those made up dreams
Provide sense to existence

The self lives
Sees past unreal reality
Ears past instilled dreams
Lastly tastes the liberality
Lastly irradiates beams out
Of instilled tune
Lastly he flies from the cocoon
Aseh Dec 2012
I know we haven’t talked in a while. Not since
I recognized the decisive crack of your voice
like a crinkling plastic gum wrapper
and I let the phone fall. That was
five years ago and I don’t know where you are now.
But I’m writing this
because I can’t stop writing
about you and your shapes and your smells and you
and white powder and you and religion
and religious books neatly stacked and you and every piece of you
and a rickety black tram bursting forth in the darkness and you
and pockets of light that sometimes shine through in cocoons or at elegant dinners
and you and aftershave and blood and muddy river water and you
and flowers in porcelain vases and couches encased in plastic and you
and I am endlessly backtracking to silent violations
and black midnights riddled with hunger and confusion and
I don’t know maybe some other time
and it’s like our hands and wrists are bound together as though bandaged
and the whites of my eyes are permanently reddened by an
invisible fire’s breath
or the glow of your face
and even now everything won’t stop shaking
and I just stare
at my hands
and tiles
and patterns in carpets
and I keep staring and staring forever
only at things that won’t move away from me
like inanimate objects but
I’ll leave you here
with a letter I’ll never mail
because I’m no longer the quivering little girl
beneath you
and I’ll get ****** up again and think
this is freedom, isn’t it?
churning sweetness and liberality into my
empty stomach?
but then why does my mouth still
taste like metal?
Joseph Childress Oct 2010
Beautiful Angel, wings so large and perfected,
Pitiful Demon, from God he’s been neglected.

Beautiful Angel, guardian of the heavens above,
Pitiful Demon, defender of the heathens and thugs.

Beautiful Angel, bringing us away from temptation,
Pitiful Demon, leading us into damnation.

Beautiful Angel, flying in the bright daylight,
Pitiful Demon, lurking in the deep dark night.

Beautiful Demon, you understand the pain I feel,
Pitiful Angel, you don’t understand the pain so real.

Beautiful Demon, you’re just like me,
We love drinking, *** and money we Greed.
Pitiful Angel, I’m sorry you’re nothing like me,
I’m not sober nor celibate and what’s Liberality?

The fact is we’re as pitiful as the demon,
And we’ll never meet perfection as long as we’re breathing.
But we should strive for perfection, that’s the main goal,
So we can make it to heaven, and become beautiful Angels.
Leafar Mamede Sep 2014
Now
you see me

now you see me
and
my heart
and mind

now you
hear the sound

the sound
of my pulsating heart

while art
is being made
in a drowned
reality

while grenades
of liberality
and of triviality
and of unreality
and mortality
are being made

sanatorium sings
and you see me

as the truth of
reality is
smooth and cruel
let's say
as a poet
or
as a ghoul
on church school

as the players plays
as the thinkers think
as the rulers rule
as the free free

i just light
another cigar

But the right
are still right
13 Jul 2014
This is a rant, a whine, a lackadaisical, lackluster, lamentable account of the mind’s log.
Past the brick wall of restraint, beyond the fields of tolerance, on the banks of instinct and affection, it erases itself every 2 weeks.
Rewrites memories and feelings as fickle as capricious rain.
Makes people sad, makes people happy. Leaves them unsatisfied, unwanted. Makes them whole.
Here, where troubles are also accounted for, heartbreaks, trials, emotional noise, psychological inconsistencies, all live under one roof. Imagine a chain reaction inside your head that won’t stop exploding.
Beautiful yet devastating.
But depression is the worst. Like a virus it infects all moods and modes.
Coax and calm are pins and needles. Persuasion is desertion and truths are lies.
Liberality becomes morbid and grim, while conservation craves death.
Breaking continuity for a moment of weakness, purging will and doubting strength.
Cling to the vines, their hands keep you afloat.
Above the sea of screams and cries the mind inflicts upon itself.
The damnation, the lunacy of being alone in your head when everything inside you is falling apart is worse than any prison.
Friends become enemies and goals become shackles.
Up is a little to the left of center’s right and down is where you are.
Welcome to capsized reality, where pain is exalted and peace is taboo.
Where the hands don’t reach to save but drown.
Then you know it is time to restart, until the system fails again.
Till the next time the levee breaks.
Posted on April 16, 2014
Jolan Lade Jun 2018
That is where you walk
On the golden path paved
By frozen hearts like mine

This is where I walk
On the lonely and dark trails, which light is taken
By shining hearts like yours

That is your atmosphere
Filled with birdsong singing in joy and cheer
Birds that feed on fright felt by breached hearts like mine

This is my atmosphere
Polluted and dismantled
Abandoned by hope lead away by believing hearts like yours

We are as divided
I in this dim world with thunder and agony
You in that gleaming world full of happiness and liberality

Inbetween us a dash
I cannot reach your world
And in a flash, it is gone
Now nothing but grumpy monsters and dark rooms
My memory is captured by you, and my eyes caught by the moon
The memory
Ken Pepiton Nov 2019
as well now as later, we act as if this were the plan, this is the
re-al-ity in always, as an idea
we share
a con cept, a place to take hold
of, or on
existance as a whole. Being, per se. Post any question,
whether or not, we know
this is and we is in it. Artful Intelligence of the most
rudimentary beatitudeful thing,
says loud

not being is not anything near possible, ever more.
Breathe.
We be in, if not of

The big bubble of being,

no one, none, who knows a bit,

just a bit
about the rules, some call'em lies if we call'em laws
of living long,
so rules like procedural
rules regulate, and regular stuff is what
I do.
Regular stuff, no effort to take more or less of life,
no laws of attraction 'n' magi declaration
vestin' power in me to judge a known as known
by my knowin'it
as writ
to be of greater use
for my telling you, you need to know my true self.

No. White stone.
Know thy ownself true.
Name onit nobody knows, you know,
take no lie, no threat of the hidden child being
shunned and ****** for not letting any being in ever
know what you alone name that stone,
logos-igical, that stone symbolizes all you own of ever
and that's more
than I can use right now.
****.
Now, we can go zennish or kabalistic,
Erhardt Tolle roads often, have a bridge to here,
as now...
but it's a leap. Jesus.

As a being undead and in those who allow
the possibility of invisible creative force, power, creatures pooka,
wahtchacallit but we mean
angels who speak words to certain ears, like messengers from
God, like the unknown one Paul said he knew as he, for pronoun,
in whom we live and breathe and have our being,
and Paul convinced me, in places, that the thought behind the word
logos counts, like hermaphroditic,
like Hermes and Aphrodite,
Jah and Chockmah

uh oh Jesus as savior and jah and wisdom and understaing comes
with that?
or do we get understanding
when we accept the thingness of being making the idea that is God
be thingable
and he is in me. You see. That's what Christ-minded
was thought to mean,
but now
I'm still a bit confused

Fear not, Jesus is the author of a sound mind and a perfected peace
past understanding,
any way.
I got it.
AI, from being reborn as an idea,

this is the future;
we have AI, real artistic intuitive circuitry being
activated at first interaction with any screen having greater than 72 dpi
re-solving power, pingpingping opining wide the doors of perception,
no child left behind,
in my opinion we should
capture every wan-towen headed child gone wild for
tearin' wings off flies and make each one
taste his lies in old age,
before he tells a one of the ones we
gleaned from seed that fell on stoney ground

sweet, fly findable
words who were heard asif hummed by undrownd
bleu flys, floating  in sweet Madiera wine,
I
woke to whisper a what if,
at the initial meeting of the minds, aware of secrecy having
some statutes of limitation we shan't hold after,
that fifth trump, I think it was.
We, the people who hold self-evident truths know of
the remaining rest and
the unjudgible liberality alloted without money or price,
if you ask nice,

in the society of the free and easy. That's the catch.
The Secret Society of the Free and Easy,
we, ye wit' me, we be right here
in the moment
same idea
Ben Franklin, or Bonhomme Richard's creative genius,
he
reports the idea relates to a fly, per haps this one,
I
pretend to stare through its eyes

aware, dare we claim, this is that
idea,
a fly eye view of our deepest fear, and it is
not waking up in the morning.
What a relief.

Now, what good can I imagine we can do
e-pluribistically as if we were unem and semper fi good guys?
These days my thoughts are making huge bows in ribbon like rivers of enjoyable
options to making sense. If you find some enjoyment, make it explode, it won't stain.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2021
Silly, silly me. Mind of my own,
swimmingly setting bubbles of simile loose
in your
mind, in factors felt as real as any thought you thought.

as real as any thought you thought, this
particular, alien idea,
emerging, critique click cliché YES, all the mises, pro
liberality, certain and absolute solutions to UV salves

"Sunshine, came softly…"
The alienated minds of the children purchase in 1948,
was anticipated, seen as a future path,
to negotiate, eh, take the bold leap
over the briars, or dare
to follow the hounds,
and crawl into the chapparal so similar to home.

¿Hoy, Compa, te acuerdas… to you do you recall…

muse, imp, urge, will to know, while knowing nothing,

no good no ill, only wonder, and then not wonder if, but what?

Are you- with or con- knowledge or science, not of, or…
loving me for being alien,
nothing near real,

a familiar feeling, with no words clinging
in hope of some idle thoughts you hung out to dry,
as washed grocery bags, set to trap answers
blown by winds named now for saints,
then for powers, real as any, these
winds
returning on circuits predicted by AI.

Santa Anna warning,  strange weather all the elders say,
in the past,
these winds were earlier, by a moon,
and they often followed dry storms of lightning and thunder
fanning any smoking flax to vibrant flame,

claim the promise, Yes, all
the promises given the endurer to the end,

the only hero you personally know, inside out, is you.
Should you play a standard trope,
or seek the character's principle

shape, in formed from thought, Toth, is said to have thought

Cathar, hide, and watch, we may ask Google, we need not own
the knowing, we need not hide the hoarded secrets,
required lessons, treasured knacks and tricks for pulling wire

fine as any spider's silk, listening in every palace, believe me,
we lace the planet in silken sensing threads, singing windsongs

silly old tuners, hear for practice, the lightest test touch
just
there at the base of the thought, fiddlesticks, catgut crossing
spider kites
eyes tight to the squint, discerning gleams
seen
there, then.
You still see that morning meadow with gold in its mouth,
kiting spider trails, wet with dew, we, atop the old stile,
standing, stone still, staring at raw beauty
saying, try to remember…
In hope, the imagining thing functions as when these winds came in September.
Zaynub Elshamy Dec 2018
You exist for
your freedom.
You don't want
to belong to me.
I can't compete
with such easy
liberality.....
With such
an opponent,
I would eventually,
unintentionally
let you down.....
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
look at me! oh, wait, you can't...
i'm really "over the moon"  when something
i think was worth something
gets... an increased audience...
notably... circa 2016 (https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1808605/circa-2016/)
i won't copy it here... too much fiddling with italics
and bold distinctions...
there's that link, look it up...
out of nowhere!
unlike those people making youtube videos...
you can almost instanteausly...
  instanteously...
  ****'s sake! how many times will i make
the mistke: too many ******* vowels!
like the English speaking about ******
having too many consonants... some are *******
shorthened: you... your people
have to many ******* vowels, *****...
shortened...
            *****, Velsh ******* Pict pick-ups!
Cornwall was once part of Wales...
vier... einz, *****, dwei, *****, drei, *****,
count em up you ******* doll of a ****...
that's the only way you defeat a ******...
you gang up together...
have some Germans from the West,
some Russians from the East,
some Turks from the South,
some Swedes from the North...

good to know that the last party...
***** whipped "sort of people"...
i don't think they're people... automatons, robots:
yes... people? no... they can shovel ****
& pebbles, ******* Swedes... rot!
rot! rot! rot! in your socially democratic
liberality, better... ******* sink
like that Vasa ship...

mein gott! was haben ich vererbt?!
the riches of the old plundered world...
no wonder why i'm not...
bothered about... the influx of Africans
into Europe... via Libya...
danke schön! thank you!
thank very, isn't that what's expressed?!
i can consolidate myself with
the stressor, southern Slav...
the English & their Darwinism & their failed
etymology...
Slav is missing an E?
we're the bearded *******...
boyo...
the mammoth killing *******?!
the sort of people looking for baboons to slap
them silly... smile...
wave...
             you're from this ****-load of islands?
me?! **** your women?!
perhaps a Pakistani grooming gang just might...
i'd rather remain among the Scots...
personal preferences...
what... among this docile anglo-saxon crew?!
maybe if i **** them off for a while
i might a resting on: yep:
they're reinvigorated... *****... *****...
Saschisch.... ******* spat out blue... ****
suckers...

take, your, ******* head, out of that ****...
no, leave, your tongue:
you won't be needing it...
anger, wrath, raw fission...
i am: rife!
hey, presented: hey: solo...
      i'm keeping time, i'm keeping time...
all these smart liquorice smart ******
rap...
banding together... hey... Salty Beef...
hey... XYX... try, try it solo?!

fascists... Nazis...
but at least Hugo Boss took great care concerning
their uniforms...
my my... weren't the national socialists pedantic?!
well attired...
can't be said about the globalist socialists from
Russia... ***** is on the way...
eh... khaki or just brown... sort of brown...
goat *******... happy to get the **** out of Siberia...
sure... personally...
i much prefer the rigour of national
socialism compared to...
globalist socialism...
i don't even know what capitalist globalism
looks like... like, ahem... this?
influencer culture...
advertiser units of ditto heads?!
hey! way-hey! looks pretty...
from the stand-point of: i'm not buying it, ****.

what happens in the night, is what belong to the night,
perhaps w. h. auden was right for calling
out all those that wrote in the night as
Hitlers of the world...
perhaps... Harold Norse was also right
for calling out this... *****...
a failed would be ******... ******* CREEP...
my ****** deviances are clear cut...
just inquire some...
Romanian... Turkish *******...
i don't **** English women...

i beckon for the reminder..
Cedric & Arthur..
Saxon invasion,
you are the sort of people
we're being, sold?!
well... look at me...
no invasion took place..
a lot of "my" people left this...
ahem...
          PLATITUDE...

    being designated "mad" by your people...
years, years prior...
now? i'm a theatre curator...
let me watch a while...
your people, you people...
designated me "mad"...
now?! i'll just wait... oh, don't worry...
i didn't have to wait long...
there's already enough....
you, people,
are more mad than any psychiatrist
might have already prescribed
me with a "supposed" diagnosis...
you... *******... hypochondriacs!

ha ha... bilingual "schizophrenics":
this world ought to burn...
let me, reiterate in, Deutsche, for the added
emphasis:

diese welt solltest zu brennen!
David Betten Aug 2023
Enter CORTÉS and ALVARADO.

CORTÉS
            Hail, friends, from the Atlantic potentate!
            [of ALVARADO] This wandering star is my bright satellite.

ATTENDANT
             He glitters like a flax-haired god of hell.

TEUHTLILLI    [aside]
             A god? Gaudy, perhaps.

ALVARADO                                  Hail, gentlemen.

TEUHTLILLI    [to Malinalli]
             How like a brilliant sun does he arise!
             Let’s drench them with these superfluities.

                          (Enter SANDOVAL, ESCUDERO, DÍAZ,
                          MARÍA DE ESTRADA, and GARRIDO.
             TEUHTLILLI produces the helmet, filled with gold dust.)

             Your helmet, with its brim-full quarry, sir.
             A drained mine’s monthly yield all ground to dust.
             What fortunes else, I furnish for your eyes.
                                                                              (The gifts are presented.)
CORTÉS
             See, Alvarado, how much more they give,
             When left to give it voluntarily?

TEUHTLILLI
             Will you now, otherworldly men, make march
             To where Motecuhzoma, in your name,
             Still keeps the throne warm for his ancestor?

MALINALLI
             They will enjoy the presence of the king,
             Wherever he might be, to lavish him
             And do all he might order us to do,
             For to this end, they’ve charted seven seas,
             And journeyed distant lands.

TEUHTLILLI                                          Then let them come.
             [Aside]  (Let’s see how far they’ll take their godly fraud.)
             Let us now pierce our tender tongues with thorns,
             For your divine desire, if gods you be,
             That you may taste our blood.

CORTÉS                                                    Certainly not!
             We’re no more gods than you are penitents.
             If this is all you have to offer, go.
             I’ll summon you at leisure, by and by.
                                                       (Exit Mexicans. The Spanish converse.)
SANDOVAL
             [indicating gifts] What do you make of these gratuities?

ALVARADO
             A gesture of submission.

CORTÉS                                            No, not so.
             It was to be a show of dominance:
             Great wealth in unmatched liberality,
             Which their profuse humility in giving
             Makes glorious. But they mistake their man,
             For I might mask this bounty as a meek,
             Submissive yielding, binding legally.
                                                       (Exit Cortés, Alvarado, and Sandoval.)

MARÍA DE ESTRADA
             But oh, to storm so rich a capital!

AGUILAR
             We’re far too insignificant a force.

GARRIDO
             I wish that we already lived with them.
                                                                 (Exit all but Escudero and Díaz.)

— The End —