Galaxies, solar satellites, the very Earth and its plates.
Whatever matter spins the reality, each one rotates.
Every unique universe growing its own ebb and flow,
Same as an ocean shall pummel shores then pull undertow.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Backwater cementing a new variant of tributary,
Friends become fish in this river of machinery.
The roiling rubber current proves to combust with currency.
Success succumbs to numbers as the economist counts me.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Gingko trees employed rats until society's reaction
Assimilated this lineage and reset its traction.
A different dispersal mechanism does not merit lament,
The managed are mute within the worker's woeful testament.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Sometimes a quest of faith begets a set from a cartomancer,
What good would it do to bribe the tarot and fake her answer?
For doctrine to deprive a man of god's hero in himself,
To trial and tribute his death to ascend on our caste shelf.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Your cards at hand, as is any fact of fortune, are from you.
All around are landmarks to map your light, vibration, and hue.
A presence is an action amongst quintessential stage props,
Weathered roles rehearse their sonorous loves watching ripples drop.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Turbid fury has no footholds on the great movement in your mind,
Gears that we hear were once a pursuit to prosper as mankind.
To disarm the victim's rights and loosen all nooses may seem odd,
Yet Devil deviates design and is forgiven by God.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Cities yearn to scrape skies built on products at the world's splendor.
Though trinkets become trite as we glorify a greedy vendor.
How could one commend such a clear farce for the multitude?
Selling milk to children's bones while our livestock store false fortitude.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Lifespans expand within this ****** twilight of barbarism.
History obscures so we light turned pages with euphemism.
Often forgotten is that our memory is amorphous,
Generating our boldest fears and cheers to those beyond us.
When its the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Pessimism or optimism; are not rivals of ones structure
Secular submission denies despair's innate rupture
It is built by the hopeful to share love after given grace
To construct a profound unity above pride's titled race
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

We are taught to worry for unruly folk until weary.
Doctors like leaders treat symptoms not seeing sickness clearly.
They stress the distressed to disseminate imminent spines,
Shattering that last vestige of a will searching between lines.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

The commandments should have demanded there always be one more,
As truth evolves in jollies or follies, being rich or poor.
Always a witness to your lemons that could squeeze a profit.
Limits can be more than second hands surpassing the minute.
When is the time? Are you a counter of clockwork?

Thus old cogs and smog of our familiar faculties rest
On the zealous peals of those who know at the hour of our best.
It is not easy to lift volition past sadness so steep.
As each day would raise a mile, we may grow to smile when we sleep
Now is the time, are you a counter or clockwise?

Janis, she just mocks, how they knock off every berry
And the snow on the branch, now, “Calandra, never worry.”
Seasons come, like they fall, and they spring forever weary
In the Valley of the Orchids, rare are birds unto a journey

Feeble, does he brew; with the stones, shall he marry
Corralled is the smoke, tossing hills as it carries
Fuming seas in the sky, past the bricks and the rye
Cabaret, hear him, nigh does his skin peel and fly

On an arch in a prairie in a province in a land
Where the children are told how to fear their hands
Atop smoky pine feathers that burst when they're touched
We stomp and we squeak to the air on, we march

A prison laced in reddened storms drones on mountains ever-scored
Looking north by north bygone, the test, remiss, we’ll move southward
But on the sky sits Cerise Range and all around in spheres, a cage
And then, a beak we see invade! A crash and splat; of juice we’re made

May the fly, the mayfly evade the day the children hang
The Brewer, haste has made, pours his broth, begins the day
Hide, little child, like the fly, become the blanket on the marsh
Become the stock, but don't give up, next month won't be so harsh

Jude of June, that's what she’s called, she grooms her quill and tests her ink
The One of Blue, another name, she writes for everyone to breath, she blinks,
“O small brown bird, you speak the path? Well I have ever shone on some.”
The Summer Sun, that's who she is, who waits for Janis, soon to come

Jewel in the eye, dome of peace
Returneth casts our masks beneath
Iris besets, “Berceuse, my mess.”
Sad, for slowly nights a guess.

Part-time, will’o’writs she can dust
A cat's tail christened, paw in a gust
Navigating, where galleys waste strewn
The suns of Aude across its boon

Deliver us Toulmask, lost and protested
Past Bejeweled Silken in millions, nested
In Scepter where embers aroma holds on
To the sands like rocks destroying its spawn

Into the nest, deep. With Man, reborn against winds and dusk
Will best the heaps, lifespans of each, in caverns each a husk
Cut deep with scythes. The Trembling, Bellowing, Festering,
Reckoning, unending Octobering deathening, surrendering:

You! Bird, the bell rings
Brown bard, the sun sings
Sky guard, no venerate
Berried lark, thou emirate

Welcome, into ends and to makers
Watch with, admire, be your desires
Forget time, velvet rubs you and penetrates
Valley’s of orchids that start, to disintegrate

This poem can be heard as a
Spoken word (read by me)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=
IoAeA6nYH5A

There are some who fool around
With human DNA
They say it's a progessive step
For the world today.

The deciphered human genome
Is a plaything in their hands
Just a toy to then employ
And change the state of man.

"Change your child's DNA!
He's strong as a horse!
He can be, and he can see
Like a hawk, of course!"

Just like in the movies
They've conditioned us for that.
Vampires and werewolves
And woman morphed to cat!

We can all be cyborgs!
Robotic legs and things!
We can be like Batman
But with automated wings!

Let's just look at Genesis
Look at chapter 6
Those beast/man Nephilim
Did actually exist!

The Watchers came and mated
With human women fair
The Sons of God were demons,
So we'd best have a care!

God had to drown the demon-spawn
To save the human race
The waters flooded over them
And there was not a trace.

Now God found Noah perfect
For he had a pure bloodline
There was in him no change
From God's original design.

Now, folks, what will happen
When human beings aspire
To be like animals yet again?
This time there'll be FIRE!!!

What about our tender hearts?
Do they matter anymore?
The world's consumed with evil
You'd best know what's in store.

When we're no longer human
But have a cyborg mind
Will mankind ever be the same?
Godly? Loving? KIND?

Humans enslaved for weakness
Do you find that odd?
We will be a "Super Race"
Usurp the Will of God.

Will there be salvation?
Or will it be too late?
When men go and take the role
Of the God they hate?

Be glad that God loves us!
For we were made like Him.
He wants to take us from this place!
He wants us to WIN!!!

Is this all science fiction?
Watch the news! It's PLANNED!
Babies being altered
To unnatural lifespans!

Because of overweening pride
We mess with things divine
Enter human suffering -

*EXIT HUMANKIND.

Depression isn't a black cloud.
That cliche implies that eventually there'll be a torrential downpour,
And then the cloud will fade away and allow
The sun to shine through, ending that terrible storm.
Depression is a starless night.
An expanse of black where even the stars have abandoned you,
Long since dead, and you try to make sense of the loneliness
In a world where people have turned into zombies.
Thoughtless, repetitive phrases become their instincts.
"Think positively," is the mantra of the dead to the dying.
As though statements turn into directions when the sun goes down,
Like signposts leading us to a brightly-lit land.
But the sky doesn't respond to artificial lights,
And nothing but time can force the sun to return.
Their second statement, under the facade of help,
Is to remind us that day will always follow night,
And no matter how starless and eternal the darkness feels,
The sun will eventually break through the horizon, waving pinks and oranges.
Sadly, not all lifespans are created equal,
And for the many colourful transitions people have seen in the sky,
There are plenty who never see more than black.
Some souls are born at dusk and are dead by pre-dawn,
Never having lived through anything but darkness.
And to the zombies, accepting that fact is the hardest.

i know the information is already there, i could read it all, become a walking encyclopaedia, so well informed for a conversation on the matter, but why specialise and leave the thrill of emotions of being less informed, always eager elsewhere, indeed not necessarily informed, but given the chanced bewilderment - to have wondered, rather than regurgitated.

upon reaching this exhausting day, how many
whiskey bottles and beer bottles has it been?
i do not know, but suddenly the
joy of being sedated by the content
became apparent that i was simply
exhausted by being sedated -
but why would i suddenly
clasp the thought of futility because of this?
there would be no point.
- i'd never apply the theory of evolution
toward man, man's too ingenious for
such a crippling theory, esp when
encapsulating so much time in that
ugly aesthetic - just by example,
was man supposed to become a *******
like that, finding something and then
turning it against himself?
just today i heard about the cuckoos
and their hosts the reed warblers -
now the theory of evolution i can understand
like that, because it's in *real time,
it's a useful theory to watch the battle
between cuckoos and the reed warblers,
or the cuckoos and sparrow-hawks -
the fascinating way, as if by magic the eggs
change colour and pattern,
the reed warblers' eggs have a specific pattern,
the cuckoo lays an egg of a similar pattern...
but what is the required diet for this?
it's not like these birds can use some sort of
telepathy - looking at an egg long enough
for it to "magically" change colour or pattern;
yes, the reed warblers' eggs have changed
pattern over the years as a way to fight the
parasitic cuckoos - now that's a perfectly
acceptable glorification of the theory of evolution,
these are lesser creatures, shorter lifespans,
it's in real time, and in such a way it does
not overpower man, the theory doesn't become
a Frankenstein monster, turning against its
"creator" / explorer in the realm of thought -
it can be applied against all the biodiversity
out there - but the question is still:
how does the reed warblers' eggs change pattern
to fight against the cuckoo eggs
and vice versus?
no, it surely can't be dictated by telepathy -
but how could a diet of any kind be know
to the cuckoo to change the egg patterns -
but then again... maybe telepathy does exist
between host and parasite - woman and foetus;
what a crude relation, no wonder there are
many negative symptoms during pregnancy,
i think it might be with a woman making this
comparison of the foetus being a tapeworm,
although salvation, the umbilical chord,
it's not exactly a tapeworm with a sucker attached
to the intestines... we're born blind for a while,
our **** muscles are weak, bladder too, and so is our
oesophagus (pulp food, milk), and seemingly
boneless because toothless, their development
outside the waters in the flammable
air, of infuriated fire and restless chasms of
the oceans, to the ravaging rumble of the earth
itself trapped in vacuum, in a twinkle of the Orion.

Cars and gasoline and traffic,
Weddings, birthdays, and funerals,
The days, the months, the years.
Failures, mistakes,
Accomplishments, burden.
Life wears thin
as time gains substance.

Lifespans measured through the good and the bad days,
All a distant memory in the end.

I want everything to be perfect
Not out of people
But everything else
Like $20 per hour jobs at entry level
Always stable economies
Always safe retirement money
Always bright futures
Drugs that don't harm your health
Police who save people instead of aressting them
Technology already at the highest level
Diseases completely eradicated
Long lifespans for everyone
I sound insane, but my wants are very plain when I write them out.

She sits in a cracked vinyl chair
in a room full of octogenarians,
as gunsmoke plays quietly
in the background-
James Arness is saying something
about the only woman
he's ever loved.

She digs her fingernails
into her palms and stares
at the floor with its repeating
faded patterns.
She doesn't belong here,
matching pain and numbness
to lifespans triple her own.

The nurse calls her name
and she stands so slowly,
bones creaking, wavering slightly
as she waits for the fog to clear.
She pads softly down the dim hall
and they leave her in a quiet room,
quite alone.

The doctor calls her a pretty young thing,
asks her what she is doing here.
He gives no answers,
only more medications
and a sticky sweet smile
meant to placate.

She walks away into the sunlight
and a song plays on repeat in her head:
I Know it's Over.

"I think this is a poem you wrote on my phone (or it is something I wrote). I can't remember. It is from a time period when we were in the desert and both had working phones." - Sarah

Martin's musings
If you thought you had met the love of your life- what would you do? The heat is up our chills up and down, and the faces the old women make in drug-induced ticks, heavy noisome smells mixed with the best greatest sweetest smelling true love you've ever known.

And five times a day now you spend hours and hours entwined and touching and being touched by the greatest and softest skin cells your skin has ever been against

And with perfervid excitednees, a cold chest, but tepid limbs, you avoid blinking to extend the lifespans of us both.

Black wings shoot through the sky
1000 lifespans of smooth power
And then
The fall
Black wings cascade to the gritty cement
Feathers of darkness
Envelope
A solid body
Staggering forward
The orange lights stinginess crushing down
Reaching forward
Long nails clawing at smooth brick walls
Brick walls covered in **** and human filth
The wings climb forward
Reaching forward
Gripping the dusk
Holding onto the new day
Grasping the new feelings
The new concepts
The same world
The same body

Like a ghost
I'll pass by the lives
Of all I've ever known
Breathing fire
In your memories
Like a garden that
Will never grow

Like a passerby
I'm passing through
Lifespans of time
Spending years
Drowning in emotions
That are still burning
Still alive

It's so hard
To stay settled
When cursed
With a travelers mind
But my ghost
Will always be there
To comfort
The nostalgic nights

Forever in my heart
If not forever
In my sight
Because we all
Must learn to move
And grow
And leave love
Behind

I expected pain. More memorable than a dull discomfort in the chest. I knew that I would have to purge you, and I expected some fever dreams. I had one about my ashes being carried to you through the air.
Eyes open, aware of the demise I constructed. There was a toughness, a crispness around the edges of my love.

But I didn't know that you could lacerate lifespans into a fraction. My suffering was emancipated and given the greater field to run through. I didn't know that my lust would drive me to lunacy. I didn't know that you would become a vice. I was promised the comfort of satiation, I didn't know that I would become primal for it. I didn't know that I would search for you in the bottom of every bottle, every swirl of wine that I smell.

I didn't know that the tick of midnight would hit differently. The spaces that you didn't occupy torment me more than the ones that held your presence. I expected you to reshape my inner aspects, and give me the most excruciating *******. I didn't know that you would close your fingers around my waist and inject poison into the hot pink. Not once did I imagine any children of yours that I would volunteer to exorcise over and over.

A mental, chemical stripping of the facade, I anticipated. But there was still physiological agony when you released my airway. When my body would catch the breaths that I tried to reject. I didn't know that you would hold me up to the Sun to show me that it's not God after all. I expected pain. But not a pain that would determine my price.

He would come to me in early morning,
When the sun barely graced the horizon,
Raise an arm to brush against my branches,
Take a seat at my roots, pat my bark
And read, out loud, a whisper,
(but trees can hear greater than humans)
A story about a forest that was sentient
On a distant, alien planet.
(you truly don’t need to look so far)
He would edit as he went, breaking off –
To change this phrase or that,
Shuffle up a paragraph,
Scribble out a speech.

Some days it was a page,
Others it was hundreds.

Most days he would talk to me, ask my opinion.
He would smile to himself, unaware,
He cannot hear my replies.

I have always been stubborn.
I am the only seedling to have sprouted this side of the river;
My resolve is enough to keep me strong in barren soil.
As he read to me, I found purpose:
Move.
Yes, I grow towards the sun,
But that is what humans would call a reflex
(trees move much slower than humans,
you see, they have no motivation)
This human, this creature, gave me motivation:
To go beyond myself, my being.
He gave me what it is to be human.

It was a leafless day when I found my first success.
The waving grass glittered in early sunlight,
First frost of the year.
He had sat with me that morning,
Breaths clouding albicant in the air,
A cushion to keep out the cold and the hard-packed soil.
His reading was punctuated by sniffs and sharp breathing,
Trailing off to stare out over the park.
He stroked my bark with a gloved hand in his hush.
“Do you think people will notice my bruise?”
He touched his fingers to a splash across his cheek,
Mottled red, blue, purple, brown.
A new word, a word not spoken by trees:
Bruise.
He sat long in silence, then stood and left;
He did not look back.

That day I strained and screamed at my branches to move,
If I had been human I would have been scarlet-faced,
Brow crumpled,
Spittle flying from my lips
(or so I imagine from stories)
But I am not human.
But I moved.
An inch, a swish of branches,
Untouched by breeze or wandering hands,
I moved.

By night I was walking.
The world is so much bigger than I imagined.

I did not walk far,
Merely to the crest of the hill,
But from there I could see twinkling lights stretched out
Like stars of the ground,
Like something from a dream.

I settled back by the river in time for dawn,
Anticipation sending frissons through my branches.
What would I do when he came in the morning?
Run a branch through his hair like the lovers in his stories?
Surprise him, tickle him, make him laugh,
(he had not laughed in so long)
Twist branches into words: ‘hello’, ‘I come in peace’,
‘I love you’.

Would he be afraid?
Would he think himself ill, or drugged,
As in Chapter 14?
In his stories he hopes for harmony,
But, tree though I may be,
I know that theory and reality are different.
He has taught me something else:
Fear.

He has not returned.

I have watched children grow and sprout children of their own
And he has not returned.

I do not move.
I am waiting.
(trees have patience longer than human lifespans)

It is dawn.
It is summer, the sun comes early,
Too early for humans to be up and about,
Even the fast ones in their harsh neon.
And yet -
There is a man, pruned in the way that humans become over time.
He raises an arm, smiles as he feels the brush of my leaves.
There is something familiar about this gesture.
He sits,
Nestled in that most sacred of spots where no one has sat for a very, very long time.
He reads,
A story about a forest on a distant planet,
A forest that is sentient.
I listen.
And I do not move.

April- this is an idea virus blossoming,--------
psi-tech common consciousness 2024 5G IOT

Define your terms, I said to this
fellow passenger, who claims to know
a thing or two, re
garding meanings of the material, confidence
con- with, si, we agree with faithfulness
fidence from some trusted source,
taken as granted, by any child who learns
to walk on two feet,
faith that there is a place to put this foot
as I
balance
con sci si, psi, too, psy as well, all are this
knowing, knacky by nature,
it seems not everyone can,
even after thinking so
for mortal lifespans,
while praying for wisdom, knowledge and
with thy getting, get
understanding, i.e. see. Know the ranking order.
Worth the price. Stay dry stand in the vernacular line.
Worship the prize. Or take a happy chance,

I'll looker for better terms, understanding gotten
past, to reach this peace of probably
perfection in process or progress, or both, really,
both
I suppose, so you
may know is it different the being done of a thing
abstract as the imaginary unit used to spin
strings in some theories of entangled
webs\
set ARPA net, first order, gather all knowledge,
encode and packetize then prioritize,
passing all mortal understanding of the games
mortals make up to pass time,
wool such as this has gathered in the realm of simple
ask and
ask and

and answers lie rotting on hooks taken by desires
to be spoken to like a ******,// what is on the radio,
who are these
K-pop pops tops of the charts, alla, la la
whatchADOTAme
spot red
see\we

were wondering what leads a boy to become
such a man,
alienated from the terms we hold legal as any
royal degree or thus saith the vicar who hears the
word
words spoken in a tongue none can tame,
it is written in smoke,
read in mirrors, some say, is the natural way
automatic aspects of right brain dominance,

drawn to see the setting, the shape that holds the seen,
negative space,
where else is
there, the point, not the argument, the point
the essential bit,
the one thing one must know, to know
the liberty truth is, act-ual, as a living thing being
the way truth works,
when what works ceases working
we die,
the well
runs, but dry.

Time what a Frikell thing
Time Is Precious like all things
When time passes there's no getting it back
Time is history It can never change

It's something to be cherished
Should never be forgotten you live in time
You wish you can stop time in little moments
Time is beautiful and all life thrive on it

Time is Through all generations
Lifespans have been measured in time
Love is measured in time
Everything you do takes time

You can't go back in time its always moving
It moves forward endlessly always changing
It's like light forever needed
Its passes on and on forever

Late afternoon October 15th, 2022
a spring like day
witnessed nature in surround sound,
whereby reflection spurred
reminiscence about similar weather
a few years ago when...

Serious intent to read
latest issue of TIME magazine
found attention pleasantly distracted,
when I became keenly aware
of flora and fauna bursting,

blooming, buzzing, and twittering
oblivious to yours truly sitting stock still
in folding lawn chair
marveling at each budding
natural born architect and engineer

each respective constituent
living organism engrossed
delicate as deft potters crafting chinaware
observing good and
plenti hive nesting reverential species
trumpeting suave and donning debonair

without any pretentious fanfare
merely obedient to genetic coded wear,
exclusive domain glorified, ordained,
and sanctified by divine imprimatur
contemplating if despair

experienced by coterie of biosphere
not including **** sapiens,
and/or aghast that their extinction
dooms them to disappear,
which undeserved fate unfair

for innocent animals and plants
critically contributing as
unique vital gadgeteer
linkedin to significant role
evolution indiscriminately licensed

met with preserved concord, versus mutineer
extant among bipedal hominids
each and every simian forebear
generally recent primate ancestors,
whose short lifespans predated medicare,

but more particularly modern man/woman,
who flagrantly extracted precious
minerals, plundered mountains,
usurped possibly, sans sadling muleteer

and/or forced chaingang extruded
raw materials to concoct wear
able, munitions, disposable,
and most importantly

deadly ordnance for ****** warfare,
never quenching thirst for mortal Kombat,
nor scooping up riches galore,
no matter wealthy status equals bajillionaire!

I want there to be beauty in our hearts
that we can dream dreams beyond our lifespans
so that we are inclined to plant kindness
and nurture gentleness
and continue to see the loveliness of life
as we ripen and become more confident

and less interested in comparison
and more focused on what will open up
the well of joy within us

I want to be better because I knew you
I want to be better because I walked this earth with you

I do not want anything to go to waste

sometimes my ego overpowers my mind
therefore i muddle
with a mind-body duality
all i have it a ego-mind duality
but i find a distinction between mind and body
instead of a duality i find
a dichotomy:

i'm looking back on yesterday's
transcendental
and looking forward to the same deja vu transcendental
when the Boss will play his second
show:

he just shouted the following words
on repeat: DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
i was also amazed by my coworkers
talking a bout Biblical things:
like how Lilith was the first wife
of Adam
and Eva is just a cover story...

no sonic hangover headache after a gig
transcendental
i used to drink too much then smoke
now i drink a little and smoke a little
and finish the night of with writing
and a little bit more drinking
and i think i found equilibrium
and as i went to the brothel:
i massaged my girl into telling me about her
past:
where there big *****:
i know Jason, I know Jeff and i know Peter...
these are the three men in my life too
especially Jason:
the drug addict father of my Reyla
who died prematurely...
i think i went to the brothel to get some
spirit...
some taboo and some
i just want to write about my personal life
and have a friction-fiction: autobriography
is FRICTION-FICTION
like there is science-fiction:
there's the beggars belief at all that's been
announced by humanity:
it beggars belief with a little helix

                 of poem
                 like so
                 someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
Bruce gave me the spirit:
which was her New Jersey American
borrowed from Poland and Puerto Rico
and sent to Polynesia...
and i'm supposed to go over there
and wake up a sleeping volcano
like all that cinematic spark of ***
the French looked so pale pale pale
pale with their idea of how to open
the Olympic games...
then again maybe some French speaking
people are reading me
and 100 years when the translations
of these words appear
and first Poland since that's where i have
my serpents tongue and the Tree
i perch on: YHYH: yahyah...
no more yahweh:
just yahyah:
to compliment Allah: YHYH...

i went to the brothel and ended up massaging
a ******* to sleep...
i went to the brothel and ended up massaging
a ******* to sleep...
i told her: i walked out with a LIMP BISCUIT
of a ****
a Sargent McVitties dipped in Afternoon Tea...
in'shalla biz-mc

                      so i massaged and it was like massaging
Reyla's body...
she was 20 years old and her body was
that of Reyla's:
Reyla's proportions:
i think i was making a Baptism
to avert your eyes
should you imagine me ******* your daughter:
all that pain i understand
but i really wanted to show you
the nightmare of me even thinking!
even thinking! that i could have *** with your
daughter: imagine!
i don't have to: i walked through the nightmare!
i went to the brothel
looking for a Reyla-body-type:
and ******* = priest
******* = priest:
i am Catholic! i'm never going to be a convert:
a PROSELYTE!
i was making confession!
this is how a Catholic performs confession!
not in the Church! not to a man!
i was confessing to a woman
about... oh: you know! another ******* woman!
i went to the brothel to:
the church is off limits for me!
the church is off limits for me!
i can't enter the church!
my church is the brothel!
find me there: confessing to women
with a limp **** because i found
one special one...
i went to find a Reyla-android de facto:
in situ: minds detached:
both: bodies in despair:
not necessarily one sided:
i didn't get my rocks off...

               i'm a man and she's not my body
type: she's not mother to become
matriarch
she's just a maiden
and i don't like Valkyries...
i'm not aroused by them...
Reyla is a Valkyrie and i need
a hot juicy momma:
i need an URSULA...
i want little girls and little boys to flourish:
i'm getting paranoid again:
i was not briefed at work!
i know how to talk to drunk people
i allow for personal space breaches:
this drunk and drunk me
we danced
we had body man body testing
other confessional booth:
the Coliseum:
my church is a no go zone
i repent in the brothel
and confess
then i pass on the information of what
i learned in the Coliseum...
that's how i operate:

the Paris Olympics opening ceremony:
i love that city
all my love belongs to romancing
Paris:
there: i want to be buried and begin
life again as Tree:
then a mutation transit: by-come-time:
to supervise allowances
in spirit the lifespans of insects
then squids and dull dug out
dumb faces of rocks personified with scratching
like petting cats:
all smiley...

             so i basically couldn't **** Reyla:
i have a **** lock on a teenage:
petite girl: weird body shape...
with prostitutes that sizes and shape i can massage:
with the girl i can bear wrestle:
maybe this girls playing sport is gay:
just gay:
maybe she just needs the scent of male hormones...
maybe grandma: move move!
let Matthew come over...
mum keeps her ostrich and blah blah
they talk and talk and talk...
talk: grandma! they're talking all the time!
maybe Reyla:
i see a gilded path in wheat fields:
later by humans grappling with sun turning
the semi-copper hue to tinge:

         Mary Harrington: funny laugh...
reminded me of Stephanie...
worked with her last night:
do i work many venues?
blah blah... then a twitch: i could tell she
was a *****
a federal...
           she acted funny in the elevator
with all the other black guys...
i didn't pick up the origin of the conversation:
but i think the black guys
were insinuating:
you're super intelligent:
you just met your super intelligence guy
and there was no immediate crush:
but it was there i was showing off my toy boy screen
of the compact smart phone
i really thought i might see Karl Ove Knausaard
in the crowd:
dancing in the dark: i seriously can't finish volume 6
i can't finish the Pickwick Papers
i just can't: i want to leave those books for
retirement...

yes, Edie, i ****** Reyla's body size: well: ******:
are we clear about that i find sexually
arousing? can grandma know:
i need for the matriarch to know
that i couldn't **** a Reyla type:
i had to massage a body type...
experience: wholesomeness:
the rustic belt of a woman is her personality
and volume:
and all that volume of hospice...

         can the matriarch just feel safe
by my limping around Reyla
and keeping her as a child
actually discovering myself as child
i have aged with all that's to be learned
but that last bicycle shop in Hornchurch broke me!
oh... we haven't ordered spokes since
the pandemic...
at a different shop: shh... Halfords:
the bicycle technician will be back in 2 weeks:
young kids behind the counter
actors of no-profession...
  
  gigging it out... each spoke replacement:
cheapest at $15... but the guy replaces the spoke
and moans
wants to be out of business:
because the inner tubing where you inflate:
the ******:
is not protruding
and he didn't put the ******* inflatable in correctly!
moans! but it's so easy to do!
yes... and today i invested in a tool
that's used in removing the cassette
so i can get past the guard
and replace the spoke...

the Boss: i can fix my own bicycle
i could get Ross' ******* bearings fixed
if i was given enough time with you and Reyla
and feel like a father
than feeling this horrid prolonged awakening
of being a son!
do you understand me!

do you hear me?!
i don 't think so:
i think i have to interrupt you sometimes:
you need to hear me!
i don't think you sometimes hear me!
you didn't hear me
when i said why i went to the brothel
and looked for a Reyla
and said: this ******* had bruises
on her ***:
she wasn't just working the brothel
she was making grotesque movies on the side:
unless she just like: clearly no:
she collapsed under her own body:
but i couldn't possibly...

and then transcendental happens around me:
the phenomenon of the monism Chapel...
if i can't enter the church:
**** me: i need to find myself a Chapel
of the phenomenon of monism...
given that monism needs a partner:
to compensate there being not dualism:
the ego and i think
ha ha: that's how ancient Latin becomes
translated into modern English:
the ego i think
therefore?
the ego therefore an ego
to contradict Descartes...
definitely in one's mind: so horridly so:
or? indefinitely in one's mind...
best...
since also definitely in this world as a temporal
impasse of perfect timing:
but also so indefinitely in this world since
about to die...
but none of such joy among gods:
gods are non-transcendental creatures
who sometimes become mortals at their perils:
but they can't seem to help themselves:
mortality is a jealousy of the creation
while the creative immortalize jealousy
and so jealousy creates the immortals...
and blah blah...

                                 me and Boss Bruce...
my American girlfriend:
i never thought i'd get one:
had an Australian one a Russian one a French one...
oh i can make her jealous too of the creviv
mega shlong...
but talk? no talk?! talk... no talk?!
it's like having ***:
i detested bilingualism in the bedroom:
it was like having an ****:
it would be nice for the children:
3 tongues perhaps 4 to share...
but in the bedroom?
Hell!

i speak 2 she speaks 1 isn't that enough?
it could have worked with Promis
but then i wasn't really, honestly:
excited about her:
Samuel did tell me what i was already
thinking: Tweety Bird...
seriously! that was just that:
she was the fresh blood from Australia
and i was the lurch the sneer
the Ugly Duckling with the girls
in high school then i grew my hair long
and blah blah
but she did: does: look like a caricature:
Tweety Bird...
and she was tall: 6ft... i was the only available
6ft3 in the vicinity:
we only dated because of reality
and how compatible we were: in the dimension
of Darwinism... of youth...
youth, madness, learning:
and the basics of preservation:
trans-humanism: very much so...
i couldn't find a sparring partner of a good conversation:
Promis wasn't certainly enough for me...
and someone like that:
who you don't talk to more easily or just about
right when having ***:
will have babies and then deplete the curiosity for
vivo per se...
i saved Promis from making a bad mistake...

Ilona made the bad mistake
while Isabella was like a daughter...
my first and my vampire of testimony for
fighting for an IDEAL
to be later replaced with IDEALISM...
if the IDeal was Isabella
then EDie is the idealism...

                hard to conflate me with cheating
investing
the VERCRUX: need i remind?
i was never a fan of HArry Potter:
but i'm a fan of some ideas in the story:
notably the HORCRUX:
which is?

        the horcrux is your soul: hidden:
of the people you have killed...

a vercrux: verily: verily: the soul
you have hidden in people you have loved!
which they turn into horcruxes
with the items they still possess that
once you owned.

i have several: both of Edie and Reyla:
Reyla hid a proper horcrux:
a golden bracelet with an R hanging off it:
she played a game beyond chess
and i too found it fascinating how she behaved
in a way i behave with a computer
model
when playing AI of chess:
AI of chess is different to the current AI...
post-office of the internet of the algorithm
that's what current AI is...

the death of the encyclopedia is AI
nothing more...
just as the algorithm was the death of the encyclopedia:
even bots have their chores...