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Edward Alan Apr 2014
You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!

Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!

Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!

You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!
Joan Karcher Jul 2012
emerald, olive, viridian
oh how you perplex me
forest, jade, chartreuse
why do you tease me so
cyan, verdigris, moss
such excitement arises
to be a word
to be a meaning
is there such a thing,
to have a feeling
to see a vision,
phthalo, pine, teal
are you the same
mint, myrtle, laurel
you make me envious
to be blooming, to be healthy
to be young, to be clumsy
are you callow, how about credulous?
but such a conservationist
unquestioning, so trustful,
tenderfoot and common
the tree, the lawn, the willow
though ecological and crude
a sage in all but name
apple, spinach, pea
aren't you scrumptious,
lime, kelly, bice
are you nature, how about luck
you're pungently rotten
though with such dark beauty and hope,
love and lust ensues
you're the jolliness of balance
and the creative intelligence;
of evil, and decay of money and safety,
will you resurrect me, are you immortality?
such jealousy arises
high goals and honor
so so allusive
healing and vitality
you're calming though fast
lush spring stability,
abundant generosity,
vert vegetation; witchcraft
an aphrodisiac I hear,
are you youth or fading youth?
sunrise and life, growth and fertility
sacred ideology,
eroticized though shameful
so romantic and humble
I see the third ray
or is the the fifth ray, the third eye
are you truth, are you vision
it's becoming a science,
so much compassion
the fourth chakra, the heart,
the centre of us all
a higher consciousness
such a harmonious aura
a hunter, a nurse, a solider, an outdoorsman
villains and superstition
misfortune and prosperity
with toxicity, sickness and death,
recycle and reuse
oh so powerful
you exude auspiciousness
just a holiday
mystical fairies and spirits
though also devilish,
cancer in the stars
a renewal of paradise,
biliously tranquil
are you refreshingly soothing,
peacefully restful,
a naive novice,
very understanding,
is there truly a term for you?
what do you really convey,
countless representations
a definition of name,
or do you signify the feeling, the specimen
the aspect?
though some have no locution for you

here I am,
stepping around the issue
you are you, in any word
yet with a different meaning
Every word in this poem describes or is described by one thematic morpheme
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2021
~
Lost inside a labyrinth

Tight-lipped tinkerer
open-mouthed cynosure

Pressing matters completing their circuit
all things said, but not spoken

Osculated locution, succinct phrasing
released, but not heard

The human element imparting
seminal spark
—together felt and touched

A tingling syntax
owing to its art
becoming its nucleus

~
vircapio gale Dec 2012
oOo opening
of a common ground
dialogue's playing field hosts
not only games for diplomats and mediators.
channel expanse of what i know you know i know i know
you know
you breathe with fibers woven at the birth of words
ooo mutual standing under rain and pointing at the same - no, the same over  there.
consummation of lies released no longer held i tell you i lied i am ashamed and in love and free again.
O locution
of a private sky.
secrets working well contain
a single link entraining ignorance at war.
suppress, hold tight, forget,
forget,
forget forever toss remembrancers of loss
i grit against the tension, and tensest death of signs :):(:
o exclusive lay above the sun and grasping for unique - yes, the unique  here.
tragedy of honesties imprisoned for all time, proud, from a first kiss setting hate in stone.
smoking at a newborn's crib, righteous bigotry
yet the voiceless innocence of child
goodness tender-eared and
never closed
brandon nagley Feb 2017
Many contrive du-jour fêtes to make love look self-evident; whilst the taken hold hand's, making locution the regular, in letters they trade off into lusting hands.

Winsome cut-out caricature cards, sell fresh off the press, whilst lovers meet at bars; to await the next years
Valendine.

A holiday for only once in a darkly year, as the meanwhile divorce rates spike from cheaters, woman-beaters;
Amour's no longer of the creator, but made to be the abzere.

Mine jane, please do not fear, I know I mayest not hath much, but a soul and spirit; I connect to thine.

None inauthentic word's, or thoughts you'll find;

Only what I hath to give thee.

The indigenous necklet that grows around this neck, a buttoned up longsleeve, that holds mine back;
With a black vest that caresses mine chest- with a smile I hardly show
Because of mine soda stained, missing teeth in a mouth where
Poetry speaks of pain, yet where
Affection is created by mine tongue
That creates wonders and Shame.

I hath not much material thing's, though material is temporal; not fit for kings and queens.

As I hath thou, as thou dost me,
I hath not much mine jane; though
Thou dost hath the key.

The key that open's this beating
Heart for thee; wherein mine
Love is always seen, in the
Specks of thy eyes.

The more ourn love grows, it burns
As a wildfire, I hear the wedding bell's
Require; ourn calling in
The distance.

©lonesome poet's poetry
©Brandon nagley
©earl jane sardua nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Word meanings:
Contrive:create or bring about.
Du jour: something enjoyable, short lived.
fêtes: celebration, festival.
Whilst: while
Locution: word or phrase.
Winsome:-attractive or appealing in appearance or character.
Valendine: word I made meaning(Valentine death).
abzere:word I created meaning( worldly, fleshly, of the physical having god not in its core, no existence without god.)
Mayest: may
Thine: yours.
Hath: have.
None: no.
Thee, thou: you
Thy: your.
Necklet: necklace.
Dost:do.
Wherein: in which.
Ourn: our.
Tommy Jackson May 2016
Words can be silenced
Only for a lifetime
But my words will live on,
And my ghost won't be gone
Until night til the dawn,
My poetry will spill
Like ripened wine.
I'm everlasting
To everlasting.
My body may be passing
But my eternity is forever,
Like a perennial rosebud
My locution hangs with the
Good that's to come,
And hushed I shall not be.
ㅡjatm Aug 2015
the first time that i wrote poetry
i find my locution cliché
because it was always winter
in my heart but you were the oxygen
i never knew i'd breathe in
and i have loved you since the day
you have touched my nights
so stay a while with me
in this room where i lay alone
as we hear each others' heart beat
(J.a.tm.)
for greg.
Emily Mary Dec 2013
your mean words slur
as they're 
trickling out of your mouth

like a waterfall of wounding

locution from your sober thoughts

but your drunken actions
 make me uneasy
as you stand there
 swiftly swaying
like a 
feather caught in the wind


at this very moment in time I think I hate you

your heart is no longer real

the blood flow that is long gone

is now diluted with cheap *****

the nasty habits you have gained 
are slowly dissipating the oxygen

that now gently dribbles through your 
inanimate lungs
and pains your ****** liver


your sunken eyes are glossy

eyes that used to be bright blue

have lost there hue and converted to a dull gray


you may have sober thoughts

but you'll always have drunken actions
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
What does a poet do
When words fail them?
When the vernacular
They so heavily relied on
To convey every navy blue,
Indigo, violet hue of the midnight sky,
Dies on the tip of their tongue?
When the morphemes
That gave life to the phantoms
And pantomimes in their heart
Come out as Neanderthalic grunts?
What does a poet do?
When the discourse once so comfortable
Becomes stilted, halting, and forced
Because their brain has blanked
On their particular patois?
When not even the thesaurus or lexicon
Or revered Oxford English Dictionary
Can provide the adequate locution
So as to appease the poet's need
To be
Understood,
Acknowledged,
Fathomed,
Decoded,
Interpreted,
Heard.
Because that's all we want.
And that's the impossible
When we have writer's block.
I lift a silent prayer.
A prayer wordless, in the silence of confusion,
A prayer in contrition, a sentence without locution,
I lift a silent prayer.

In a heart torn every ventricle from every chamber,
One piece thrown to a desert, others in mountains and clouds,
A flood flowing from the aorta to the formations on the right and left,
A request rolls from the winds to Heaven without any sound.

I lift a silent prayer.
Trusting God with the connectors, absconding away thoughts and feelings
To His perfect will and timing,
brandon nagley Apr 2016
Verily, verily, I wilt thole
the strenuous measure
Without thee in mine
Reach. Thine countenance do I seek in
Sainthood luster;                                      O' how I needeth thee mine
                                         beloved of cherubic power,
                 Tis the moonlight hour's I dieth to layeth mine brow
Upon thine own.

Sweat cover's me, I needeth mine
Abode, for thou art mine home;
In which I hath sought after
Since afore the age of Noah.
                                                         O' how this locution screameth out loud to the crowd's of emptied lonesome-hearted mad
Men. Mine darling, àgapi mou, best friend. Tis not the end-
Only the beginning.                        I glance keenly dearest jane-

Into meadow's wherein the pool's of life art made for one man
And his wife, as godly intended;

                                                      ­   Foregone art the soul's that shalt
                                        wait ourn arrival, they've been waiting endlessly to enter us inside.
O' Queen Jane, Filipino treasure of mine;

O' how we shalt dine and feast amongst the golden pathway's and see-through streets, bare **** feet to lead ourn spiritual direction, ourn agápi reflecting Yahweh's glow in three-
Dimensional complexion.

One day to be as babes, Unchained, not slaves to menfolk's rule-

A place wherein one enters by the amount of love they've given
And hath shown, a kingdom
                                                   Wherein we shalt be renewed.
    



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedicated
Verily - truly
Thole- endure, suffer.
Wilt- will.
Tis- it is.
Layeth- lay.
Afore- before.
Àgapi mou- my love in Greek.
Wherein- in which.
agápi- love
Foregone- past

If wanna hear this on SoundCloud. Can go find me
SoundCloud and look me up Brandon Nagley
Type in my name should see poem ( glancing into the pools of life) though part or two was cut out because stupid recorder... Or well. Enjoy
Thanks for reading!!!
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i

In the snowbroth, in the chill of the eve'
Mine aficionado inamorata shalt swoon me;
Under the gloss, of the ancient moss
Under the *******, overhead albatross.

ii

Thou art the apricity, when the wind bloweth cold
Thou art the castle, wherein is mine abode;
Thou art the rose, with none Thorn's attached
Thou art the night and day, a movie, stage, angel hatched

iii

Gorgonized, thou hath done to me
Directing me under thine foretoken;
Thine voice is quiet, though so captivating
Thy locution is so spiritual, liberating.

iv

Thou art a snoutfair, angel wing's, oriental hair
Freed I am, from the world of man, a perfected pair;
Thou maketh me want to do better in all of mine way's
I shalt loveth thee tommorrow mine queen, and more today.

©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication
Emily Mary Nov 2013
your mean words slur as they're
trickling out of your mouth
like a waterfall of wounding
locution from your sober thoughts
but your drunken actions
make me uneasy as you stand there
swiftly swaying like a
feather caught in the wind

at this very moment in time I think I hate you
your heart is no longer real
the blood flow that is long gone
is now diluted with cheap *****
the nasty habits you have gained
are slowly dissipating the oxygen
that now gently dribbles through your
inanimate lungs and pains your ****** liver

your sunken eyes are glossy
eyes that used to be bright blue
have lost there hue and converted to a dull gray

you may have sober thoughts
but you'll always have drunken actions
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I am but a meager man
a mere weaver of words.

My writing cloaks insidious intent
to hide from reality’s fearful eyes;
deceiving with facetious transgression.
My just reward for such sullied repute-
shades drawn tight lest my rueful deeds be known

I remain hidden from a cruel world
behind callus words of my own fancy.

Verbose ranting of cryptic escapades
I grease my fist to ram down your gullet,
withdrawing the emotion I desire.
Recherché locution; gossamer strands
of melodies to soothe your tattered soul

*While my own inner depths
Echo emptiness and raging solitude.


Descanting rhythm to shroud what I am
only fools believe the self-proclaimed bard;
for I will conceal what is pertinent.
Illuminating only the mundane
with flamboyancy of ordered disdain

I am exactly what I am; all I may ever be;
a reputed poet of ill repute-


just meager ol me.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Sierrah Nichole Jan 2019
A tender poets locution,
Captivating my soul with sorrow remark.
Has saved myself from drowning isolation
And through our words, becomes a spark.

With sound be in stitches
Your eyes deep enrapture,
My soul is at home
With your infectious laughter.

Relief from my affliction,
Wonderful illusion finds me vulnerable.
I find peace in your reflection
This sensation; overwhelmingly desirable

But I’m not the muse behind your art
You’re poetic love rests not with me
By the end of this night we’ll continue apart
Just like we’re wistfully fated to be.
BSween Jan 2021
.
There is poetry in the light
Of the afterwards -
The perfect glow
When ugly scars are blurred
And words
Reach new locution
Despite our dissolution
You rest your head on my lap
and weep until your tears
become our kisses
and our solace
wet with promise
Of kinder years.
hami Oct 2017
If I told you to let me go— please, don't trust my lyric.
I'm just a woman that have a million of different behaviour and a thousand of difficulty in my head.
The reason why I suddenly said a fortuitous ****** thing that I didn't want to happened.
I told you— don't believe me because I'm just a victim of anger that living inside of my center.
Just grasp my hands tight like you don't wish me to depart so that I will be alright.
Because I don't seek to exit in the sea that filled with my sin.
So please, be my lifeguard— save me from what I've done.
I wish you'll facilitate my spirit and help me because I can't live without you.
I know that it's better to be drown in abysmal ocean or to cut my wrist until I die down than listening to your locution that you letting me go.
8th poem! Hope you'll like it.
Emily Jun 2014
your mean words slur
as they're 
trickling out of your mouth

like a waterfall of wounding

locution from your sober thoughts

but your drunken actions
 make me uneasy
as you stand there
 swiftly swaying
like a 
feather caught in the wind


at this very moment in time I think I hate you

your heart is no longer real

the blood flow that is long gone

is now diluted with cheap *****

the nasty habits you have gained 
are slowly dissipating the oxygen

that now gently dribbles through your 
inanimate lungs
and pains your ****** liver


your sunken eyes are glossy

eyes that used to be bright blue

have lost there hue and converted to a dull gray


you may have sober thoughts

but you'll always have drunken actions
Emmanuel Chikody Aug 2016
My perturbed being paid huge negligence to my pen and paper meant to write a sonnet
For I'm drown in my own thoughts as I watch the sunset.
Thinking, how can I bring down this Jericho wall when I can't even blow my own trumpet

From afar,a chick called for its mother
Children taking turns to skip a gutter

I shifted my gaze upward pondering on the sky and it calligraphy
But there was more on my mind other than topography

Gone where the days when all we had were prophecies and signs
Now we have the proofs- earthquake, war, diseases , high rate in crime

Human uses human for nefarious and bohemian mischief
Acquiring a high decree in insalubrious acts and call it prestige

****** masochism,******,homosexuality,best iality,and with many severe strokes,
we've axed,hewn down and fall our hardest ethical timbered-oak

Immorality is now human right,transgender speciation is now technology.
Ostensibly, compartmentalize values and virtues are now seen as folk

Culminating this malady is 'Spurious Pentecostalism'-an acute locution for the aggrandize ecclesiastical new age religion loosely espy as ' born again ' movements

Which beget an avalanche of licentious sermons of grace extremists,
stealthily engaging in the defamatory of the Scripture.
The only exception is the law of tithing and offering.

As clerical entities,sharply dressed,suave,bogus televangelist
dispenses false miracles and prophesies of untold wealth to there flock
in return for their votive offerings

Take heed that no man deceive you (Matthew 24:4)

I Emmanuel sound it loud and clear
CHRIST JESUS IS COMING VERY SOON !
I wanted to write out a poem,but my feeling was been shaken by something very disturbing and the result is this poem
Laokos Jul 2020
i never thought this day would come
with death's dusty pink collar
blooming in senescence as
the goldfinch flies with
exuberant locution.

what tome have you written in your
faulty hand? blameless brokenness
becomes me as
the light of tomorrow's sun
reaches these cracks today.

i'm no puzzle...i walk the line
of cynicism and bitterness
leaving yesterday's
nubile romance face down
in a shallow puddle of rain water in the
street. the sign said 'STOP' and that
was the end of its instruction.
Chrissaves Jan 2015
Dictionaries are wonderful
Until you’re flipping through them,
Unable to find a word
That describes what you feel for her
This isn’t a love poem,
This isn’t an I-need-you poem
This is the cracks in your heels
From miles you’ve run,
Looking looking looking
For the dichotomy between terror and affection.

You keep thinking about hearts and chests
And mountains tripping on their own tears.
There are fences between imagination
And truth bottled lies.
You are a locution unidentified,
Cumulonimbus clouds with an electric stutter
Maybe there are drums in your bones
And she refuses to acknowledge them.

You keep bumping your head on the stratosphere
And breathing in ice,
But god, you can see so much.
She is concerned and calls you down
Says you flirt too much with danger.
You are unfaithful to her rooted feet,
That reaching so high means
You are likely to drift away.

You have novels and italics,
Strike-through lines of things you keep meaning to say,
Things you were hoping he would hear,
You are a storming cadence
And she keeps asking you to quiet.
You are a motif of wild things
Of dark corners
And edges jagged and strong.
Why can’t she see that up here in this atmosphere,
Is where you’ll always belong?
Idk
In the vicinity of Skalá the miscellaneous image of the Nashema or consciousness of the soul of the Mashiach was discovered that undertook to summarize this Byzantine fight, which had no hold on the detriment of all those children of Adam that was translated by distorted copulations of infamy and psychic morbidities of Judas Iscariot, who was abstracted from his evil infernality by the Fifth Hell of Iblis, god of harmful subtraction as plagiarism of a deteriorated being from his consigned load from the uprooting caves of Iblis, appearing tacitly in the tetragram indicating alef or tav, being a wayward son of David who knows well about caves that sponsored him from the Philistines and those who had the power of Allah, as biblical sovereigns who unloaded the sum of the ego that was transferred on flaming elytra of Cherubim under the edict of a champion and close teacher in the armchair of the bewilderment of other celestial spirits that dozed off from their reveries, until e revealed himself and defended himself from the stews of heaven where he claimed for another equal to him, which was Judas Iscariot.

The secret task was that nothing will stop the Apokálypsis, because the second essay where the manuscripts denoted a real area of eschatological mythology contained manuscripts where the Iblis was already authenticated as being equidistant from Judas, but its magnetization fascinated him, even wanting to obtain it to be the devout image of the first century, where everything was Bereshit from the Beni Masar region of Egypt. Thus doing this genealogy of guideline that documented being created in the salvific parabens of the Kassotide or orifice that had been confined from the concave pectoral relief of the Colosso de Apsila; being this same Vernarth who would expiate himself in absolute solitude, only executing by dump trucks of oxen to feel the centuries that went by over the through of the first century pass slower. The Subtraigo was the standard of the unborn from the womb of the mother of Judas, Cyborea Iscariot. Exorcising what has appeared after thousands of years and from this the instant filled with centuries that will make the apostle the failure of his solar macula, or the paradigmatic mole in ******'s hair, judging immolators who would be indicted in the nihilism of ego that underlies the unity of the capacity of the neat body, whom no one has inter judged in the culmination of a divine plan, which will just begin with the investiture of Himation. The personifications of the Iblis are profuse since the fluctuation is appreciated in the analysis of the ink of the papyri, which are the range of the Nefesh or divine blood that he writes and no other. The perceptible time washer takes us back to Mariah, escorting her son in Nazareth in which time is not time, it is only consciousness of endless enhancement on the ends that press Gethsemani to the opposite degree of lack of gradation or renewable oil in the sublime beatitude with which it was to be mentioned at Easter, where the menorahs were to radiate in the portraits of worlds that follow one another from the septenary that covers his robe. The years oppress the equinox when the Sun presses olive trees that turn their carmine green leaves to brown leaves, for those who let out of the concrete body what makes blessings of the kiss itself to an Iblis god who also abandoned his entity, to reside in the essence that hides the black olive tree. The celestial deprivation of the seawater of Skalá asked the day that the ashes of Cyborea Iscariot will float on his body; whose matriarchal physical body would spread the disconcerting manias when expressing that nothing affects, it is only a slight sting in the entrails of Apollo that has spread the upheavals that are lost so far from him, as well as they have deprived him of wills that speak where his wasteland will be the only conjuncture of a widespread assumption of mythology, as if it were an axiom that would be within a consecrated category of submitting logs, being the gnosis of a quick thought that shelters aphonia and mutes of the gospel that awaits who would really give a kiss without felony.

The Battle of Patmia presided over external wills towards an extroverted theology in all the Matakis or sacred canvases, inserted in the dispossessed who in their last struggle would no longer be worthy beings to mention combatants, neither the Hoplites nor the Achaemenids. They were already the last death throes of the first century, and what the hand writes is first forged by the ink that is the section devoid of the primary ego, with the piety of Wonthelimar that extended in its bilocation towards the northeastern region of El Minya, after the Judas world map. Here the Iblis or archangel agreed to lead the Speleothemes of El Minya with what a right-hander makes relativity of the throne at the edge of the universe, where the affliction faces fought before them, being automatons that will be commanded by their friezes of geniuses, as defective ****** dawn in the creation mud of the adventurous human. From this slime the Iblis arises in Skalá when the fourth day of vertebral battle began, while the hell in the den was subordinated to the will of the congener of the Judas curse in El Minya, concretizing the utensil that let everything run over matter, until the moraines with black rain and volcano lava would make the previous temptation of a false edge return that made the world vary in degrees, which make clairvoyance very higher than the nose of a penitent Judas. Making the critical hell the reintegration of the being that inflicted fervor from head to toe due to the collapsed preconceiving of who does more damage with the claims, than with the head of a Cherub in discredit of a headache. The fifth hell of the Iblís would go on to engender extensive speeches and speeches in idleness where the shadows of their doubts would respond to the obstinate ones that were really intended, even when they flowered in the calender that flew over the shadows of pain, after the winch of conscience would debate the shady intentions in the anger of a god who was confused with himself, making them believe that their laudable salvation would be left by a two-person demonic locution that perceives evil with good and vice versa, that is why the albuminoid of quantum salvation transgressed from serum, speaks in this work of Vernarth as the clister of the Iblis, accusing having to do ablutions to later be admitted for his altruism in the impressionism background in who lives in delight in the high sphere of lust, alter ego of the fallen but grace of neutrality of a seraphim, who became a libertarian in the gift of free will, willingly experiencing the fifth hell of l Iblis, to turn him into the fifth dimension of the tree of life that flourished as an underhanded host, if he is a Madhi Chiita who wants to revile him in his lust.

******* innovated by giving food and drink to the limbo that was an eternal dimension, where specimens of piety spoke with languages of the seven heavens and the seven nights, where the nuances lag behind in an indoctrinated Islamic being, and who testified for a single voice the reincarnation of all the faiths that awaken from conscience, and that does not shy away from the technical risk that precedes the first gradation or the alpha grade of olive oil, on apocalyptic statements even the Lepidoptera that have supplemented the external pouch to carry pollen for the child in the manger. This equivalent pollen will ****** the mystery phraseology of diseases, making the urgent reason and belated conspiracy presented by its antitoxin, which can be hinted aloud, but it gets lost in the Vas Auric that made formulas in the children of indulgence from where it is now tinned. the groin of the Iblís, for the defense of those who destroy sufficiently in those who build in their acoustics in the Speleothemes of El Minya.
The Subtraigo Hell of the Iblis
Procorus was going back to his cell by the path of stairs, through configurations of Spiritual Intelligence, revealing his anti-material genetic funeral to him, thus opening himself to his evolutionary expiration charisma. It is conceived in the speed of fusion of the material gene with that of its anti-material, and with the speed disambiguation of Gen with its ancestry information, being closer than the portions that distanced it from its unquantifiable differences, which only lay insubordination in the block of his Faith forbidding him. The linkage of its endogenous source and of the speed of its genetics, evolved into inclusive after the unknown steps of its immaterial ascending obstacle, which appeared in its bed, as a physiological and living conscious-attractive macro between what is off balance and not le is an organic analog. Molecularly its streets among atmospheres of devotional transgenetic, became regressive, where Procurus walked resigning desecrated immaculate footsteps, with lines that merged into navel genomes in the cups of Hydrias and Stamnos with defined characteristics to transship his spiritual micro substance as Procurus water, and in aquatic debris with torn remains inherited from heaven and earth, dispensed along the way and fitting him in his cacles, where each piece of his will was housed in an intermediate material fraction, characterized by linear pieces that brought him closer to his room waiting for Saint John The Theologian. When he continued walking, his evolution followed him, distributing itself accompanied by his ideo-tendencies and his changing degenerative emotionality between the reaches of his insurmountable contained recapitulation, in conjunctural codons that differed from transformed enzymatic modalities, capturing the alignment from a careful apocalyptic event of the gene, in speed and hyper propulsion. Coexisting in silent locution that arrived at the dawn of his third ear, invaded by phono-auditory and pro-organic regions that began from a general temptation of his empty clairvoyant memorial, which appeased the pseudo traffic of dysfunctional structures and channeling traced in its origin and of its cloistered final destination, with the precision of this temporal space that was of extreme physical exactitude but of extreme and erratic physical laterality. Procorus was imminently traveling in the tunnel of the Apocalypse at high speed between disinherited non-physical genes, traveling through Eucharistic bases in lower universes, nitrogenous among unborn beings, and turning green in one hundred and fifteen pulsations on the underside of other equal pairs, but with non-biological reading frames that They passed in materiality and immaterialized uncertainties, which were linked by their intangible prayers, of frame materiality and irrational reading in the same distance between the elements that were rapidly approaching from their nascent aerial, spun and immaterial state, which was moving in the human contradiction. , in irreconcilable liturgical union and in apocalyptic passages to be rewritten certainly under a eucharistic dogmatic polymorphism, and cybernetic savagery, for those who try to disconnect from Vernarth's parapsychological regression.


The maladjustment is a reclusive source of the speed gene, which argues erroneous genetic routes, reimplantations, and mutants of spaces of matter and transience, causing dogmatic vocational asphyxia and of its faith, therefore in its grasp and vague cellular existentialism, tons of disorders they flow in pernicious comparative pro-genetic precocities, before new ****** species of the neural-emotional, already three-dimensional, erecting itself in its physics, also with the projection of Procorus reaching the boundary of a provisional irresolution, under an image of a future ancestor that shared its vigor of future ancestors who centrally ran out of outraged genomes, which were intrinsically dwarfed upon entering the monastery. Being neutralist in its sequence of speciation, its arboreal genus split into its great molecular caste that was already conferred in a few steps before arriving from the leafy unconscious phylogenetics and reissuing from its componence. Procorus emphasizes its procedural human sequence, scrutinizing its rest in itself, rather than self-seclusion from all the keys of its differentiated, anatomical and psychic numeral duplicate, in more common expectations equations and results in it ..., to exile itself from its analog diversity and Christian bite, taking him where no duplication of the same can continue with another, without regretting going backward neither in symmetrical pairs nor in its parallel biological base, the key to obscurantism and the subconscious that flees by deserting, even achieving successful orderings in falls decoding, showing him the creation of his entity and an anti-Procurus anchoring behind the hominid world, in millions of sequences that are interviewed in dissonant bundles of knowledge by thousands in which it is not contained.

(Procorus, undoubtedly by numbers of thousands of combinations, becomes greater in the encodings of all the compositions that are going to be reproduced from the distance of their matter, with immemorial and portentous that align the authority of its vital activity, as instantaneous reproductive matter and antimaterial entity, as causal and recessive sequence commutations, creating Procurus personalities that exceed their cell, not first… but a few minutes before…, and in their future ancestors a little later…)
Parable  Gen-Resolution:
Lottie Feb 2015
In a sea of words we drown,
Being pulled down into their depths
By the weight of them
But a single phrase can help us
To rise again from the meaningful words
Which lost their meaning.

"Love", " hate", "sorry".
We use them so much that when
In a moment of passion
They mean as little as a light breeze.
Gone so quickly, without being cherished.

But if used carefully, that breeze
Could conduct a storm
And all the words in the sea we drown in
Couldn't stop that locution from echoing
Gliding, skipping, crashing around
In our minds as we try

To rationalise everything apart from
Hope.
With the vacant entwined,
the circumstances lay tough
   and the task dwindles to a graze of the hand.
Enigmatic cues pushing toward the departure.
A chamber of disguised disclosure opens and releases.
A slap in the face given repeatedly with vindictive locution
Speaking more,
  Faster,
     The attitude drags on,
         and the pores of the affair have been dismantled.
Grabbed by the shining gloss of artificial promises.
Underhanded and inconsistent,
  and completely unpalatable to me.
    was the bloated sense of pride,
that gloated nothing-worth-speaking of.
Submissively enduring the schedule of a self seeking idler that latched onto the collar of my shirt.
Like a hankering,
    Like a constant pain to my neck
Dustin Brothers May 2018
Life is one of the many things that everyone tries to define,

Is it meant for us to live it in pursuit of the divine?

Or is it something more precious than simply seeking our own absolution?

Should we also solicit for others in their search of innocence to resolution?

Many would say yes and our hope would follow that word,

Sadly, hope is a locution that is more often spoken than heard,

But there are few that hand it out freely from the star shining bright within,

To those, we say thank you for all that you have sacrificed and given,

These creatures are made of a pure light that burns brighter than any other's,

They are the reason for every breath and heartbeat, they are our mothers,

Even in entering this world we are shown boundless love at the expense of their pain and strife,

Too often forgotten are these many gifts given to us from our carriers of life,

Regrettably we go along every day thinking that this supernova will always shine,

As is eventually learned this is a farce; one that gave you the illusion of time,

Though not all is lost because that star left light in you,

A light that no matter how dark, it will burn through,

Even when you feel like you are at the end of your rope,

Mothers give us the one thing that nothing can take away, hope.


To My Supernova My Mother.

I hope to see you again one day.

Your Son,

Dustin
Sibifus parable of the Light: “in a dark box was Sibufus, under a vile phoneme of resistance as the Hellenic soldiers prepared to attack and redouble the efforts of a final counterattack. Sibufus was enraptured by a maiden named Artemis in whom he took refuge, she molded with her hands the lanterns of the night with the lamps of lychnos that pierced the soul of Sibifus and her gaze when Artemis was exasperated listening to her exclaim in the thickest darkness, in a hiss in the form of words, images and strict shadows, which he romanticized in all those who wandered with Lychnos at night, concealing his offspring and finding hemispheres of day and night in a plane of darkness. Artemis not being sleepy at night, became angry with the goddess Nix, snatching a dream with mead from her and depositing him in the palace at night, but in darkness, confusing the dream with creative and fantasy death with Sibifus, of which he is locked in a box near the visions that hit Artemis's window. In the hinges that glistened when he tried to open them, shades of gloom shared in the native darkness making little chance of being close to each other, Sibifus was always condemned to a romanticism presided over by the imprisonment of his voice, but if he could whistle, Artemis enjoyed his freedom when he went out to observe him through the window of every spring. Sometimes the Thuellai would stop flowing, she being able to bring her eardrums closer to the tones, when he whistled with splendor, magnifying himself many times to reach his court, when he often told him to feel sad because the world was aging him, remaining within his whistles cast on a young night. When Artemis listened to him, believing that she felt him ..., sometimes she answered him with the sighs of an infant running through the Aristotelian teachings, of which they were always late, but with great courage from his high spirit that awaited him from his rose window, knowing very well little that awaited him, although the darkness of the night was hidden behind the messages of his phonemes and whistles, frequently in his poor heart that was encouraged in locution for something better, to see the new face and voice of Sibifus, but nowhere Capitol fire that made him understand his words crossed with uncrossed whistles. Until from the underworld the voice of Sibifus emerged making everything reality together with his real voice, whistling and singing as many times as necessary, so that his seduced could hear him and no evil would extend a lost whistle, less to a voice exonerated from crying by the darkness of the night. Something of littleness in his neuroanatomy automated him from a loving language through the streets of discernment that he learned with melodic frequency between monodies of hemispheres cut by the edge of his voice, but not from a hiss, denouncing in him capacities of cortical dysplasia that diagnosed him of maleficent gray substance of his cortex, leaving him at the mercy of an epilepsy, which always and in all the will of the ceremonial in Sibifus recurred. In dualities they bathed in the ceremonial of ablution and holy water, known as loutra, always prowling all the skies and lavender fields of Patmos, with Minoans whistling in the distance of Darkness and in a night of devotion, in a Lutrophor that from a vessel that circulated from hand to hand and that brought them water for their nuptial bath, Sibufus making a mistake, taking it through the orbit of the funerals and the regional area, instead of going for their nuptial trousseau, being imprisoned one of the other in his celibacy, which later was transferred into the Loutra with his hands, and Sibufus as well, but fertilizing himself in the sounds of a whistle beyond the light and the first layer of the earth, not being able to hear them in a low voice, or in full darkness that from afar seems to call them "

(Prócoro, takes their hands one with another and begins to return to his cell, letting the monosyllables of the night be silenced and carry him beyond the darkness, losing himself in the sounds that were moving away from him. The night is silent, but emits whistles that speak of love that nothing and no one understands, and less remotely from where the light will come)
Sibifus parable of the Light:
Tongue twisted
 
   My doctor says my tongue is twisted, I believed in him, until I finally resisted
Conquering my fears of locution and phrases, lingering catches to my amazement
Giving my tongue a twirl of flight, ordering my food with no menu in sight
My tongue, remembers what to say, it does
Giving off gasps of hmms or ughs
Everything taste better when it's nice and warm, hot food sanitizes
My stomach walls(mucosa)
The way I sing, express my thoughts, makes an intensifying calabash of sauteed, seasoned vocables
I chew and bite, eating my words up gives me pure delight, savory juices that let loose in my jaw bone, creating a saliva fight
Who wins? I guess the words did, because I can't handle the spin(rotation) of the tingle in my lingo
##truestory##wisdomteethadventures
##thanksdr.B😂

— The End —