"mediating" poems
I must Confess,
I am Baring witness to the beautiful sight of your nakedness even though you are physically and completely dressed.
Its such a sight to behold as you bare the essence of your soul, revealing it uncovered and undressed
Now I have you right where i want you with Your heart under my arrest.
So come lay your Kingly crown upon my chest As I caress you with my love and tenderness.
Listen to the rhythm of heart beating like an African drum, *** pum pum pum pum.
Feel my Energy impermate your atmen flowing thru all of you, from me.
Here in this place is where we meet, its that place of serenity.
While you Delight in my words as they gently kiss your ears.
Let me Take my pencil and an Erase all your fears leaving behind not a single trace. Only a smile upon your face.
Allow me to take these soft delicate hands to massage the beatings your masculine stallion body you had endured today
each touch Is like fire to ice melting all of your stress away.
Now we can sit here in silence mediating thru out the day. King to Queen Nasmaste
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 7:31 PM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
XXV
A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
From year to year until I saw thy face,
And sorrow after sorrow took the place
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn
As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace
Were changed to long despairs, till God’s own grace
Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn
My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring
And let it drop adown thy calmly great
Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing
Which its own nature doth precipitate,
While thine doth close above it, mediating
Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.
3.1k
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
*we won't die for ideals we once held dear, we'll now simply die for the numbers we can simply keep, but when it comes to ourselves, we'll die to simply keep a mistook numbering in order to readdress the ideals that are no longer appreciated in our numbering a loss of a tiger's roar, and more the microscopic ant digestion auditory exploding into a h-bomb for man to imitate by number but no essential authority: since once mammoth the authority killed man, now some sub-insect (virus) can **** man.*
if there's a group of people
who are assumed to be possessed,
then there's a group of people
who are dis-possessed,
and there's always the middle
interval mediating sales and
necessary priesthood
the two polars never mediate,
once the priesthood used to
cradle the illiterate ones,
now the priesthood uses the literacy
of the once illiterate ones
now literate, consecrating them
with something apart from holy water,
selective reading they testified
to be as calm as a lake, but turbulent
as a river the salmon swam against
the current to spawn:
the once illiterate ones now literate
are taught a second illiteracy:
watch the television, read the best-sellers..
this second illiteracy is worse
than the original one... half of us will
be water and fat... and half of us epileptic zombies
enslaved by a television... i preferred the first
illiteracy... at least we died for love...
this second illiteracy is worth a jackal's
cry and a ******* of paedophiles.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
fornicate
and lay back
asleep against the cold steel
heal your wounds with fire
limes are burning
lemons yearning
his fruit is turning into wine
mindless meditators
mediating madness
fundamentally flawed
raw and cored like apples
and hone(st)y
posthumously imbibed
nominal anomalies
rusted tire chains
as thunder complains
of its own ignominy
eyes awaken
lands are taken
and what's far worse
is that we have
all lost our voices
demanding silence
stem-cells signal sentences
denser than a dozen dollar bills
dancing on a pinhead
reprimand and then repeat again
the end is near
feet in fear move slowly
are you impressionable my dear
a glimpse of eternity
and your hair turned white as snow
suppress emotion
keep composure
learn to control
your own will
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
Mediating throughout my body is a shivering cold, the winter is here and snowfall is now of old, yet I continue shaking in a blindfold.
Wandering aimlessly in these woods of life,
trying to fixate and aim and not ***** the competing wildlife.
My one chance to make it in this forest,
I must listen as though I am this woods leading aurist.
All of this preparation for one shot at a "happy life",
a cookie-cutter form of "what to do" with your knife.
As a twig snaps beneath me and all is spooked I suddenly realize,
I now hypothesize that I must revolutionize my own "happy life"
I sprint through from and away the woods without a second of regret or care of the startling noise I paraded through these sacred woods, the bright moon leading me to all that I wanted...happiness.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
Rat-tat-tat rizza rap
Humble claps for the fab
Here's a grab, take a jab
I story essay, a sore T ese
... A time without food
Those who eat all day will not understand
A year without ***
Those who always fuel a *** romp will not understand
A life without money
The excessively wealthy will not understand because it's all been inherited and not earned
This way that, check a glance
There is a chance amass
Some things that used to happen will never happen because of time
Some things that used to happen will happen again because of rare chance
Be wise and quick to grab
A time without material things
The materialistically endowed will just not understand
A series of lifetimes in the Light, darkness they just will not understand
A man goes to prison for something he has not done, the one who always gets away with crimes will never know what it means to pay the price
When position is more important than responsibility, honour they will not understand
When killing the egoic mind frees the carefree, life after death they will not understand
When sibling rivalry takes precedence over mediating a family in shambles, peace they will never speak
When the bible is the only book they have ever read, the other side of the story they will never seek
When greatness is all you know and not that your fellow man can also be great, you will never get over yourself
When your dreams overwhelm you because they are too big, you shall remain an almost-been
When you don't know when it's time to hand over power to a worthy candidate, justice and transcendence will never be
Unaware that you are sinking into being a has-been
When political muscle is more important than empowering the subjects of that power, freedom will never sing
And souls forget who they are because they've been trapped in a dome
They are living baseless lives and don't know their way home
They will still call out the tyrannical colonisers by name and be ovlivious to the fact that it has been consistently Rome
A time in the shadows, but all they see and want is glow
A time in silence, but all they know is talking about things that change nothing for the better
This way that, who has the tag?
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
He wrote sigils of the world with air.
Pursued upon every street and grove,
attempts to writhe free are unwarranted;
Though in what way could escape mean separation?
Cast over rifts like a falling mist,
paradigms lay sedimentary
mediating sight as a membranous
pseudo preface to the essential.
This alluvium breathes, drawing inward
consecrating the dreaming idol;
We had found a stitch in space
where mortals wield no bodies.
Now subtle coagula are vessels enough
So temporal wills decay.
Join the aether;
Through the high cascade
some remember first knowing Self
akin to parting breaths in absentia.
This is our amniotic solvent;
The cycle stops repeating;
A ceaseless inception
compressed upon Eternity.
Our beginning remembers the end.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
*Idling away is inspiring
Mind wandering afar
Supine on the soft grass
Every tuft cradling me
Becoming a mediator
Between the sky and Earth
Earth holding me firm
Sky is the vast canvas of my dreams
Flying high with the winds
Watching the birds fly
Flapping their wings in coordination
Mediating my earthly dreams
With the celestial sphere
Cocooning my simple dreams
Idling away makes me happy*
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
After a long day of insults,
There was no way I'd go home,
So I decided to do something rad,
I did what I wanted and started to roam.
I fled through the cornfield,
Then hopped over the fence,
Slapped the No Trespassing sign,
And sensed enlightened suspense.
I pulled up my hood,
An old facade for my face,
Then slipped through the gate,
And stood in place at the base.
As I gazed at the beast,
I thought, "I'm fuckin' bent",
But stuck it the finger,
Then began my ascent.
The metal burned cold,
My hands totally numb,
Never considered the risk,
Just the buzz of the ***
I got to the platform,
Felt on top of the world,
Saw the Ambassador lights,
Just a wonder struck girl.
I thought a new thought;
the simplicity of dying.
To tell you I didn't consider suicide,
Well, I would be lying.
I stayed up a while,
Musing over the stupidity of life,
Then finally descended,
Mediating my mental strife.
I lit up a ***
Then wandered away.
That tower would always be special,
But I'll forever be a stray.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
On my way into
the chamber of the rose
I saw there was no rose
a thorn is on the door!
Slash it cut it bin it off
I did these all
only to grow many more!
I took a chance
without drawing close
with a pinch of salt
I played a creative stroke.
Ah did I rub the Aladdin’s lamp
now it seems to talk?
Fostering an array of whispers
we tend to build a bubble.
Only to realise I am
still outside at the door!
Mediating with the thorn
yet to art over to the rose.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 12:05 PM UTC
I play Mediator, mediating between two strongly influencing Forces.
They are of different spaces, but each knows of the Other.
I listen to them both osmotically, they are often at odds with each other.
I am a practiced listener, objective enough to understand the nature of their Stance.
I retrieve below the surface message, the empathic persuasion in me does this well.
Such accounts for any bipolarity I might exhibit in thought or emotion.
One Force thrives on impulsive pleasure, in behavior there is tremendous energy and manic spontaneity.
No concern with inhibition or societal conventions. I must always keep in check a childish tendency to center motives solely upon itself.
This is when I make intervention and repeat the Lesson of Conscious Expansion....
I have Authority and so of course this Force listens and quiets it's power back to steady periphery.
The other Force is Otherworldly.
So Extreme, it by far surpasses me in ability.
This Force I tap into, I listen to its subtle inflection, it's Perception is uncontainable, it's Language is unexplainable, but Understandable to the Sensitive Senses.
Here is the Gift, that must be earned, must be learned and respected in the Temple of my Soul.
It must be carried through the plight of Spirit searching, knowing no discontent or schism, no division, or derision.
I draw down this Force, I pull up on the Other One.
Puts me in center position.
I Am the Mediator
I am the Borderland between these two worlds that exist in Me.
I will attend to my duties.
I Am the Mediator
of Me.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
I’ve learned to love a blade’s edge…
I am nobody and somebody
with nowhere to go: the border between
Manhattan’s East and West Streets
ground and stone
reason and faith
mother and father,
the Father and the Son.
I’m the Holy Spirit, the shadow always
mediating between phrases “Serve me” and “Agape”…
I am this sentence. I want you, for this moment; this sliver
between life and death, this Mississippi cutting through
a continent. I was in Adam, after his expulsion:
Let the green apple be lodged in my throat
while washed in the image of Eden
before I leave, so in cursing my fate
and love what is…
Sharp and dangerous, always ready to use conscience
and **** according to judgment,
the thrill, the second where happiness
and sadness is satisfaction, I am there.
Nothing ever gets done without me.
I am a peninsula, imparting
land to waters and seas
divinity to mortality:
Pentecostal.
The blade’s edge ready to cut and be cut.
In the name of the Father and the Son
and me
Amen…
Go to heaven
if you cannot accept hell.
Go to hell if you cannot accept heaven.
As any mediator, I am a nation
unto myself, my fate, my exile.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC
*oh yeah... and i just spotted a crow pecking a pigeon's ***** with a pecker the size of an elephant's trunk... give it a 100,000 years and you'll see a new species... like that saying: when pigs grow wings.*
because the current theory of darwinism teaches
us we interbred with lesser species
and justifies ********** -
the dualism is horrid, i prefer parallelism -
parallelism and our own individual lives,
rather than mediating two extremes...
and indeed i prefer to think we were uniquely
classified from the start... but i guess there's
a fetish going around the joke about the welsh,
sheep and cliffs... i want to ask you:
when did **** insapiens emerge, or rather,
when did he actually manage to integrate
into our species with such subtleness
that we actually proclaimed some men mad
when they weren't, and assured ourselves
that some mad men were actually sane?
how to decipher this conundrum?
he did so... bringing us *** and other presents...
and indeed his identity will never be known;
indeed, who is this unhygienic brat?
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
Each word was heavier then the next
Punctuations were blackholes
Trapping solars through the text
Translations read "I am not afraid of death"
I am however petrified of a timeline
Terrified of an algorithm trying to define the textures of my rhymes
And the tendencies of the contingencies that disorientate the frequencies of the bell chimes
Pitches that were left to malnourish in these chambers
In the same crucible that replaced its rudimentary nature
With walls of foam that absorb the most infinitesimal of vibrations
Along with windows with shades that annihilate rays of the most miniscule of molecules of the nights constellations
I continue mediating
Eternally Waiting
Forever Creating
Until I hear a voice
It slices through the vapors
Telling me to trek and claim terrain
To march to a candice on clay
Even though grass was my choice
Now Im Forced to grow the green In my psyches Elysian fields
Because as a man dress in all orange
The color of Freedom will always systematically appeal
Faceless reapers come to visit dressed in business suits for a deal
A contract drawn in blood to harvest my crops for their sacrificial meals
I signed knowing whats to come
And at the time I wished to leave with the skeletons
Hold their robes of night
Dance my digits along their scythe
Because I see the beauty in every one of them
And I would too
That's the purest of truths
If I only knew the right numbers to dial
But I have no clue
So I'll dance in limbo for awhile
Until Deja vu
Because I was promised as a child
That they'll give me a call when its my time
I just hope thats true
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC
Incense in the abbey church
old monk in choir stall
mediating in the stillness
and silence
I watched
his tonsured head
bowed,
Ipse primus in pace
et tunc alios
quoque pacem
Thomas A Kempis
in Imitatione Christi
so I read,
common room
warm and cosy
book case
old sofas
stood looking down
into the cloister
just the tick ticking
of the clock,
la foi croit quelque
chose de vrai sans
preuve ou preuve
the French monk said
in the guests'
breakfast room
after lunch,
if there was proof
or evidence
we wouldn't need faith
the Colonel said,
plainsong Vespers
sensing the world
beyond the high windows
voices chanting
from choir stall
to choir stall
back and forth,
prayer è operazione
spirituale
con il Creatore
del Cielo e della Terra
Italian monk said
quoting Spurgeon
as I helped him
**** the cloister beds,
a spiritual transaction
is prayer with God
he translated for me
his fingers covered in earth
his dark eyes on me,
cloister in evening
walking with moonlight
causing shadows
where moon left untouched
and peacefulness
and a feeling of sanctity,
faith is accepting
without proof
Dom Joe said
and I conjured
these thoughts
like a *****
in my young head.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
In the deep, uncertain night the strangers met,
Unseeing, unknowing, unthinking-dulled brain and senses,
Through the porous shadows and tangled foliage they crept
Stumbling over fallen trees and broken-down fences
Their hatred binding them, root to root,
In the mediating light of the silvered moon;
Rotten barks covered in fungi, dried twigs cracking underfoot;
Reaching the village outskirts they emitted a painless moan
And stumbled on. Slow breezes drifted over their flesh, sun-driven
Investigative fingers inspecting their souls, medicating pain.
Memory restored, childhood relived, time rendered fission,
Their fears gliding away in the quietly-falling rain.
Striving through the bluster of life, together or apart,
We return to where in life we made an imperfectly remembered start.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Every night I Sit down by the river
Where things are so tranquil
Watching the river flow
Feeling the cold damp air
In the quite of the night
Under the stars of the night
I close my eye's to find my peace
To go to another feeling, another life
So tired of the everyday rat race
Never having time to stop and breathe
Just wanting to be alone
Not wanting to talk
Clearing my head
Wiping away my thoughts
Mediating on the word
To get me ready for next day
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
. a month spent listening to (a) grandfather's medley of memories, an eroded imagination, an inversion of a figurative- something of other... a month spent with the breath of Shiva... dementia... no wonder my use, subsequently, does not represent the vitality of a springbok... less a torrent of a waterfall... and more... heavily reliant on: perpendicular and subserviently cryptic.
what came first:
the vowel,
or the consonant...
| standing ground...
figments
of the imagination -
vowels
and the rigid
arches of
huddling
consonants...
unkept lockets
of birches
woven
in pine forests...
dead to humor
English oak:
numbed
a'pathos
vater...
vague wounds
caressed
by the winds...
in beast: siamese -
no differential,
unto a blast from
a sputnik's
starry baron knead
of the knee
third letter:
surd...
what the eye
and the aye does
see...
but the: hushed
agreement bypasses...
to 'now
is no sentiment of
a nauw...
Cymry:
piquant,
the difference
between
(k)now
and n A w
no... 'now...
brigadier is
not (a) /
no trumpet-tier /
player...
-teer...
a vowel,
a consonant,
a surd...
and if...
VII were again,
and 7 far from F...
tickling e. e. cummings...
translation?
missing...
the obscurity
of the concept of flesh
when wearing
a pair of gloves,
the Sait Paul & Peters...
flesh disintegrates,
what remains is...
the mediating
numb between gloves
and the "abstract"
of skeleton...
what came first...
the "vowel", or "the" consonant?
past the moral "question":
the glaring contort...
a letter - L, 90°...
that gave birth to
the Girth of Delta?
360° and the "missing" 5...
Kant: negation = 0,
reply...
Λ = sanction.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC
they'll demoniße (schwankend s),
they refers to politicians,
it's not a paranoid pronoun -
i freak out at some installations
at Tate modern, but freaky is duke,
baron, cardinal: an artistic revision
of what goes on in the heads of
those patriarchal maternity heads;
name them:
jesse helms v. david wojnarowicz
(voy-na'h-ro'h-vee-ch');
yeah i know he was gay,
but now the stigma spreads into
kind regard to the ladies of the Goodmayes
brothel, who weren't Roma but Bulgar
(Cyrillic pizdiec) - but hell i'd bonk a gypsy
like a slice of wedding cake -
anything that moves, anything that moves
(well come on, daddy's a politician
and she's gorging on a mustang phallus).
indeed, with conclusive words,
the english schwankend s (the wavering s,
mediating sometimes sly, slack
and sometimes zebra and dice).
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:56 AM UTC
I'm learning so much these days
Social mediating my way through this life
Like how to get away with things that I say
Which most times aren't very nice
It's really not that big of a secret
Anyone can join in on the fun
Just throw an LOL! on the end my friend
And you can insult most anyone
For example, you're the worst person in the world LOL!
Simple enough...see what I mean?
As you let the truth fly the wise in their own eyes
Have no idea of what they've just seen
So let's all try this together
Everyone line up single file
Wait! You call that a line?! Are you people out of your minds?!?
Do you all have beans for brains? LOL!
I think you all now get what I'm saying
I think I explained it rather well
Unless your all just a bunch of dim witted Neanderthals
Oh I almost forgot.....LOL!
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC