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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
surname.
Ronald Jones Feb 2016
Metaphysically speaking, computers are straitjackets of the soul.
bb Jun 2014
Walking in a circle is, in the fondest sense, going absolutely nowhere, even though it feels better than walking completely backwards. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I have never even been face to face with you and mine grows weaker and weaker with the length of time between the moments I get to touch you. The strange thing is that, prior to meeting you, I have a hard time describing what it was I was even doing - the storms you have hurled into my quiet life is all I know now, and I never realized just how flimsy my own infrastructure was. I have seeped into the walls you throw dishes in and the floors you roll around on, and I feel everything your fists do equally, if not more. Who knows my body better than you? The places I dip and divide and ***** and bend; who has held me down with nothing but words and sweaty silence that lay thick enough for us to cut with butcher knives? My stomach is trained to clench is desperation when your name is mentioned and I am nervous around anyone who shares with you; a picture is worth a thousand words, but your name is worth one million, and you've never spoken mine aloud but I have murmured yours, like a mantra, repeatedly, groaning in the way wounded animals do and trembling with that same fear. I can't count on my fingers how many nights I traded sleep for a reason to talk to you, and all too well do I know how many lifetimes are crammed into the seconds before an anticipated phone call. People might wonder how I even survive when you aren't around, but how many ways can a dog entertain himself when the master is away? Oftentimes, in a state of unwarranted panic, I claw at my clothes as though you are lurking underneath, and only rarely are you there, metaphysically. I am not the only person the rain falls on; I understand that there are plenty of others who are lulled by the charm of someone who knows nature of a human being in the way that otherworldly creatures might, but in this instance I know that everyone is haunted in their own exclusive way, and you are always flickering in the periphery of my blurry vision when my bedroom lights are out.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Edward Coles Feb 2013
A thin white dust of snow littered the concrete path like an overspill of Styrofoam *****. Summer had her hands buried deep into the lining of her coat pockets and her chin pressed tightly within her pashmina scarf. It was the first bite of wind she’d felt in a while. She had been holed up with her friends for several days and the concept of loneliness was already foreign to her, much in the same way as privacy. She could feel the cheap red wine rust in her veins as her body told her “too much” and in truth she was ready for the crackle of vinyl and the promise of fresh sheets and a shower. The week had been fun, she guessed, she’d certainly felt closer to her friends than ever before, even though they all went back for as far as it was worth remembering.  ‘She guessed’. She’d been guessing for a while now, living in absences with everything held at an emotionless distance – whether or not this was deliberate she could not decide.
It wasn’t a particularly long walk back to her house, enough to take the bus - but she guessed she wanted the walk. The cold air made her eyes glassy and occasionally she had to blink furiously to catch the water forming along her lids. The din of distant inner city traffic consumed the airwaves around her but the path that lay ahead of her was surrounded by parkland, and within eyeshot there was a lazy brook where children would often be seen playing, though they’d be at school at this time of day. She guessed. She wasn’t quite sure of the time, but she knew it was the 15th of February. She couldn’t always be sure of what year it was though, her head was often stuck back in the 1960’s, before she was even born.
Summer could feel the claustrophobia of youthfulness shedding from her every angle and with every insipid step she took, the world took on a more familiar feeling and she took her first real breath of air for days. From out of nowhere she felt overwhelmed at the breathless ease of the faint snowfall and the slate grey of the sky. The clench in her stomach – Summer often found herself weeping for no real reason, and she could never quite work out whether she would be weeping for beauty, or for sorrow…she guessed that there was some compromise between the two. All she knew is that she was very sorry when she reached her front door that her walk was over and that she must again disappear into the walls.
The heating had been off for almost an entire week now and Summer could hear the house groan into action as the radiators cracked back into life, and she felt much the same. The kettle jittered on the spot as the water steamed and bubbled welcomingly and soon the kitchen was greeted with the smell of tea. Summer retreated to her room upstairs. A wide room with white walls meant that it was often brighter than the world outside and it often appeared to unadjusted eyes to have a ghostly glow about it. Summer thumbed through her proud collection of second-hand LP records until she settled on listening through Pink Moon for what was now an uncountable time. “Saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way”. She let out an exhausted but contented smile and fell onto her bed. The sheets were cold from privation of use but the coolness on her cheek was welcome and she closed her eyes and imagined she was still outside on an effortless walk, with the sounds of Nick Drake overpowering that of the exhausts of one thousand cars.
After several moments of another world, she reluctantly sat back up and began to take off her clothes to get a little bit more comfortable. It felt good to get out of her clothes, she’d only meant to stay for one night so she had not been able to change her clothes for days and she’d appreciated the idea of clean underwear in a way she never considered worth noticing before. She unclasped her bra and felt it fall clumsily to the floor and just sat there for a moment, bare-breasted in the pearl white of the chilly room. She couldn’t help but feel like an illustration, of pastels or watercolours. Her mind was still a convoluted collage of the past few day’s events – the haze of alcohol and **** still occupied a small corner of her being, despite the cleansing walk and the wonderful clunk of a familiar guitar bouncing across her walls. Her ******* were hard from the cold so she threw on an extra large male t-shirt that fell to just below her upper thigh.
She slid off her skirt and underwear, which fell limp at her pale thin ankles. Looking at her thighs, she could still make out the small thumb-sized bruises scattered across them from the distant and removed *** she’d had at some point last week. At least she guessed, it could have happened back in the 60’s for all she knew. It felt as if the past week was not real, a familiar feeling. She was almost certain that man who had shared her bed did not really exist and her bruises contested her own existence. At least that’s how it felt.
She turned over the vinyl and remembering her tea, slid between the covers and warmed her hands against the steaming ceramic. The tea was perhaps the most wonderful and delicious thing she had ever tasted and she felt it nourish her metaphysically. In a way beyond words, she felt herself heal with the rush of warm past her lips and the sweetness on her tongue. The room was slowly warming as she skimmed her legs back and forth against the mattress in complete comfort. Once the last of her tea had been drunk, she let the empty mug rest on the bedside counter and almost immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.
nick drake
Sa Sa Ra Nov 2012
CC'Sisters;
The long ones and some go by planets,
I say stars the long forever change or at least I have found what I need inside to be free to be in accordance with what is on its way for us all!!! Little Birdy, CC3 or more like CC13, we say more like debris in the asteroid belt or some unusual comet-ry and or trajectories for everybody know where the common planets go but what of Sun, know we where is but what it can be temperamental too and more than tenuous more like strenuous relationship it is and has become overly clear; the things I know are not strange but strange it would seem what and how I do; so for you CC S1 I'll kick around a few; 15 billion year old universe nah big bang uh hu nah no too more as in Relative, I love that one Relative that Spot <3 On with where all is at, all very Relative things, every point, perspective, every sort of strange stringy strummy touchy feely sorts of things; more like where we are coming from and where we're going and what we can view but um me I may have been on those Mountaintops and with God for those Godly Many Mansion-ed Birds Eyed Views In and Out but it's more like; Newton spot spot right on again with Great POP on TOP, and the Greatest thing about that our imperishable spirits and how they remain in motion when the brain turns off, and the better to use here now information JC spoke about, yes the essence of 'The Book of the Dead' for our truer here now lives with the better more abundantly already overly willing for us blood bearing calling ourselves living and the coming of 'Messiah' and how such will be as we emerge together as well, sounds so common sensical to better use here now than abuse Gods already given gifts than abuse in simple little ways of not quite knowing or to much aware of too much else of other our own makings, for we are too easily sleepwalking about the things so overly close to too close to our too commonality of homes, identities and consciousness such the smaller part of all of this <3 <3; so I kinda just love that more Newtonian Motion the Right; and then like hop hop, hop scotch hop, nope again 123 nor abc not required; I like scrambles on rocks too, sounds nice for a day and two and then here and there again, still Sinatra does get over due and the I can handle the rarely scotch on ice for others they say rocks either, I there with sweetness of love and kindness, smiles; so can I see for mile and miles, what can it be more than 15 billion light year miles ya ha sure trillions I am I do; CIA triple walls even you, we all run what goes on in there by our hearts in an instant we command the greatest show of all in any instant changes everything and  all at once; EMC squared does not compare; speed of light those kinds of things here we are more manifestly condensed sort of things like vapor is to seas and or maybe then iced; we all can sing beat on drums understand the octave thing, well how 'bout keep it human scale and for a heart like thing what travels at the speed of light and what here say is all so manifest and then as sound will travel so we can hear those Church Bells ring well quite simply then is by the octave scales just 40 ya got 40 Octaves down!!!...speed of light got a limit um well can we get back to Relative again....I sat there with those types and I was not so good at study habits and everyone knew it and wondered how does he do it; I do have a poem in draft honestly, I can share the title here; some friends of Lite Heart had to hit first of all to explain a bit about it, with the nick-name moniker of Spot <3!!! So I'm calling this one Spot <3 's Spectrum Disorders; for I can roll around those wheels; I can be and have been destroyed many times over for knowing too much of heaven this one anyway had ta' gotta roll too through it's all Holy to me so I too say Holy Hell and then say cats got nothing on me but a bit more fur and perhaps some competition with um da purring!!!! Buddha too did name his boy 'Ball and Chain' but we are overly done way beyond this, we 'um ready for holy easy joy and fun...Food for bodies and souls overly abundantly easily had by seeing just quite simply what is within without our inner and locale commands; nope we done wit da' dey's; why destroy or well don't let me freak ya' I mean ice All of Love that Holy Responsive Ever seems so Light and slight of breeze and too with there go with all the power day dreary than dearer; don't be fooled by terminology, typical associations; idealized notions, 'Like the woes of Solomon' and 'Thee precious' ' Lord of the Rings', those are so close to some Sacred Cross Metaphysically so to say, no more here today, just sayin' maybe more another day; but back to typical association and terminology, I'll drop a link right here now this day and copy page, poem ya Sa Sa Ra called Dearly Departed and I know you too as barely started, me too hahaha please don't count me out here is where I love to be and see; http://hellopoetry.com/poem/dearly-departed-1/ ;
One more time and time again start what you so already know we need believe, put all the rest reorder with more loving commands truly they already do what you ask anyway uh dig again here hear again;

Sweet coolness to what burns us up and warms with love perhaps just 299 million drums contact staffs hoola hoops love joy sing a ringing better bells we are dancing fun could be catchy and be the one!!
Food for body and soul the best of all is freely available everywhere and we are free to see and be it there 8 days a week;
Welcome to the Eighth of days I am already and I am too seeing you all 7 billion there!! ♥ ♥ :) :) R!!!

And I'm gonna wrap this up and call it CC'Sister's...oh verbatim, raw straight hop rocks scotch and scrambles just for POP on TOP and another honorable mention to the CC'Sisters; and Sinatra will play on beyond what they are still calling will be our possible forever but more like JC when he said Heaven and Earth will pass away but my words never, so play play!!! <3 <3 :) :) !!!R!!!
What ya'd thank 'dat I'd be kiddin' you nah you knew better but you may have had hope somehow still!!! hahhaha!! Ty CC1!!! <3<3 :) :) R
PS: CC1 Alright already I by now did put a bit more into the stew but see understand how this family grew!!!

~~Just my ordinary way of waking up and reacting to the first thing I see a little bit of a stir in me that helps me feel with every ordinary humanly thing I have so much reflection upon within some must be cast out or i can't live and breathe within my own being see...so here simply today was the help I had for the better part with my wake up cup whom are my family beyond all creation rocks waters wilds tree creatures great and small calling wooing ever be transcendent loving stewards of this place hereby we depend upon, seven billion all I see the ever present here now one generation family ever be; foremost first I see I know beauty first is all I understand all other detail too is telling the ever more love even more beyond a few castings of ever light spells or veils; I know thusly and nothing more or less~~ R

~this was what this poem was reaction to;

"Trusting God’s Timing
TODAY’S WORD from Joel and Victoria
In life, oftentimes we are waiting for something; waiting for a dream to come to pass, waiting to meet the right person, waiting for a problem to turn around. When things aren’t happening as fast as we would like, it’s easy to get frustrated. But you have to realize that the moment you prayed, God established a set time to bring the promise to pass.
God has a set time for your opportunity. There is a set time for that problem to turn around, a set time for your healing, your promotion, your breakthrough. It may be tomorrow, or next week, or five years from now. But when you understand the time has already been set, it takes all the pressure off. You won’t live worried, wondering when this is ever going to happen. You’ll relax and enjoy your life knowing that the promise has already been scheduled and your answer is on the way!
A PRAYER FOR TODAY
Father, I choose to trust in Your timing. I trust that You have my best in mind. I believe that You are working behind the scenes on my behalf. Thank You for ordering my steps and leading me in the life of blessing You have in store for me in Jesus’ name. Amen.

— Joel & Victoria Osteen"

~CC3 and or more like CC13, whom of her;

Oh but hell...
She made me
and so
I can laugh
today...
...with a heartfelt filling and of the many hands of love and clay!!! Sentient waterings for joy in dust at play!!!
The title is a bit short but in the spirit of Oh but what the hell...and not to hell or hell it is. Therefor as with a hand in my creation with the spirit of God also I was touched by the outstretched hands that remind me I am made to laugh in the darkness of fear and so I did just that simply touche!!!

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/oh-but-hell/
Anna Lo Sep 2012
everyone has their own silver lining is a bunch of flies covered in honey
in the end the metaphysically jaded murders
as every one else dies in the
intellectual wasteland
known as compromise
a symbiotic
parasitic
stream of conscious
and god forsaken humanity.
I believe that all of these different forms are also the human mind, but that being said, where would these personality traits stem from if not from the mind? I believe that there was influence. These "gods" Could be GOD in the spirit realm evolving throughout space and time as we continue to evolve and that we are what the spirit/dream realm manifest into. We are more than we know and God made it that way for us to ascend to him with adventure . I believe in something I can't quite define yet, but it's something of a blend between eastern and western philosophy. Western is very left brain and useful for foundation, and creating the lines we walk, but Eastern is very right brain and uses visual stimulation and spiritual science to examine those lines, accept them, and move through them. Together they could show the truth, but really it is all in the mind. Consciously you see it, subconsciously you feel it. The dreams and Gods that are written (like the Greek Gods) you could correlate them not only to personalities, but also to our navigation physically and metaphysically in science. 12 vital organs, possibly 12 distinct personality types, 12 months, 12 hours, 12 disciples, 12 reindeers, 12 days of Christmas, 12 inches in a foot, 12 Main Gods, 12 zodiac signs, and 12 main chakras. The number 12 is only significant for identification, but all speak a message of the same thing, the translation is just different for each.
  
    It's like a song the continues on dynamic and technical as it progresses, then an octave change creates the same with a twist while simultaneously other songs run parallel, perpendicular, overlapping, harmonizing, colliding, splitting, connecting, fading, and never ending until the vibrations and reverberations create light stimuli that creates a similar matrix that manifests into physical matter we call this holographic universe. God just spoke the first note and then his essence began to split into many. The tree of life metaphor. We are all God, but we still have to seek God to tap into God because of how far we evolved from source.

I know the truth is there, but it channels in as fragments. Bittersweet to the hungry soul.
**FadedFate**
I'm asking questions like im socrates
and of course the answers aren't a shock to me
I'm asking for solidity
but not a single thing in this life has rigidity
It all don't mean nil to me, it's foolish to be
caught up in this world you'll see
the world is dying, all will pass away, we have not forever, we may not have a day
we are just a wisp, a vapor, the fading sound of a once struck chord
even i am only shattered metaphors
pieces of paper fluttering and torn
i hear their inky voices as they mutter and they mourn
there is near to nothing left of me anymore
i am only broken bits of poetry
smashed and spit on paper
I am only sickly similes, a sadly spoken satire
like wandering ghosts of memories and meaningless dreams
like meaningless hopes and desperate screams it seems
like things have taken a turn for the worse
and i may soon end up
in a homemade handwritten paper hearse
strangled by my verses
flayed alive by words then
left to wander wordless
my meaningless words have begun to haunt me, daunt me, it's daunting
and this is not me
I am not some needy scrap of paper waiting to be filled
I am a notebook half-filled with half-finished lines of half-realities
I am a dying man screaming at the top of my lungs as they are shattering
as i am torn apart by the desires of my own heart
It falls apart as i metaphysically massacre me
I blatantly
snip apart the seams of sanity and reality-what little few are left in me
i **** with words that flow from my pen
and then
I write for them revival
but my pen is low on ink and i think it's suicidal
It'll be a kamikaze even if i choose denial
and i don't know much but i know it's a vicious cycle
I dont know when it will choose to think
it's own end into existence
will it be, maybe
perfectly timed to persuade me,maybe
illogically, with all reason simply lost to me
that it chose to spit a little extra blood
a little extra ink
that it chose to save me from the next line i might make
just think, it might be more than i could take
it might break me, make me, mistakenly
the master of my own fate
This is death by poetry
rebirth by verse
If i write poetry again, will it be reversed?
not a revolution or evolution but
humanity
in words
this
is death by poetry
Fah Jul 2013
I have information channeling in from the past through my DNA
i am an open portal to receive the teachings of ancient tantric left hand paths ,
my mother accepted her teaching from an aged midwife with no daughter , she taught her the power of intuition and the secret ways to move between realms without being detected

And this teaching is so secret that only now do i see the lessons,
She wove them into games we played and how she dressed herself , held herself
I run quickly with the tumbling lessons falling out of pasts giant lips painted in the sunset sky ,
i can read the clouds for messages , they never fail , the moon too sends her cool wisdom
i can read people quickly and see through to their highest self , but it takes energy so i must cultivate myself

i am a garden and flowers burst through my skin and out from behind my eyes wild roses grow , to fall into the pit of my stomach and be burnt by the roaring sun inside
after a while the alchemical process subsides and i distill the free magic scent
from which i add a whiff or two to my wrists before i leave home , this is a protection shield of the highest order

take heed if these words talk to your soul , because then you will know i have a message to deliver

The collision of two planes will destroy both ( metaphysically) giving rise to a merged existence that holds qualities of each parent,
yet,
totally new aspects from our current mentalities , thus the cycle can only be compleated when we are ready , each one will find their own turn and preahps a path they would do well to learn is the path of the soul , mind and body

The collapse of ridged belief systems and debt binders ( physically) will mark the border lines , the doldrums where the weak are prayed upon like a pastor dishing out blessings to the congregation

And my friend , in amongst the mess there will be those who would do well to lead you astray , hold fast , as long as you know your own heart the ripples will only fuel you instead of decay

We are speeding up to convergence , can you feel it?
*up to date*
Fah Aug 2013
Well - didn't i say , we'd be in new spaces ... Harlon Dearest

THey got my email somehow

but i got the pictures before it was closed down

i'm a director now
we found the island
it's great working with ya - just saying ,  mad respect to the living dead

just ghosts floating around in machines

i just wanna love everyone ya know
and make sure they are all fine and happy and tuck them into bed with some cookiesz for lunch and just chill about and yaknow have fun :)


i love you harlon rivers from the day you were born to the single day you died and still in eternal (!)
life is
this .


this . is life and the messages from the bottles are all coming back
and so we just send more
and more

and we send them across time answers and space's questions because those fabrics are real and they leave some zeal and i won't keep it under wraps
rivers flows are free and rivers flows don't have eyes that see
they have eyes that carve and caress and breathe and leave the mess till after

we got the cleaners in at the moment

hART

CLEAN THE HEART
AND THE SOUL
YOU KNOW WHERE TO GO

YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO

I AM THE WOUNDED HEALER ON THE RUN


WHAT WE FIGHT IS VERY REAL


but don't you worry

i got friends on all sides

heh heh heh

didn't i tell you i was naughty ...but nice

;)


A little drop of poison  doesn't **** the man quickly

no , his punishment is slow and painful

but i dance with the devil

i have a crown of butterflies and black roses

every day i go more and more insane


jokes we all millionaires up in dis hood

ain't a penny that is wasted

we grow our own food -

metaphysically .

*****.

oops and i being rude again. i swear to you this country is a mess

there ain't no country for old men better than the wild planes of I AM ERICA (translation AMERICA: PEOPLE OF NATURE )

LOL THEY GOT YA


HAHAHAHA
WHO ARE THEY?

THE JOKERS


THE ******* NUTS JOKERS

WHO FLY BY NIGHT

TO DEFEND YO ASSS
BY TEACHING YOU A BIG UP LESSON

NO NO PLEASE DON'T STOP ON MY ACCOUNT
IT'S COOL

YOU JUST SHOUT AND SCREAM AND I'LL BE THERE


INFACT
ALL YOU
NEED TO DO

IS PICK UP THAT CALL

THAT MESSAGE

AND WE WELCOME YOU IN


I'M SHOUTING *** SOME OF YA'LL ARE KINDA FAR AWAY

IN DREAMLAND....LOL.
dreams are real
and have value worth more than money can buy

use wishes wisely
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
theocracy is safe within democracy, it exists right now, i'm not writing like a science fiction writer, but as a day-to-day historian in the poetic form, alongside Putin we have the theocratic order that is like a leech in democracy... democracy only works with polytheism... we are in the Graeae jacuzzi reserved for Japanese macaques - yeah, those ones, reverse *** of a baboon's colour smeared all over their face.

western society has no argument...
at least eastern autocracies have the real thing...
all we have is a fledgling -
the east has the sun... the west has an unlit matchstick -
perhaps even a sparkler -
democracy or republicanism work with polytheism,
many people, believing in many things -
democracy is currently ruled by theocracy -
as some argue: an imaginary figure,
or an intermediate figure akin to a telephone -
how democracy fostered theocracy in its realm
is quiet bewildering if not scary -
oh come on! get the fear it... sober up!
the anathemas are rife - social ostracism to boot -
the value of Spinoza's effort and luck:
do menial labour, die young, leave the old to it.
western society has an invisible "imaginary" despot
ruling it, just as much as the middle-east -
although the former is only passive-aggressive,
the latter is active aggressive -
passive-aggressive has less to do with a boxing
ring of actual violence, and more to do with
what's courtesan speech, manners and what not -
censoring words but raking up enough profanity
on sacred words... when did **** become such a sacred
word? well... i don't know when, but it has.
democracy is a breeding ground for theocracy -
i don't know if Putin is worse...
after all there were assassination attempts at ******,
Napoleon and Elba - they rose from a failed republic,
entered a brief stage of democracy where everyone
was tugging their own end, and out popped autocracy -
auto- meaning: well, we sorta have to do the dodo and
reproduce - in the larger scale of things, objectively
speaking the thing we are sometimes aware of,
has to remain until the meteorite or something -
subjectively speaking... 'we're not interested in your
opinions! shut up!' i thought i had a chance to express
my cognitive if not my mating call - 'but that's not
objective...' so why write poetry or bother poetry from
non-existence?! anyway, that pet-hate is a firecracker on its
own; but at least in a autocracy we can see and hear and
even touch the concern for us - democracy has theocracy
in it - of course not as open in proclaiming law of the finite
with cages and crucifixions - but closed in proclaiming
law of the infinite - when law just becomes bureaucracy -
human rights has replaced law - strict and to the point
evolution of eye for an eye - the victim gets gang *****
for trying to do the same to a criminal - meaning we all
become criminals at one point or another - i see these Islamic
attacks as... well... let's just say they want to knock some
sense into us... clear punishment... they want the old days
of the guillotine to come back into our society -
that's what i think anyway - and am i sympathetic to the cause?
if you gave me a gun and a suicide vest i might consider -
otherwise? no way am i entering this pseudo-reform program,
unless of course i'd be in Norway... the best prison system
in Europe - but never mind the sadists outside of
Switzerland who have really made euthanasia an obsolete
dilemma in english catholic schools - children aged 15 and
16 given the task of answering the questions concerning
euthanasia and abortion - educational abuse - ****** up for
life - even going to university didn't help -
going to an art gallery kinda helped - my answer, after
all these years? go to Switzerland for euthanasia -
and don't **** around trying to keep a boyfriend by
not taking contraceptive pills - if he'll stay he'll stay -
but if you add a foetal baggage to boot? well, let's just say: no.
you want proof that theocracy exists in current democracy?
o.k., fair enough: two words: Lazzaro Spallanzani.
ever heard of him? n'ah, you probably haven't...
why? you know why... you've been jacking-off the crucifix
all along - i told you, you want salvation or a vacuum cleaner
of a man? current culture? celebrity culture -
the peasant gets a stage - i live in a society that is filled
with countless karaoke stars - dropping those two nukes
on Japan really allowed karaoke to infiltrate America -
i can't sing for ****... but it would be great to have a nurse -
or a plumber - or a society where poetry can only
be done on the side - i'm not thinking big... well... 8 billion
people is big - but why is it that no one really hears
of someone like Lazzaro Spallanzani? he's the priest turned
scientist who experiment on the worth of ***** -
prior to him people discounted the need for ***** -
he's the one who strapped underwear to male frogs -
so when the female frogs deposited their eggs, the frogs
couldn't impregnate the eggs, because of the underwear -
and that water into wine... is that metaphor or imagery?
a steep contrast between the two - could a priest tell me
whether that's metaphor / metaphysics or... should i try it
using physics? well i'd need about 12 kilograms of grapes
and yeast and sugar, a month and that'll be 12 bottles of wine...
but that guy ****** up so many people you'd love to
hear about - so instead of Lazzaro we have Adolf to remember -
i can't be bothered - this ain't salvation - this is vacuum cleaning -
this is how theocracy works in democracy -
it ***** people as unnecessary along the way, along
the historical route of all our lives - it ends up being:
well... there was this guy in Galilee, *summa summarum
est exempli gratia **** per se, non est exempli omni **** sapiens

(all in all an example of a man in itself, not an example
of all mankind) - ecce **** ring a bell? by the words of
Pilate - so many rational men appeared after -
ah ****... got caught... i know i got caught...
so what now? give alms? pray? pray?! oh right... live my life...
we're no more rational en masse prior to or after the
crucifixion - can't see it - hear of the Bangladeshis in Dubai?
it almost seems a futility - to believe for a moment -
given Aesop - i still think that i'm more part of a vacuum
cleaner than salvation - just prior, the Greeks were there -
they didn't seem that ****** stupid come to think of it -
Aesop also lowly born spun out better metaphors than -
once again, are the accounts in the new testament metaphors
or imagery? a basic inquiry - metaphysically or physically?
adverb or verb? in the end we're too eager to write books
but too stubborn to read them... in the end we're too
eager to ****, but too stubborn to commit -
we abhor thinking about religion, but have so little
emotional security when "our" religion is criticised -
we have built all the allowable fortresses in the mind to not
speak about it... but have left the heart unarmed, nay -
naked! prone to shattering the cognitive fortresses with
a single punch, thoughtlessly slaughtering others in the
extreme and being offended in the least -
so much for not discussing religion in terms of cognition -
bad woo - woe to the hearts that do not turn to stone,
and do not leave religion as easy prey of atheistic sensibility (
which is nothing but ridicule) - oh i believe all of it,
just so i don't have to ridicule it, which means for no personal
gratification even when armed with that -
make the cognitive constructs weak and open your mind,
put all investments in defence structures at the core,
the heart - thoughts come and go, whimsical for us all -
but the heart is less complex than the brain and coordinates
only b p ems - once swayed, forever immersed in
unthinkable zeal for most of us.
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
Dear John:*
Do you?
     *I do.
     I did.
     I'm done.
     Overdone.
     Undone. Metaphysically strained.
     And I need a thermometer to check my rarity.
     I'm developing a crispness
     And drying out, in want of basting.
     I'm done, John.

Sincerely,
Mary Donne
John Donne: 17th century metaphysical poet. Mary, his wife. They're both undonne.
Jeremy Anderson Mar 2017
Cut
You cut me,
with those sweet ***** dissecting lips.

Shredding every remaining shred of integrity I once believed I had,
you ***** my virtue with your unsanitized hands.

I bleed,
iodine in hopes that it will cleanse me of your disease,

rinsing coarsely through already torn layers of raw and blistered skin.

Alchemy may claim to turn lead to gold.

But what of you;
you are gifted.

Metaphysically fit,
you remain untarnished,

as you **** my virtue with your unsanitized hands.
Self improvement isn't always
Easy but nothing ever is
When it's worth equals your birth
And no longer do I feel cursed

Cause control with moderation
Accountability and resiliency
Needs alignment so my assignment
Is to create a formula like science

That leaves me less defiant
And use my rolodex of excuses  
Cause that laziness is useless
Or maybe I'm just to stupid

But you don't have to be smart
To learn from a mistake
That I inadvertently force on myself
Mimicking the traits of ****

Without the date so I try to escape
To make my life better
Cuz I believe it's never too late
Wait....they say never say never

Which is more convoluted than clever
So whatever, I just wanna be better
So I leave this motivational letter
to remind most hardship endeavored

Are created by me so whether
I call it bad luck deep down I know
lobotomy of proper ideology leaves my life like our Economy, and its told

Philosophy states success is made when preperation meets opportunity
And it's been hard prepping for what can feel like a dead end but... No

Cause faith isn't just for religion
You must calculate your vision
Cuz any goal met must first be set like premonition the first Provision

Of many on a desired mission
no longer will my present position discourage me cause courage.Be my currency even if currently conditions

Leave me impositioned by decisions
Of the past that finally crash
When it chases me to grasp
The changes I've made but that

Is the bad karma I rightfully have
Wooven like its tapestry that flows
So without a needle&thread; or learning to knit i still knew how2sew

forced to reep it and keep it asan
Expensive lesson given
Ramification and consequence
Once written will later find u wishin

That the epiphany now hittin me
Didn't need so much time to see
But the sams transgressions may
Also be a blessin, a present of me

Who is evolved from who I use to be
But still knowing its nor enough
So more consciously I move on as it cautions me to live lawfully tough

And although premature I grew up
This reflexion will be my incubator
better late than not seein the indicator to act as my Instigator

The initiative initiating creator
So if you judge me for early labour
That conceived the belief Received i only hope it relieves knowing these

Words are left to show your deceived
But if that's the cost I wagered
Then this poem now stands a receipt for dues paid and mayb one day later

I can be refunded or if nothing write it Off as a cost of business
Or even education bridging the gap
Of inflation since my occupation

Leaves me expendable so vacation
is taken at club prescription med
So metaphysically I fly to my own
Tropic island gettin out my own head

Where I dare swim in the despair
Of being overwhelmed by damage
left by dumb adolescence to manage
The mess it collects so i bandage

damage i caused Unnecessarily
Physical and mental damage
mislabeling Addiction as a habit like affliction warnings were in spanish

Walking around while I fly high
Not realizing I was being ravaged
So if i end average its stil better than
The full picnic basket short a sandwich

That I was, with a side order of
A chip on my shoulder
Which I learned to swallow with my
Pride which is y i got fat when older

Which is a built Im jacket as colder
It will definitely get til karmas done
Dishing out what outta be awfully
Close to described as ******

A relationship maintained constantly
And a futures what it's costin me
Basically karma holds the **** u emit
Like it was a bag of your colostomy

Only it gets tossed back onto me
Which sparked nostalgia in my head
Hearing my mothers voice echo
Now making sense of why she said

I was **** for brains or **** head
Like my dad often used
Not as abuse but to give truth
Of what becomes of wasted youth
Torin Mar 2016
I was sitting in my basement thinking about my attic as I awaited the first bombs to drop in the next world war

I guess I'm pretty lucky to understand that metaphysically nothing really is unless we perceive it is so even death by chemical nerve agents can be a pleasurable experience that we come back for again and again

And that time I died before when the only metaphor would have to be trying to guide a wooden canoe across an active volcano

I can't wait to try that again
one time in the land of poverty and starvation
where hunger loomed like the spirit of God,
Even Itself starved itself often on the thin vials
of the black stomachs,colonies and esophagus,
of these poverty crashed men and women
denizens of this land ever wondered  why ,
hunger and challenges where their stuff?
they had nothing at all to stake the selves,
mothers were beggars as fathers did,
pangs of hunger even made them dark
in their skins  with excess melanin,
These conditions made their foster mother
to yap her white beak cacophonously ,
in the ecstatic syndrome of colonial glory
she was happy as they suffered, day in and day out,
she even made the  possibility food
for these foster children of hers  an illusion,
she forced them to speak her tongue
as a magical secret to have enough food
they tried the tongue but they could not make it
because prime motive was colonial tricks,
not salvage of any standard nor measure,
the foster mother came again with a new ploy,
that she could give them food or Ebola drugs
if only their men had to marry fellow men
and their women must marry fellow women,
they tried and they shrank in numbers
a new opportunity for the foster mother
to become metaphysically a colonial mother,
Only to loot the minerals , wood,land and slaves
slaves taken on vicious green card lottery boat,
then their chanced a yellow man , but not as foolish
as the one Dalai Lama, the poet of prolixity
He empathized with the black poverty ,
he felt for the Nation of this beggars,
he cried Woooooo! these people are suffering!
This poverty is pathetic and sorriest !
he took all the Ebola patients and hunger victims
to the herbal medical clinic  nearby
He also gave the beggars of  that nation
iron horses on which they ride as they beg
hence the saying that;Behold the last wonder,
kings are walking of food and slaves riding
kingly horses.
RyanMJenkins Jun 2013
Without frustration ideas are put into rotation.

Absorb them and keep flowing like blood circulation.

I could tell you, but I prefer demonstration.

In recent years I've really learned to be patient.

How you choose to endure the rollercoaster ride you're on makes a really big statement.

Changing the chemistry witihin me has been the biggest payment.

Yet I still don't sleep at night and wonder where the day went.

To many I can seem absurd,

and to most the symbols are just words.

My biggest fear is leaving this place unheard and passing before my children's third birthdays.

Done so much in life already but maybe not the right way.

Obstacles have never been so fascinating,

and may not play out according to this mental map I'm making,

but I won't be taking anything for granted.

I try to understand it, or sit blissfully in a mystery.

Give a helping hand when you can because together we're writing history.

If ya ever need ryno, toll free - you only need to pay, a visit.

If not maybe we'll cross paths on another plane, metaphysically exquisite.
"Don't leave any marks," she says
as I nip playfully at her neck;
"It's unprofessional," she mutters
while squirming from the waltz of my lips,
and at the dance of my fingertips;
everything was electric
and it was great,
truly breathtaking-
at the time-
but that time-
has passed;
sacrificed;
killed.

If only One
so edified, dark, and **** in Her ways
would grace me with Her Time and Temple;
whilst true to Herself
upon Her unfolding Path,
that I may also be true to my Self
upon my unfolding Path.

Truly, that would be
a Dream come true
and the Moon would stop
and stand still for us.

Though,
think not that I seek merely a toy,
that I want someone for mere fun;
this is not a question of mere Lust:

I want Love.
I want to feel Love.
Truest of Love;
Metaphysically,
as well as
physically;

I
want
someone
who would make it seem
as if the Moon stands still for us;

Alas, though a gleam,
it doth indeed seem
to be merely a Dream
within illusioned Dream
--------------_--
Subtlety is key,
when you have something to hide.
I've nothing to hide.
hope garthwait Nov 2014
I feel you metaphysically tonight
in my lost moments.
Can you hold me for protection?
I want to see you in my dreams,
feel you in another realm.
I'm delirious from lack of sleep
and i keep thinking you're next to me.
Upon looking, I realize I'm alone.
But I've heard so many nice songs
that have never been played before.
I want someone to share it with,
the presence of what doesn't exist.

October 23, 2014 11:39on
-newportsmooths h.g.
David Nelson Apr 2010
Death by Love

Well, it has finally happened, I knew it was just a matter of time,
before the walls of Jericho came tumbling down
and crushed my body, my heart, my mind, my soul
our love was not meant to be, there were too many obstacles
the least being the physical distance between us
the most being we were both already spoken for
we had commitments, we had consciences, we both felt guilt,
you more than I, not that that matters at this point,
we knew that this would or could never, be but we played this
dangerous game of chance anyway, reveling in our adoration
for each others thoughts, feelings in this pretend game of house
we had our disagreements, we had our arguments,
we kissed and made up, we laughed together, we cried together,
we were deeply in love with each other without ever touching,
we pretended to make love, we bathed in the affection,
the care, the concern we had for each others real lives
I know you will struggle with your decision to end it,
but it was the right thing for you to do, as you had constant
internal struggles between right and wrong, good and evil.
As for me, I don't have a clue how I will survive without your
gentle ways, your wit, your love touching me every day.
Now I sit here hammering this story out, knowing this day would come,
but yet sit here in total shock that it has actually happened.
Right now I am numb, though there are tears running down
my cheeks and it will just be a matter of time when the
finality of this actually registers inside my pathetic brain,
this is not my fear, my fear is when my heart begins to feel the
emptiness that will be left behind. My world has revolved around
our relationship, growing stronger and stronger with each passing day.
How will I ever find a way to replace the hole that will be left
and will grow until I am left with nothing. Can I survive this?
I really do not know. I am afraid that I will be another victim of
death by love. if not physically, then metaphysically I know.
My world ended when I read your last message. The mind sees it,
understands it, but the heart has not yet received the message.
Should I wait or call 911 now?

Gomer Lepoet...
Yonnick August Jan 2019
Nil are the things that conquer the speed of time.
Not the cheetah racing to its prey,
nor a car upwards of 200 kmh in a 85.
Not the sinking of confidence when faced with doubt,
nor a kid escaping against curfew orders.
Not the changes of a lover’s feelings without warning,
nor changes of one with bipolar struggles.
It’s the spasm of the way things exist.
Distracted even for a second, as
everything gallops into history you can’t recuperate.
Close the curtains of your sight,
and be amazed at the speed of the sun.
From the beginning, time a long stream,
forever a gravitational pull,
for those who wrestle to keep up with it still,
while abundant of others who have finished their race.
It’s always the same orbit.
With the impossibility of changing choices,
welcoming this new year,
In something so metaphysically tangible,
yet so unaltered.
Saint Audrey Sep 2017
She asked me what I was living for
And I gave her this confession

In this realm of population
In the sanctum that is living
This world only exist in
The spaces that demand it
Beings who's lives surround
Boundaries required to sustain
Thoughts and queries somehow persist
Against the grain
Pain and longing don't exist outside the brain
Its in this environment, a hostile place

We come face to face with the tantamount lack of grace
Perfection has no enemies because it has no face to hate
Emptiness is something to which each of us relate
Its all enveloped in the great cold distance

Developed in the river swiftly grinding our roots away
Drab and lifeless as a surprising softness sickening and meaningless
Blending together with the coarsest feathers to create the bed on which we lay
In lieu of living organs, please send your deepest thanks

And we both looked down into the grave
A connection in contrast to
The depth of recession all around us

And the ending's always the same
Each and every host finds themselves in a less than stellar place
Every spectacle and spec of plot laden hero
Is slowly digested

Among the monstrosities and grotesque scenery
Something else can take shape
And grow metaphysically
Fake though it may be in the face
Of such bleak uncertainty

Electricity
Notes
The politics after the remnants in the ragged serpents of Aerse flowed through the Cefiso, by way of a section of linking of clear and effulgence before an evident flash that enveloped him of being a cardinal priest of bucolic policies of all the nearby Athenian regions, towards vertiginous regressive parapsychology, like flashback Elusino or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, where the visualizations between Aerse and Lochnith, happen by omniscient geopolitical induction of biofeedback that re-agency the inclinations of both, for the purpose of their geomorphological foundation and for the purpose of instituting them as evocation backbones of millennia, providing feedback and settling on prophecies from the 8th century bC, stop of the ends and interprocess of eternality of the incognito mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of Aerse in amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith in the month of Boedromión, fleeing from a federated Re-Polis that would unify dimensionality of substance and sacred space Eleusinian with Lochnith nascent warmongering for the purpose of recruiting in the Hexagonal Primogeniture, for assistance and indissoluble ephemeris of edification and hegemony of the Megaron in Patmos. This thanks to the ragged serpents, but nesting hopes of gold in the nests that give priority to the dimensionalities of peers, which will be consolidated as a reality of rite and E-cloud flashback space, for the convenience of retro-future parapsychological memory, In economy of two blocks of resignation of the Sacred Space repealed, but in geomorphological consensus, for Military command jambs towards Vernarth, as a forged pulsing ***** of the sacred cult, in the mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from Aerse, for the purposes of the Agoras re-nucleating the metaphysical messengers that reinstitute the re-polis; but in a field of worship of E-Cloud, in civic and cyber-organic action, for those who virtually recognize the Ablution in the multidimensional of hands calling the unknown, but with ardent passion to receive him even while guarding against further vibrational mutations with the Faskéloma or exasperation of hands that move the indigo in occasional sub-vibrations, in the tendency of a parity of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, in disaster of passing the aqueous levels of the Cephysus, in ordinal of presumptive of unreal and sub-unreal worlds.

The parapsychology of the Space of quadrilateral teas of absorption and of erratic emotional meditation lies here enshrined in Aerse molecules, which were still received by the substances intra-exposed and extra-gates of the body, experiencing an absolutely unprecedented phenomenon, towards an immune-spiritual transit, preserving eccentric radii of concentration of refurbished chromatic rays, in a field of mental daring towards another of unprecedented and electrogenic mental force that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice, who came near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from theoretical planes between both metaphysically flowed for unions and restraint. The ebbs of their statics jumped, for simultaneity and bilocation, endo electro-Eleusines who went exorbitant to other rollers uncrossing in body margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft and fiber kindness in arresting inter-women, such as teleportation and rescue of rituals in scheduling and seasonal astrological forecasts.

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of mortuary reality, there will be no repair outside of our body of geography and of our losses and harvests or of lives in sub or supra quantum transit, blinding the eyes of unknown erudition, while our contraption is self- it obstructs in our interactions and electromagnetic sensory ones, paraphrasing itself in the remote-near wired of residuals and related electros-metaphysical, which becomes the nothingness of a post-ritual pre-sense whole "

The ligation of the arteries of the Cephysus, carried the emanations of Lochnith, to love him in a medicinal act, for beings devoid of physicality, on the way to spectra of healing, in a reparative pain of extra-corporal and bi-localized pain, among which they conform polarity in androecium and gynoecium as a unit of superior physical mental gender, towards an ectoplasmic regulated nervous world, by means of Vernarth's regression, lowering their blood pressure and increasing stationary red blood cells, and with secondary effects intertwining with Eurydice and Aerse, for outcomes in Vernarth, who came in the prow of the super wet ship, and with some fabrics from the stowage of the ship directing the relaxed but autonomous cerebral advance, which already dispersed dead cells from the right pectoral, for the military and syncretic affair with Lochnith, reinstalling targets globules that arose when it was dawn on the shores of Skalá in independent, peaceful and surrounded cohorts of phalanxes that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbed to mind-body pessimism and telepathic prayer, which took place by glistening in trances of self-healing parapsychology that descended on them, in pure membrane novels in acts of merciful that made them thick in the flashes of falling weightless ultraviolet rays, separating between body and opinion, joining in psychosomatic networks, as chemical messengers in undefined subsequent receptor bodies of the bachkoi chemicals, which were already deficient for a compensatory universe of genres emerging in a disintegrated emotional quantum world, with a body increasingly reintegrated into a body made of unknown subjective material, but of physical material linked in the network to each other as a real whole, transforming into the greatest passionate refectory of flashes between the their own reinstalling themselves in their Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus Mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion, interacting with everything, as starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible, in numbers of coincidence options for a whole, as a phenomenon of domesticity to align times, but with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light-years ago.

Aerse replies: "My admired one, the flash has a measure of the astral body, in the consciousness of spirit that underlies purgation in repeated souls measurable in the perfection of semblance and providential ****** questioned, re-transforming, distant and with disaffection, but contiguous healing. The smallest coherence in the fabulous Griffins that joined my imaginative component and in the ballast of his final departure, not aware of another unique being that can measure and augur him for an undivided trans-personal being. But I am already here, and I am your creation and I no longer know of other illusions of separating myself from this life, of what Eleusis is from a cosmic material that is and was in all time that speculatively passes, for the flash that you reflect if you it pales visible and not, but compact on our intertwined hearts"

As living organisms, various methods of life were postulated as an option in the right hand of Bing Bang, for the goods of those who are really close to real neuroscience puzzles, by way of resonant daring that will influence consanguinity, for volumes of blood releases, carriers of experiences and trans-evolutionary life of the emitter on the outskirts of a Parthenon, as well as in the genre of the world that associates ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive and negative for Hellenic parallelism and life adorned with roots and forage of everlasting vernacular inheritances. All electro-dermal from the Lochnith conglomerate was in total congruence with regressive Eleusian parapsychology propagating from the Vernarth portal, which was vaguely teleported by the river Cephysus, into living organisms that asserted Vernarth's native species originality and currents super life in the euphemistic underworld of mysterious protocols.

As a reaction of mind-matter, the reluctance and support of entrainment in all perceptions, precognitions, telepathies, and forebodings, between this intrepid parapsychological adventure as cloister perpetuity in sensory interferences of the reality of the body and the reality of the omnipotent world, as menthe-matter explosive. Lochnith, was already the possessor of the hypnotic mental reincarnation formula, in the form of a neuroscience ship close to the apparitions of death using the later shoes in life purely in the baggage of sleepy ethereal meats and oracular meditation.
The more we learn about the laws that explain parapsychological phenomena, the more our vision of reality and fiction of something that begins to be the laurel of a psychokinetic true world will grow. Within the curvature and scarce light that already remained in the places of the Lochtian day, normality returned to them after this long journey of the parapsychological biosphere and intriguing contemplation, and even of tenuity and the frisky idea that can die suddenly, after self incubate in the invisible passage of coexistence and rupture of mystery in the medication of art lived with alien beings, for a prototype of a character who only knows that harvesting is consuming capital from the upheaval of a loss and non-profit of the incontrovertible paranormal-normal. What is paranormal and parapsychological in the plane of the posterity of life, is an act of calm coexistence in playful spirits compensating in the seclusion in the vaults of the dramatic and involutionary psychological past, if the material or cute (spiritual) is not dissected the train cosmic perception of duality and the concept of purging the spirit of living…, he lives in his seventh heaven.

The hypnosis of death and purgation for those who require a convoy of conscience continues to be a tiny space that physically transports and reverts to minimums that are neutralized in foreign bodies and foundlings as well, from a corporal depositary aedicule that is not his or the owner that He claims it (Vg aedicule of Joseph of Arimathea). The voices of people officiating the Eleusinian ritual were heard far beyond those who could merely hear them in memorable spaced therapies and recorded in interspersed layers of electro-acoustic sounds of the complex frequency serial of alarming regenerative life, in a moving celestial body. Continuous. Everything is transfused in the meditation of curves that revive in those who promote the perfection of marigolds, like buttercups that dress the clothes of Canephore like Aerse, but of psychic and ephemeral latent of the psychoactive psychic and ******-spiritual alchemical in ethereal entities that become more alchemical in unknown molecules.
Gleam  of Lochnith  III
Jeremy Betts May 12
Recklessly I cruise a plateaued plane
One I call memory lane
Which in hindsight was kind of insane
I'm not sure what I was looking to gain
There's not much other than pain in the ones I retain
I know this, it's beyond first hand eyewitness obvious,
Even prior to being forced to meticulously explain
Becoming increasingly familiar with that ruthless domain
Thankfully some truly cherished living snapshots remain
However, most have broken free from their neglected, rusty chain
And I'm left cursing the bane of my existence,
While, in plain sight, the flashbacks that cause my eyes to drain
Swerve in and out of my lane
Joy ridin' my misery or being metaphysically driven to the torture of the mind and soul,
Instigated by a fraction of a fractured brain
That to this day isn't clear on what's it's actually sayin'
Can not seem to refrain from immersing myself in self inflicted pain
Forgotten or slain?
What's it matter if the outcome will be the same;
Me, laying motionless in front of a raging train,
Leaving only a crime scene stain
One that'll go as unnoticed as it did when it flowed through a main artery vein
'Till any and all evidence of my unspectacular,
Super localized reign
Washes away in the rain
And I become nothing more than a name

©2024
Artyprose Oct 2017
As the smoke flowed gracefully
through my tongue, for a minute,
I don’t want to think about her.
As I let out the smoke go
and share the weightless
absence of her scent in my room,
the pang of grief found its way
to terminate my lungs
and bite the only sign that could
metaphysically tell I am here,
unmoved but that’s because
I restrained myself to
while trying to dodge the mirror
that shows the eyes of the man
she once held closer to her world
only to be shattered by the same person
who is now in the middle of
torturing his lungs to run towards
to where she is now.
I almost run to where she is now
because my mind does, my heart does
along with my tears, they run
but the flashbacks shoved them hard
to the chair, she once occupied
while staring at me unhappily
And I felt so helpless for the first time
when I told her that it’s okay,
I want her to be happy.
Even if happy means – somewhere else,
someone else, not me.
Cold,
my bones rattle and ache.
Is there some other place?
If so,
will you take me there?

I can't fight this anymore,
metaphysically lost,
in a cyclone of dying thoughts and blank realizations.

I need more,
but I don't want it.
I want to be left alone,
I want to be saved.

I know there is a paradise out there,
but where?
Is it here?
Or is it there?
Is it real?
Or is it fair to say it doesn't exist?

I want to be removed,
there is no place for me here.
There is no place for my soul,
dead or alive,
shattered or whole.

Take me with you,
beyond the limits,
where we'll explode into oblivion,
and find the paradise,
the paradise we both so desperately want.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
This is a dream.
Look around you.
Study your self.
In time, you may come to see what I mean by
“This is a dream”:

What was it like before you were born?
I suppose it was like just before falling asleep.
What will it be like after you die?
I suppose it may be somewhat like just after waking up.
Then, metaphysically, you'll do things, and then, ultimately
go back to sleep.
When you do, you'll probably start “dreaming” again.
Hudson Everett Apr 2013
Do you see the
blank page
preceding this one?

I love you
No metaphorically,
   not platonically,
Not romantically,
   not metaphysically,
But totally.

The page before is
as empty
as I am full
of love
for you.

But I must be
mistaken.
I cannot be in love;
not with you.

So I guess, I should
scribble some *******
on the other page
to hide how I feel.
Deanna Dellia Oct 2019
It must be a crush
yet I feel crushed by you
by this tidal wave of infatuation
crippled by the thought of your lips
You crush me
when you don’t look my way
metaphysically I suppose
I barely know you
I’ve mostly invented you
in my head
like a character in a fable
creating expectations
that you could never live up to
because everything is better
inside my mind

I stay up at night
wondering if you’re as lonely as me
You must be
We’re alone in our acumen
No one gets me like you
the way I see art
the way you drink to escape the hell in your head
I wonder what you’re trying to forget
With every sip
every intellectual prose
Our minds slow dance
to Sam Cooke in the moonlight

The truth is
you could be anyone
I just need someone
to think about
to obsess over
to distract me from myself
so that I don’t realize who I am
and fall back into the abyss

In my head you like
néo-noirs
Dorothy Parker
and ***** martinis
like me
We talk and talk
about decades we never lived through
romanticizing the music and fashion
neglecting the oppression
You help people all day
and slay dragons at night

Something about that cocky smirk
reminds me of him
It makes me nostalgic
of all the words left unsaid
that I can whisper to you instead

You lull me to sleep every night
with mellifluous nothings
and I sink into a slumber
and dream of your ocean blue eyes
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

Then I wake up
and you’re not there
you never were
you’re not real
just my own imagination
playing cruel tricks on me

We would never work
I’m too grounded in my hopes for the future
to fly to the moon with you
Your glasses are too tinted with rose
to see me in the light
And I’m too cold of a person
to start a fire with you

Your face changes
from time to time
but you’re always here
radiating in perfection and fabrication
I wonder what you will look like
next time
I don’t know who you will be
but I know that you will
crush me
all over again
I think I made you up inside my head

- A Mad Girl’s Love Song
This is a dream.
Look around you.
Study your self.
In time, you may come to see what I mean by
“This is a dream”:

What was it like before you were born?
I suppose it was like just before falling asleep.
What will it be like after you die?
I suppose it may be somewhat like just after waking up.
Then, metaphysically, you'll do things, and then, ultimately
go back to sleep.
When you do, you'll probably start “dreaming” again.
Another of my earliest submissions; revisited.
Sara Verdi May 2014
He accidentally
Woke me
As he stirred in bed beside me.

Half awake,
I fixated
On his chest rising,
And falling.

His deeply drawn breaths
Made the sound
Of perfect sighs.

I wanted to kiss
The sound of his sighs.

And I wanted to love him,
In this specific way,
Metaphysically,

But I couldn't.
I cannot.
Beaux Apr 2014
Halt, stop in the name of...
      nothing, really
          metaphysically speaking
Who am I to say go?
      who am I to say I
          who am I
Waiting on a light change
      electricity, right?
          determining my fate
Look at these people
      a Rolodex of souls
            faster than a flip
Reflective frames on my face
     mirroring their souls
            projecting mine
Are they moving slow or fast?
     trans-dimensional spy glass
            warped speed
Oh, look it's green
    game over.
            goodbye.



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Hannah Jones Jun 2017
Take me up
in arms of love
Metaphysically shove
me out of my
too-worldly self
Take my heart
off of the shelf
Dust it off
Polish the core
Breathe out a
desire for more
of You. The muscle
meant to house
the Lord of Lords
lets in a louse
more often than
I would prefer.
You know this.
And still You stir
within me a
desire to see
who You have
made me to be.
I love You.
You know this.
Hold me close
and gently kiss
this broken vessel
beat by beat
when I succumb
to defeat.
Take my life,
take everything
due to You,
Beloved King.
"Take my life, take all that I am.
With all that I am,
I will love You."
Like An Avalanche // Hillsong

— The End —