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One day as leep by a captivating woke essence in your handscaught in your arms woke getting up after nearly having died ...you gave me your breathing air and calm your back to life, releasing the fear more gregarious, after opening my senses almost incinerated i learned that the stars trembled me to reach it

I started a new life to sharing with you,
sometimes i feel that in your hands sap this life to revive my acuity,
what to unfold my body, she quadrupled making me shiver by quakes your tenderness.

But today on the eighth day of the universe,
divided my feet walking to you for every step of light sonica,
road on it being over your carnal finesse frosted still light beams for aboriginal embracing love with your gutted threat to the end dump body, being today only light story emerged from any pythagorean indigo.

Eight feet by my raving not walk on forgetful slip hugs and achieve that without it on my feet, making you a path of kisses on a piecemeal moan  covering your pleasures in quiet regia union, sealing and my memories to mummifying the most sensitive areas disown make me when you suffer from almost feel much pleasure.

Your feet chafe my eighth willing body as your hands it to me, this is your feet eight  feet, and your finger eleven flute my way to you open your columns wet and trembling, born in the tropics decorative colors flashing your eyes when mine yours take on your innocence as a mother's dismissal, genesis as a maternal layoffs in the grotto shaggy times makes me roof for to paint with my kisses and my mouth full of oils,  full streaking manias those desires that are further under your skin, deep lining up to associate to me ...!

My seven feet is the semi - obese and language lenticular spider mine, unleavened filling the food, its highest sing syllabic, make your paint  blue and moan molecules liquid call themselves, with its concavity make the bio - live surgery last transplanted hallucinate ... vibratory column of my responsibility on your body, cutting all fear, every element of your flesh lying addict to me hanging on my conscience all descontrol physionomy, losing my light steps sonica falling into the abyss of your distances fragrances, falling in ovation interapeutica licking your body my breath, like a sixth sense.

I meditate burning between your legs, dying as i was born of a woman wild servant, fawn as an almost died for a hunter, i prefer my conscience advance day and night to your legs to die of living where one day saw in the recesses; the greatest pleasures with ambitions to break all your secrets, all your defenses to break your falling on my tyranny, allegory huge walk along the invisible to other united take that helped me your surplus usages, enter you and your being, feeling peace penetrate you, not feeling loving preact, or not to have you in the distance but hugging everytime you Drodida to moisten your words to me,  stuttering of desire.

My six feet organizing penetrates you feast on enraged cowbells,wishes with malice and early pregnat, alcamphor extreme longevity and erectile espermiosicotic, with smoothness and irradiating polish your rattling,
spitting cushion on my bones,
like a sapphire on until your clothes,
and as a inseparable attachment unit dispensable.

My bringing night of Saint John in your prayers for imaginary pain coexist
in between taking you doing it my trees by spoil collude copulate,
taking you stormy ray to the phenomenon with the masses elephantine hitting you on your shoulders, your ******* armpits challenge your beasts i want my grind with canines and incisors to create a new universe of shed your joy to laugh about our loving.

The five feet; rub your skin like a shower delicate pituitary
******* kilometers of rivers into criminal triads morbid on your face ...
as well as the sand masturbates the waves,
on the sand and wave nail with my eyes my spells dominating you,
rolling you thousand times to my love trades.

You shall be called Drodida; worship the everlasting orbit of my sight,
when i go for your absence mount your toxin grotesque gasp;
the stalk watered voluminousity  your mouth singing your sweating my
groaning  telling my cries thinking with my worst vanity,
the turn on rotation vanitatory what you just do me with your stalks and not my serous waters in my effervescent mouth in your ******* astral, arrested in any language your thinking lubrication retained me and your touching, what i always touch in you.

The five feet as a tightening necromantic porosity your skin that change shape your temples and declaims pretending aridity lovers bad; lords nomades covered them your area leafy tagled branches covered to neat legends of penalties appealed fables o mytofagic eaters; brotherhoods of the worst disease of not having small Mt. in high with it my staff rooted in resisting demolition and other eroding sorrow, reverie spoil it captive in your infinite journey of ecstasy explosional femic.

The four feet light make a gentle sonica, dry your language lenticular stalk ciliary zone, enter your supra entails, the cave unexplored wider,enter with both arms with herbs pulsating symmetrical cottoned sleeping in your walls and grotto forms  desensitized, insense redeem the pain of window pastoral bishop uniting both peni-***** areas full of gems balsamic, percusionatives full of eyes.

The three feet,
running is my hand movements on your ******* imprisoned,
they are my two hands scratched by scratching the delivery of your birth.
touch my hands that know not touch, when he was born without willing,
but my biohands touch your skin attached to transfer and progressive evil of love for the shores of cry to the center or your body centers clung to my hands over your thoughts rampant, wanting to stay in the fact to see you perisphery merge at twilight of our our sunken eyes friction and wet kisses dormitation delightful of travel and destructive of wickedness;
fulgurative but doubt of living or dying your enjoyment perpetuate.

The second feet,
you are you loving me on my feet vertically like a weak tower,
ash as rain that spread my fire for you.
i take my hands and i took a walk in the seas of ******* bellowing.
you took the scrub the eternal holy and spinal vocabulary of your mouth muted outrage both enjoy your subumbilicales areas.

The first is my feet Drodidaged,
it full landed liquid bathing you, your eyes full of ***** petals and replete, as bastions fallen with their helmets  gnawed your moans, that resound in memory of trees expectant that divert all about us practice,
only your tilt knee …will exalt   the  time for my happiness excessive.

My feet first,
it is my son music turret  ram rope breaking your every arbour grotto, asleep by the dream Drodida you commanded you do to me,
to rock for you and cutting wheel kissing my return to continue all apocalyptic dreams and your most ****** on my ways about it forever astral.
Plane  it me  come the way to sleep with me,
come see how i am able to teach Drodida
ways of sleeping next to me !!


Jose luis  / 0ctober 2003 -  Copyright 15 – all rigths reserved
Metaphysic Spirit  Erogenous Desire...
RMatheson Nov 2011
Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.

Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.

Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.

Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.

Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.

Fingers into ****,
pulling out the ******.

Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.

My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****.
RMatheson Aug 2012
She stands in the truth,
a puddle of lysergic acid
that seeps into her bare soles,
as a tuning peg twists her gut.

The single page, crisp,
bends, hangs limp
where index and thumb tips
barely touch left and right edges.

Her blue eyes quickly sweep left and right, work
their way slowly from top to bottom, absorb his self-eulogy,
drain their color out and onto the page.

As each drop hits, ink blots change from explanation and apologies
to a Rorschach Test to which she will never have an answer.

Moisture leaves her body faster than she feels it will be replaced,
she is mummifying herself alive in Sokushinbutsu,
attempting to join the Xerces Blue letter-author
who flew away into extinction.

The walls around her now close, tight, stone;
her only contact with the outside world the string of her memory
attached to the bell of loss.  

The weight of the page
she holds destroys her.
Ann Beaver Jul 2013
Rusty saw blade
I hold on
Grind the dull blade
across tethers and strings and ropes
mummifying
strangling
not a cocoon like I once thought
do you feel the panic set in?
Needle ****** on your forearms
twine frays
did I ever say
that anything stays?
Anonymous Freak Feb 2019
The ugly Monster energy hoodie
She wears every day,
Her hair swept back in a greasy mess,
A knife with a mushy handle
That was left in the sanitizing water too long
In hand
As she gingerly dices lettuce.
She always gets quiet when she criticizes me.
I’m just trying to earn my minimum wage,
But she had a bad day at home,
So she’ll find fault in whatever I’m doing.

Go home and fall asleep,
It’s only 10am,
My sheets are fresh,
And my clothes aren’t.
Then he calls me and tells me to wake up.

The kitchen has miniature milky ways
floating around in the sunlight dripping from the windows,
It smells like dinner from yesterday
And alspice.
My mother is still wearing her maroon bathrobe,
Her hair is a tangled halo framing her face in imperfect curls,
She’s sorting the spices.
She doesn’t understand why I’m unable to keep up with her busy chatter.

It’s a habit to repeat what I must do to stay alive to myself,
As if I’m both child and mother, giving a list of instructions and dragging my feet to follow.
“Brush your teeth,”
“Wash your face,”
“Take a shower,”
“You haven’t eaten yet today,”
“Do laundry,”
“Go to sleep,”
“Talk to your friends,”
“Pay your bills,”
“Go to work,”
“Wake up,”
“Don’t go back to sleep,”
“Drink water,”
“No alcohol before 5pm.”
Keep going.
Somehow, keep going.

My evenings are spent
With my hands tenderly ******* the long neck
Of a beer bottle.
My lips pursed,
Kissing the brim
And savoring every golden drop.
I try to distract myself from the absence of company,
Tell myself I like to be alone.

I go to sleep alone,
I try to fill up
The part of my bed he should be in,
And not think about it.
The cotton covers wrapped around me
Mummifying myself
In mindless sleep.

4:45am alarm,
And it all starts again.
Butch Decatoria Jan 2017
It is just a hole...

Gaping puny or wide
uncertain of the shadows it hides
if nothing else
inside

it is just a hole.

I worry when so many
disguise / among us
impersonal un human un-persons
A traffic of panic
At mass / hysterics
Stranger danger
passerby
kicking and screaming
Dust and ****
Wordless eyes /void and thoughtless
deviant clerics subterfuge
mummifying manna and meaning
indifferent to our needing,
So so hateful in their
preening

(a predator will lick itself clean
until the hole needs to be filled...
hunger overpowering will.)


be
Careful you who mind
and listen
        careful not to fall in that
cavern
pothole
wishing well
cavity
(Gutter) ditch
sink hole
(an Unloved life)

Or singularity...

Careful of every kind of orafice
and every hand
that feigns well wishes
            they will push / shove you in...

Remember?
baby Jessica's televised face?
rescued from a hole in the ground?

It was just a hole...

and television is just like this,
an orifice
     a square/rectangular hole
that's loud yet saying nothing
But headline and panic
Like any tunnel, periscope
Hole
We fall for it
       The show's same ole
Widescreen pity surround sound desperation
Loudly
          pushes us in...

Just Another head like ...

and like your life and mine
        falling through time
the whole of you,
(Reason should be aware)

find some wisdom
open your eyes

Pay close attention,

you who are mindful
and listen.



*[Television is a shotgun barrel pointed at your face.~~the Birthday Book]
Olive Jul 2015
The terror and panic that once created a solid encasement around me,
is broken.
The once mummifying thoughts of my own demise,
now are gone.
The storm has passed although, for so long, that was all I forecasted.
I never dreamt of myself being around someone so rich,
so rich in love and talent and devotion and dedication,
I never planned myself, someone once so completely scared,
to feel fearless.
I have never planned for this, I guess there was never anyway to see,
You took the clouds and you tore them away,
just like the sunshine you are.
Just like the sunshine you'll always be.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: alphabets
body: soup brigades:
QWERTY
because not ABCDEF 502 bad gateway bypass


well, spring is here, somehow "finally": what a splendid winter
it was, i can't remember a winter like the one that
passed... toying with the role of steward at football stadiums...
even yesterday, i was the break guy...
i had about seven stewards under my supervision...
all of the seven got their 15 minute breaks: if not longer...
at least 3 got two breaks...
    the other guy on the opposite side of the stadium even
made a complaint: you shouldn't be giving them so much
leeway... oh **** me: i thought... here we go...
the hierarchy game... i actually don't mind...
              what is it with people who are put a tier above
others that they suddenly ego-trip?!
          can't we just get along?
                if i'm not complaining... why should someone
complain for me? point being... i noticed his side of
the stadium... how many breaks did he give? zilch... nada...
none... little ******* Latvian ******...
                  every 20 minutes or so i walked my stretch
of the stadium, knelt down... tapped each of the steward's
shoulder... you alright? obviously i was being extra nice
to the three girls i had on my watch...
the cerebral palsy guy was also taken care of proper...
sure... he looks like he's boxing drunk when walking...
but hey... what has that got to do with me?
god is cruel:
                   but me? at least i can be a gentleman;
but if god wasn't cruel? none of this could have come
about... it's a bit like me boxing myself when
fighting my shadow... taxi driver style...
but no mirrors this time... just my shadow...
that's the closest i come to an understanding...
gott und nichts...
   let's face it... the stretch of the imagination? from ******...
from the potential of discovering alcohol...
from all the animals... from the botanical enclosures...
what a stretch of the imagination:
beginning with nothing...
                oh yeah... even parasites... the stretch of
the imagination...
like today... i was given the task of cleaning the garden
patio... me... tyrant... well... these weeds have to go...
finding newly born snails... oh... so cute...
are they born with those shells? or do they find them?
post-fact fake-news reality is a bit like:
well i'm not going to be the next Aristotle...
i... actually don't want to know...
i want to be kept in a stasis of awe...
                            so the weeds are gone... some of them
even blooming white little tender flowers
in the cracks of the patio... such a shame...
but at least these hands are tender enough...
then onto the fern... broken in parts by the tirade
of the three winter storms grooming England...
i forget the names... but then...
ah... splendid... ripping out dead-end-things
off the three agapanthuses...
                       dead-end stalks... literally ripping them off...
leaving all the strong "culprits" in full bloom
green... month or two... i'll be waiting for
the flowers...
man... so paradoxical... he can be really cruel to nature
but... somehow contradict himself...
the Nazis didn't contradict themselves...
they just forgot to... be strict enough...
if they just went after... the mentally debilitated...
the physically disabled... and didn't focus on healthy
Hebrews... just saying... Darwinian Utopia...
a reflection of how nature works...
not how human politics works...
           hmm... cruel cruel: the very real world...
not that i sympathise...
   i can take care of this cerebral palsy guy...
no problem... but at the same time...
if someone weaker is going to boss me around?
you know... there's a glitch in my mind... a sort of...
glitch like a headache... the world is not organised like this...
not the natural world...
this made-up fantasy world of man... that's a sick layer
of fantasy over the natural order of things...
that's when i get... slightly bothered...
glitch... glitch... glitch... i get this head ****...
like a sort of a stutter... hold on... wait a minute...
you know i'm allowing you to play this hierarchical
game... because... i have other things to do?
stop with this hierarchical ego-tripping for a minute
and you'll find that i'm corporative...
             but stress your status... a bit... too much?
glitch... glitch... ******* hell... my neck and head are
twitching... something's not right...
but at least i know that with flowers...
clones... they'll grow right back up... i pull out the unhealthy,
dying bits and... hey presto!
the same flower like last year...
funny... if the Nazis followed Darwinism proper...
didn't have this Hebrew fetish that sort... ha ha...
oddly enough... sped up the reemergence of the state of Israel...
would the state of Israel have emerged
if the Holocaust didn't happen?
                2000+ years and counting...
is this, a conspiracy theory?
        you tell me... last time i heard... Eva Braun had Hebrew
genes... hell... if these thoughts are
"controversial"... then the whole "survival of the fittest"
ought to be controversial too... no?
man is a contradiction of nature...
      man is counter nature...
                         yeah, sure sure... let's pander to the weak...
until the point they think themselves all-too-powerful,
tyrannical, in their bureaucratic castles... of paper-thin walls...
let's see how the weak manage things...
so many days i think about an elephant head-butting
a hyena... dead... then mummifying it
by shoving its trunk up the hyena's ******* and draining
all the insides out... like it might be sniffing with a gurgle
a line of *******...
mind you: by some akin to M. M. the song: the gardener...
songs like that... when the rhythm guitar is completely
absent, except for accenting in the verse section...
and only becomes prominent in the chorus...
when the BASS is as important as the drums...
it's like the reinvention of jazz, via rock...
that's when i feel that my heart has a beat...
mind you...
   so rare... when a ******* messages you in the middle
of the night... sends you three photographs
of herself from the past... and you send her...
some art...
the messages run along the lines...
   wait... aren't you getting enough ***? why are you
asking me to come over? oh... right...
finally... someone managed to realise
i'm good enough...
   - She: where are you
              come to me 1 hours
        what do you say
- Me: where am i? i'm at home, about to go to sleep...
- She: how did you shoot and sleep? ah i wanted
you to come to me to make me happy too
- Me: i can't come to you in one hours...
  i just did a shift and i'm fatigued...
    Brian Eno Prophecy Theme... plenty...
   you mentioned something about a free Sunday....
i don't mind if it's a fake / an excuse... i like horror...
i don't dream, therefore... anything unusual...
that might keep awake? a disguised blessing!
- She: yes bad you no call me for tell me when you
want...
- Me: if it was as simple as spending money...
  but it never was, really, nything to do about... spending
money... it was more about: who could fake it
more? the buyer... or the seller?
- Me: i first need to know what i want... you mentioned...
interacting outside the confines of the brothel...
but hey... i'm used to daydreaming.
- Me: Oh Khedra, i was really tried last night...
did a shift at the London Stadium, i was in no mood for ***...
remember last time i came over (after a shift)
and had no stamina, was sweating all over you,
now that i reread my (last) message: fatigue...
i was talking nonsense... then again...
there's something built into my psyche that's always
going to be suspicious when it comes to a woman
not being pleasured... i don't like having *** when
i feel that i'm the only person in the interaction...
it wasn't going to work last night, i need to have a routine
where i build up my stamina and want...
i just can't switch it on like i'm some disposable
Duracell bunny *****... i need to be in a mood:
i need to be longing... yesterday i truly wasn't...

sure... she wants me to come over... to earn? or to ****?
perhaps one and the same...
but i'm tired... i'm not in the mood...
would i have to dehumanise myself: pop an *******
pill and just: plough the field of ****?
i don't think that's how it works...
a woman doesn't just get to press a button...
and: hey presto! there's that walking *****!
i'm sort of happy with the project: once a month...
after i get paid...
too much regular ******* is sort of boring...
i can almost see it as boring...
  you get bored of kosher ******* that you have
to start peeping into the dimension of kinks
and queer-****...
             i take too much pleasure from taking
a **** to have to explore having to perform **** ***...
restraint... and then... release...
   oh sure... she tells me to come over...
i would have... if it was for free...
but paying for being dissatisfied is not an option...
if she said... i'm not at work... come to this address...
well... counter to my tiredness...
i would have made the effort...
   ah... the splendour of a transactional transparency...
no qualms over dates...
      whatever the dictates of western culture are...
or for that matter... any culture...
i'm sort of out of the "game"...
                 i always wanted to be a monk...
                                     well... a monk with an access
to a brothel like the Teutonic Knights of Marienburg...
who had... a brothel... in that ******* citadel...
i get to **** when i want...
not when she's ***** on a whim.

p.s. mind you... you know that mistletoe...
that's a botanical parasite...
i once told Jeminah... imagine kissing under it...
when i think of cancer...
i think of trees with mistletoe...
well... it is... mistletoe is a parasitical plant...
you can best see it in bulbs... during winter...
as a parasite it has to be an evergreen plant...
so... while all its host trees are shaven clean
right down to the skeletal x-ray of branch...
the mistletoe is bulging in growth...
Brigid Sparks Jun 2019
I wish I were
a gravedigger,
armed with,
the sharpest shovel,
thump by thump,
digging up
that wooden box.

I wish I were
a doctor,
armed with
the sharpest scalpel,
cut by cut,
dissecting
theses arteries.

I wish I were
an embalmer
armed with
the sharpest substance,
layer by layer,
mummifying
this muscle.

I wish I were
a seamstress
armed with
the sharpest needle,
stitch by stitch,
sewing up
this skin.

I wish I were
a daughter
armed with
the sharpest memory,
step by step,
reviving
this love.

I wish I were
a woman
decorated with
your heart upon my chest,
step by step
stitch by stich
layer by layer
cut by cut
thump by thump
telling me
to whom
you dedicated
that last beat.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
i was rereading poem no. 11 from Ovid's
first book of ****** poems...
a bookmark? 100 rouble banknote...
hmm... i know the Slavic practises of women
who enjoy literature...
they enjoy "mummifying" flowers
in their books...
    me? i managed to mummify a spider...
the ****** crawled into the pages
to dry out...
              LAWINA LAWINA...
the chant before the opening song
of a gig by Łąki Łan... AVALANCHE...
LAWINA! LAWINA! AVALANCHE!

listen! LISTEN! to the people!
that's all you need to do... listen....
to the people!

i ******* hate the English and their
supposed: technicians of all the languages
of the world...
their... pish-poor skills at skiing
and etymology...
   SLAV... is simply short of an E?
and GERMAN? missing a MAN?
with missing S for GERMS?
what's ARAB?
                                 GRAB?!

                 i get ******* over the simplest
of "problems":
they're not problems...
but i get ******* about them...
because they're problem akin
to saying: blue is red...
and the English are prone to be megalomaniac
in their two-face-one-sidedness!

as much as i love the English:
i hate them...
because i've orientated myself
to live alongside them...
even i know that the English distinguish
the "English" among themselves...
the northerners are monkeys
and the southerners are fairies...

the Welsh are ****** and the Scots are
Scootch...
  while i'm translating myself
as an Anglo-Slav...
               hybrid cause... excuse me please...
i'm just not among my own people...
the ancient fable of the three brothers:
brothers Chex...
                (Czech)...
Lach... (Lax) and Rus...

           right... so this in-warring in the Slavic
worlds is a major ******* problem?
where was Afghanistan... Iraq...
Libya?! the best cricket season ever?!

funny "thing": **** Germany...
and... the concept of Arianism...
                   ever heard of the Sarmatians?
the Iranian tribe of people who settled
in Poland? the area of land preoccupied
by the migration of storks and European Bison?

"they're" not "my" people:
  but there's this echoing of time...
a furore...
             a condescending part-past-present...
there's this launch of the Harbinger of the Demiurge!

Nazis... fake... Aryans...
attacking actual Aryans?!
for the sowing of the sorrows of all
our deaths... may they come before
we least expect them...
i have no demands
of the Russians...
                       just some from the FSA...

some sanity... please... some sanity...
you're no longer the "USA"...
you're the FSA...
you're the Federal State of America.,.
i agree: a ****** acronym...
but... truer... than what you're used to...

your etymological malpractice
created a spontaneity in me
i wished would never be born...
****** ****** ++,
i.e. *******... seirously: *******...
or i'll eat you...

i feel what i think:
i think that... i feel like:
the sound of chainsaw...
and your bones... readily itemised!
i feel like... something being
dealt a proper "scrutiny"...
        i want to make someone
sick of thought...
           i want to reinvent glue...
hmm...
            perhaps i want the pan-Slavic
reinvention?
          of... let's... no no..
let's not re-try Communism...
                                    
current people are such ******* *******...
current people are: bo-ri-ri-ring...
then again: maybe almost everyone was...
maybe we've been entertained too much
to know the difference between between
being entertained and not ieng entertained
and having drinking water /
fire to keep warm...

music is less music
if you can replace it with the SOUND
of wind or that of water...
or that of fire....
start calling MUSIC: VIBRATION...
              
i ought to know... the Demiurge is ******!
we're not sitting pretty...
we're sitting... pretty: ******* ugly...
i'm having my last: my last: everlasting fun...
if i'm wrong? fair enough:
but i'll be dead anyway.

we! "we"! we were the "original" Aryans
of the European continent...
the place where the Samartians settled...
unlike the myth of the Russians
and the Swedes founding Kiev...
hell... the English have their Anglo-Saxon
myths... so... why can't i have mine?!

no... not: Samaritans...
SARMATIANS!
                            ARYANS...
an Iranian tribe that lived on the banks
of the Vistula...
where i'm from...
well... so much for defining yourself
as not being historically confined to
the origins in Iran by simply killing Hebrews...
ha ha...
so much for blonde hair...
and... the current currency of anti-racism
with the women entertaining BLACK-OH...
i don't care...
i'm sort of looking up for the New-Brazil...
of copper-neck skinned
beauties...
more white in her than black...
i mean... loss of thick ***...
loss of thick nose... loss of thick lips...
+++...
                      but the curly hair?
that's there...
                                    what?! problem?!
and when did a horse ask to **** a donkey...
wait...
when did a wolf ask to **** a spandex...
variation of a "would-be" labrador:
lab-rat root of what would become a...
******* Dachshund...
which would later become
a *******: break my bones! break 'em!
break em! let's create a Dobermann!

or is that, in reverse?!
time... seems... in-reversible...
  all the better... i'd abhor having to deal with
repeats of someone already having said:
ecce ****.
Self immolation as sacrificial bleating lamb
promises eternal martyrdom
awaiting voluntary die hard protester,
where countless vestal virgins provide blissfulness
(think ******* mansion on steroids)
synonymous with delightful
grand view garden of Eden
transmuting mortal flesh
(clothed in lovely bones)
into burnt offering
mummifying and searing
once robust sacred heart
courtesy hungry, and angry forked flames.

Escape said hell on Earth I must,
which hopefully convincingly
explains the above nightmarish scenario
awaking me from an otherwise pleasant siesta.

Livingsocial here at Highland Manor
sparks the matchless following hyperbole,
whereby overactive imagination
fosters grim statistics of suicide in general,
and setting her/himself afire in particular,
yes no matter the truism, we
(yours truly and the missus)
can attest to a roof
(recently reshingled) over our head.

If only the (laugh-in) fickle finger of fate
would bless with doggone sudden wealth,
or bestow beneficent altruistic philanthropist
to bolster my very anemic
checking and savings accounts
which still smarts nearly eleven months
after weathering a blitzkrieg assault
iterated umpteen times
within previous poems,

and even posted a gofundme page,
whose soothing telephone voice
calm, cool and collected (sotto voce) belied
blood thirsty Machiavellian
scheming compute hacker and fraudster,
who called himself Harvey Specter;
One scheming scammer,
who made out like a bandit
 after he fleeced one naive sexagenarian.

No matter psychological services
found the author of these words vilifying
above named malevolent online marauder
who initially (convincingly) weaseled his way
thru the milieu of cyberspace
zapping this Apple Macbook Pro laptop,
claiming to be holier than thou
by disabling access to the Internet,
I fell prey to his charade,
binary enfilade, and façade
entranced and mesmerized,
subsequently feeling wretched
after carrying out the bidding
by unforgettable referenced clip artist,
which incident of being bilked
reported to the local police,
whose promptitude responding
offered small consolation.

Little forgiveness yielded toward
a punning wordsmith,
still seething, fuming, livid with rage
and mad as a hatter at himself
for following hook, line and sinker,
an older fella ordinarily tentative and cautious
when commingling with persons unknown.

— The End —