“Moby ****,”  Herman Melville

<•>

~for the lost at sea~

after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining

the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls

sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality

I’m called to depart my beach shoreline  unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming

god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion,  nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties

my in-camera brain  eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles

walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?

puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others

perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered

Memorial Day 2018

Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "

here
even eagles dare
not enter

a snow capped peak
where
meteor showers fall
and
gods routinely visit
to pay obeisances
to the solitary mendicant

that being for whom
all things
animate and inanimate
are equal
and worthy of compassion,
this eternal resident
of gang rinpoche

© 2017

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies. Before being sunk, the prose was found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:

“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself."

"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror...

The second mirror..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther..., says no more than regret, the acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegar, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is leftover in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that is not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is leftover from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution, and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am Omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, Omni Messianic, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with overtimes, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord because he was before all of us who were his poet's servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless, vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of eghotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf..., here is not to belong to this century..., reverted to an uncertain meditation...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives the cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society Olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a microsecond device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict! But what a great solution, for someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xiphos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies . Before being sunk, the prose prose were found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with a constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:
“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself.
"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown ... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets ...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece ..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament ...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices ... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror ...

Second mirror ..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness ..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther ..., says no more than regret, acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead ... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting ...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegars, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical, but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is left over in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct ..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that are not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream ...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding  sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is left over from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender ..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns ..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire, because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, omni Messiano, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with over times, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord, because he was before all of us who were his poets servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of egotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf ..., here is not to belong to this century ..., reverted to an uncertain meditation ...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends ... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured, if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a micro second device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die, because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict!  But what a great solution, of someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings ..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xifos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan ..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!

the diamonds of dead end signs, need

somewhere to free up the terminus of

their streets too.

where astronomical scores of headlights

U-turn against a seven foot tall wax dummy.

betraying no discernable ****** features or

genitalia, just the sum total of bare--heighted

emaciation.

a tapered candle for a spine--melting identical

replicas of its body.

shrinking down to its feet...obeisances of rest.