"perused" poems
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
A SOCIETY WRITTEN IN FLAMES; SHROUDED IN DARKNESS
*The tears flows in an endless way
Bemoaning the days of yore
Watching with eyes that sparks red,
Sunken and beaten from the tragedies of yore
Helpless and wishing for a relentless call
As tragedy hits her most sensitive part,
Bemoaning the tides,
All her days of glory,
Now a shadowy story*
*She had been ***** by her very own,
The children she yearned and bled for,
The men she fed and trained,
Where her rain fell full and vast, to soothe their hearts
Where she gave it all, and smiled, hoping that someday, they will realize her sacrifices and sleepless nights,
Her nights of terror and horrors
Where she stood in the midst of the stormy eerie night, shrouded in darkness*
*It was her ******* they ****** and clunged to,
It was her arms that shielded them from the shadows of the dark,
But when they grew and flew,
She waited still
Praying and wishing they would remember the days of yore*
*Then the dark hour rolled away,
And when morning came, it was harrowing.
It was harrowing how she waited abandoned and dejected,
As her sons and daughters peaked at the sky,
Trampling her down,
Relegating and belittling her
Painful it were, as she cried from the agonies of the days of yore,
Where she laid all her virtues down,
Giving it all to see her children smile,*
*It is this dejection that has brought her to tears,
It is this wickedness of a child to a mother, that has made her weep endlessly
It is this tragedy that have swallowed her glory,
As her children keeps flying above huddles, in peace and harmony,
Forgetting her,
It is this callousness, that pushed them to sapping her virtues and enriching themselves with it thereon*
*What is worse than a child abandoning his mother?
It is this penchant, that drives them
It is the love of greed,
It is the seed of corruption,
It is not an inherited trait,
It is a despicable decision
Like a monstrous shadow,
Twirling the back of the night.
It is the fire that burns within their heart,
The fire to **** steal and destroy
To take what she can never give again
To live,
To live big at the expenses of others sorrow and agony
It is this evil that has perused Nigeria and has rendered her a roaming wretch
And now tragedy looms,
It booms and blooms,*
A society written in flames
Who will save MOTHER NIGERIA?
Ovi Odiete© 2016, Oct. 31
All rights reserved
Note
Children here signifies the evil politicians and men that has sapped our country dry with their evil penchant
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.
Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.
How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?
More importantly,
how could those god **** traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.
In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.
And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.
It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.
Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.
So now I know,
it is true
life is a bitch.
The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.
As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.
Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.
And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
Perfected spending ideal day off
Prepared a hot breakfast in bed
Procrastinated Java or Columbia
Perused the paper cover to cover
Perplexed prayer over crossword
Pampered by bath-time bubbles
Phoned almost forgotten friends
Purchased Murakami on Amazon
Polished off a lunchtime martini
Postponed exercise with siesta
Perambulated the beach slowly
Pushed the boat out for dinner
Preferred Barolo to Barbaresco
Panicked - work again tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
I do not like this scene
or this chapter in my book
My fingers have failed me
as my thoughts evade me
I can’t write this for you
though you’ve done so much
You’ve written me into existence
and I want to edit myself out
It’s easier to put words
on a page that you can rip out
than to speak them to you
and watch the venom bleed
through the cracks of your tired skin
I’m so hurtful, like the edges
of dry, fresh cut paper—
sharp enough to cut,
too dull to scar—
only ever thumbed through
never perused—yearning to
be read and understood
and remembered
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Some say the Hero came first,
others say the Poet.
I perused again the olden verse,
sure enough; the poet.
A hero and a poet are
always, 'side-by-side.'
How else might we know it,
-without the forlorn scribe?
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.
GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
I’m broker now, not he.
Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.
I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.
He perused the chart then flung a dart
to pick a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.
He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee .
They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
a discount Chimpanzee.
I might have dodged a massive loss
And profited besides
Had I but heeded the baboons’
Sell signaling behinds
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Five days a week
for six months now
I have crossed the street
from work
to the little shop
that sells sticky buns
pork nuzzled by pastry
and perused the food
something for lunch
and almost always pick
a baguette brimming with chicken
chilled cucumber disks
a sprinkling of lettuce
plus a muddy-coloured latte
for that extra afternoon kick
though today is different
I’m feeling ruthless
a shimmery packet of salt and vinegar
waits for me to pluck it
from the shelf
squeak it open
the lady says hi and I reply
with a we’ve spoken
five days a week for six months now
and it’s about time I told you
these small encounters
brighten my day
a rotten cliché I know
so I leave quick with my grub
but a tiny grin on my face
unwrap the baguette
take a satisfying bite
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
i looked with
quizzical disdain
it was plain
i was not amused
as i perused
and openly confused,
i was
about to say...
she said "chill"
she stood with
stern command
glass from sand
she would not budge
(not even for fudge)
but not to judge,
she was
about to ...say...
i said "chill"
we held on
to the night
fear the light
blind to the unknown
where the winds blown
what's to be shown?
we were
about to say...
"chill"
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
This is
The end of a phase
The beginning of an era
Where hope is the villain
and everything bright with dreams
of happy endings
Is perused with intent to ****
I'm not your friend
I'm not your savior
I am the gun
buried in the hate
of everyone who's ever felt
the sting of betrayal, the whip
of hate searing it's name
into the bowels of your heart
I am the beginning, the ending
of everything to come
I am your friend burying the knife
in the back of everything you believe
I am a creature of your makings
Feed me, Keep me
Hate me HATE ME
And just before you forget me,
Remember all that's been done
before its too late and everything you love
becomes forsaken, destroyed
and is left in the wake of everything,
everything you've had me become..
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Sitting in its congested patio,
Beheld the sky
That sky spilled over the sky
Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately
We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school
Even after the last bell
The wind may blow any moment
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Descried the sea
Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen
That sea overflowed the sea
The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”
We were
Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel
Though it is noon and he is hungry
The sea fish do not know
The grooves of tears and the little waterway
Rainclouds can arrive anytime
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window
Those woods got darker than woods
Trees pretending to cavil for my being late
Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs
Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks
There are wounds that are hidden
A lightning can strike any moment
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car
Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise
We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger
Argued
Prayed
Perused the holy book
Often, while no one watched,
We fed the dolls
Sung them lullabies
On these occasions,
I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke
Thereupon, between us
Sky sea woods.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:
*to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…
in summary too,
here is where*,
I thank you.
nml
9/12/25
5:15am
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:14 AM UTC
Do you remember that Wednesday afternoon three years ago
When we made a fruit tree by stringing together store bought bananas on Christmas lights
And tossed up our sunny masterpiece on sycamore branches
Sick of more dead winter
Sick of unsproutable seedlings
Sick of Patience, the Godliest of virtues?
Tap! Tap! Tap!
I’m sitting a few feet away from the leaky faucet.
Perhaps the faucet is clued in on the old adage that persistence pays off
So it presses on, presses on, presses on…
Marching to the beat of it’s own drum
But this drumming sounds too much like hollow dripping,
Like how I imagine the IV’s medicinal potion entering into your veins to sound.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Your mother’s fidgeting fingers are dancing nervously on a People’s Magazine
She’s thumbing through pages but her face is fixated on the clock
Mentally counting down the minutes until your surgery is done
Mentally noting the ironies of a Waiting Room trying too hard to pass off as a careless bubble of distraction.
After all the room reeks of hospital cleaner laced with some derivative of a citrus scent,
And the television is left talking to itself like some incoherent patient diagnosed with insanity
And it reminds of her of an article she perused so long ago
Which read something along the lines of “if you hang out with crazy long enough, you’ll become crazy yourself”
And for a brief moment, she was comforted
Tap! Tap! Tap!
The doctor politely knocks before entering,
Everyone raises up to surround him,
But I stay physically stay affixed to my seat
And mentally float back to that faraway memory
Where we sprung into action
Combating the cold
With the only acceptable weapons of choice:
Bright lights and Yellow bananas.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
I used to only look at a mans shoes
Shallow and fickle were my views
Didn’t care about his news
or what books he perused
He had to wear a decent pair
or I’d walk away with a toss of my hair
They didn’t have to have a label
just polished and smart got under my table
I don’t understand it now
its personality these days that makes me go wow
I look into their eyes and smile
that’s what will make me stay a while
If their kind, gentle and smart
me and them will never part
I no longer confuse
friendship with shoes
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
I’ll only say this once, and once a ******* lone.
There’s a problem to address, and yes, there’s a reason for my tone.
You’ve been prancing around me blissfully, and in a few seconds’ time,
you’ll think of someplace else wishfully. Once I say. Just once.
It’s certainly not fair when I’m the one removing the hair from that hole.
I’m a sick ******* but I have no lust for disgust.
After my mind is perused, I’m angry and confused. The possibility
dawns on me that it could well be your *****
Or the gel ridden, straw-like hair on your head.
That image fills me with a different kind of dread.
With this in mind, I’ll be shuddering with repulsion,
Trapped later in life with memories of physically indulging
my hand your slimy Barnet. Believe me, that’s not normal hair,
so don’t start telling me to calm it.
Or no…perhaps…
It’s sent my mind searing, it’s ever so weird
to, for one moment, consider that you have the ability of growing a beard.
You’re baby-faced, commonplace, and don’t have a thought worth hearing.
You’re still a child, a mental ****** and to top it off, a beard is now appearing.
Well that’s great. Another thing I have to deal with.
Can you not take care of your own affairs?
If I were you I’d encase all the little hairs
in a purse of some kind, so you’ll always pay mind
to the fact that you now look like a man
despite being a **** Miraculous. I must say, I’m a fan.
Well I guess now it doesn’t even matter,
your face is bare and the bath tub is spattered. I’m shattered.
This isn’t how I pictured my early years, wasting furious tears over beards.
If only early on I had been told, that eventually I would end up
staring in outrage daily at your beard in the plughole.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
I perused through the catacombs
gliding my fingers along your innumerate spines,
picked you up where you blossomed in my palm
and breathed archaic mysteries into my face.
I felt myself trembling
as I dared enter the hallowed corridors,
opening doors and peeking inside
in hopes to catch a semblance of your touch,
your taste,
your voice.
A fingerprint,
a coffee stain,
clues and the origins of bricolage
that left me breathless
and teary-eyed
as the weight of this sacred place
bore itself entirely upon me.
A part of your soul
encased within each one of your treasures:
I heard your stereo in a jazz history,
heard you ponder within Dostoyevsky,
saw your wry smile and charm within Fleming,
and your humor within Vaudeville--
and as I perused onward,
and the archetype bore itself naked in a holy privilege,
I closed myself within that impalpable bubble
and wept at the gates of Eden.
As I removed my hands from your ribcage,
and withdrew the breath from your nostrils,
walking away with your words and fragments of your soul
I soon realized--
You Are What You Read.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
I could tell you of romance,
I could tell you of Sicily
and sanctity,
and what cold-blooded loving is like.
You can touch me like an iron blade,
rusted, perused;
and carve into me stolen serenades.
Jigsaw my dreams into sense,
I’m a little too tired of waking up alone.
We can do a give-and-take of hands
and we can go look for things we lost.
I could tell you how to love,
if you can show me how to stop.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
Once this girl, she had me
But then I called her bluff
I found she was double dealing
And lord declared enough
The balance did catch up now
Her man perused a thrill
She came to me for comfort
And you know she’s searching still
-Oh my lord
She’ll never find no comfort here
This little girl will have to linger
My pity train will steer clear
She cried to me in the morning
She begged me all through the day
She was on her knees by nightfall
Lord I’d have it no other way
-Aw yes
She’ll never find no comfort here
This little girl will have to linger
My pity train will steer clear
So then I sat her near me
I took her by the waist
I told her so very sweetly
That this was all a piece of fate
-Oh my lord
She’ll never find no comfort here
This little girl will have to linger
My pity train will steer clear
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
to foresee a massive catastrophe
catastrophe and its associated calamity
calamity destruction and vast devastation
devastation in a massive catastrophe
the seas swelling to magnitude great
great their height of mountainous proportions
proportions which are awesome to espy
espy the magnitude of the seas
volcanoes erupting spewing forth much lava
lava flows uncontrollably over the lands
lands burning in the lava fire which doesn't subside
subside the fire will not
buildings in cities and rural locales shaking
shaking and rattling tectonic plates impacting
impacting on man's planet, tremors felt far and wide
wide the expanse of the Earth's shaking
men, women and children affected by the catastrophe
catastrophe foretold in ancient text
text which we've perused from time to time
time to refresh our modern day minds
man can't circumvent the immensity which shall unfold
unfold the catastrophe shall to our sight
sight the calamity and its associated ruin
ruin which is foreseen in ancient text
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
Wry is one of many things you do well....
~~~~~~
dedicated to, inspired by Paul Anthony Hutchinson, who wrote those words to me but two hours ago
*Wry
- produced by a distortion or lopsidedness of the ****** features: a wry grin.
- abnormally bent or turned to one side; twisted; crooked: a wry mouth.
- devious in course or purpose; misdirected.
- contrary; perverse.
- distorted or perverted, as in meaning.
- bitterly or disdainfully ironic or amusing: a wry remark.*
It is bitter,
It is amusing,
the distorting that gives a shape and thereby
meaning
to a misdirected life,
the ****** muscles perused,
all reversed, all per-versed
t'is not just the smile that is loopy,
or simplistically turned upside down,
twisted but not dubious, nor devious,
twisted but straight, I say,
wry is not a seething something I do well,
wry is in every nuclei I ever split,
every line etch-a-sketched in every poem
worn down,
physically inscribed on my face.
so much to reveal,
but not here not now not,
ever on and ever in, explicit
but blurred, burred, and buried
within them is the ironic of a man
that laughed through the better part of his life,
for in that period, there was no
better,
just worse
I was born wry.
the last of three, I was nameless till I was twenty one,
they called me just
brother, or the brother.
at twenty five, I married the wrong woman,
though we both wanted not too,
thirty five years of wry, the lawyers rejoiced,
the judges celebrated, the poets went mad,
swear it true,
the family counselors said
beyond hopeless,
and with wry smiles at the spectacle of years wasted,
spent like there was no tomorrow,
for there was none
in the titanic disaster of more, new lives corrupted
I lived life wry.
now, in the final fourth quaternary,
see how he,
the master of the unceremonious,
in on bent knee, hands clasped, on bed, rested,
when he seeks comfort and guidance for the upcoming
finality following a two minute warning,
warning that even now,
the future wry, turned to one side, when all he wanted,
was to live quiet in the straight and narrow
and not write poems asking himself with trepidation,
from where will come the courage to make this
last passage....
oh yes, I do wry so well,
and all things that wryhme with hell,
you will be spared,
for wryly he exclaims
"Enough, enough"
wry why!
for in all the days of his disheveled life,
there have been but a few,
when it has been simply,
enough
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Women who think like men
Men who act like children
Children who act like they're forty and think they're adults
I opened the box to find a crudely written IOU on the back of an expired Domino's coupon
We tried to assimilate the whole thing
My co-worker made a long distance phone call
It was to the peanut gallery
They told her she should have put another quarter in the parking meter so she could have avoided the fine
"Fredrick Brown"
Said my boss
That was the name he gave us when he made the reservation
Sounded like pseudonym the chiseler made up on the spot
But all he ate was side dishes
And a bag of corn nuts he brought in
Now the investigation was in full swing
The cops came
Asking questions
A description
A name
And what he ordered
"Burnt french fries, uncooked calamari, re fried beans, a salad with only brown lettuce, a can of cranberry sauce, a porterhouse steak medium rare with mushrooms and onions and a hot fudge sundae without any ice cream"
The officers perused the table and found that sundae and the steak were untouched
And the can of cranberry sauce was only half eaten
Days later a man was found screaming in the industrial park
Yelling obscenities and wearing a bald cap
While trying to listen to scratched skipping Cd's on his Walkman that had no batteries
It goes without saying the man was deranged
It was the very same man I waited on in the restaurant
Police only released one statement on the matter
They said when asked why he was in there in the first place
He told them he was looking for work to pay a bill the he owed to a local restaurant who had top notch service
His real name was Ercy ******
That name is now branded into my memory
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
My muse diffused
A love abused
The news infused
My dream refused.
Your life deduced
My life reduced
Our lives seduced
In the end confused.
Words effused
Our lines reused
My passion disused
Together, bemused.
Our game overused
Our emotions excused
Our love perused
But really misused.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
They say the grass is greener
On the other side
Which makes me wonder what color grass they see
When they look at mine
People are never satisfied
with their token hue,
gardens perceive many views 'neath blue moons
yet still seek to plant their own rose colored seeds
But with the hand of seed comes a heart in need
To plant where they will thrive
And when we look at our lives deep
We see a parched land much too dry
Upgrading new playgrounds 'tween picket transplants
only proves to drain emotional fence posts,
there's no satisfaction in elevation's turf ventures
proof grows amuck the dark sod of every plot perused
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Around sunset it happened,
While I was sipping coffee from my gilded cup,
Staring through glass at my own reflection,
A virtual image with a hint of refraction.
I remember I frowned
As I saw with dismay a hair out of place,
Curling from my forehead in a tidal wave,
Like the deliberate flick of the coiffured knave.
This won’t do it all, I thought,
Placing my cup with delicacy aside,
Lining up my face within the glass,
Imagining the image this morning past.
I gently nudged the hair aside
Checking that everything else was right,
Turning my head from side to side;
A trifle vain, I don’t need to confide.
While I perused my hair with care,
The light grew beyond the horizon,
A surprise I most heartily confess,
And provided not a little stress.
For I saw the sun set not a moment before,
As I stared at my face and the irritant hair.
It usually goes down to the west, don’t you know.
It flashed in my eyes like the white glare of snow.
Thankfully I wear my sunglasses at night,
But it didn’t protect me at all that well.
I cursed at the light as it lanced through my eyes,
It pierced through my soul and unraveled my lies.
The ascending rumble began, shaking the walls,
Cracking the glass, reflections recursed.
The first shake of God’s great roar never stopped
As the towers of Babel shivered and dropped.
The last thing I saw before I met you
Was the rise of the flame racing the wind.
As I was consumed, I noticed the wings
Of the angel of death and the end of all things.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
-I've got bored of words.
-You tergiversate... Small world.What this bouquet of flowers is doing in the intermediate?It's a date?
-Ah... such prolixity... More champagne?
-What's the point?
-My aim? Mmm... to try to oscullate you.
-... What?... Such profane elixir do you desire?
-It'll be more than tasty.It's alleged...
-But, don't you distinguish the mayhem's reflection below?
-Your solicitude.. Ah!... What a nice champagne.Hmm... Cake? By the other way or not there's nothing at the ceiling.
-You've perused my protocol... A small slice, please.
-A kiss a skirmish.Palatable as this recipe... Well... apart from an armageddon...
-Stop pushing on boy.
-I already vanquished the inception, you know...
-Catastrophe is your trophy, but I disavow your apocalypse.
-I was expecting something more digestible.How's the alcohol?
-Standstill...
-Hm!... As everything surrounding us.
-Ahhh... No... They just don't move.. don't have gravity...
-Funny waiter... Hovering waiter.Did you emend your canon?
-Champagne and desserts will not litigate your anticipation.You know.How strange is...
-The room? No... Is normal for it to circle upside down.
-A hug?
-In this desert? With all those people?
-They are frozen, and... before I veto, quivering in a hurt heart.
-Blown sand... popped champagne... Oh, I didn't notice the light fixture's embroidery.
-The sun's in the bottom.Look up... Its obumbration is into the typhoon.
-Standstill, nothing's synchronized...
-Is your tranquility dissipated? gone?...
-No.If isn't yours.
-I just still want that hug.
-Hmmm... I forgot you're a cold person...
-And you a hot girl... Irony...
-You'll melt...
-I'm apt to it...
Then an aurora flash
And splashing glass
Accompanied by springing sparks
Shattered bass walls
Begetting noctilucent dark and dusk
A hurricane, breathing the sun
Just dust to dust
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC