In a deep slumber
I see myself singing
To life
to love
and to moments
come and gone
The words were lost
a vagabond in the forest
awaiting the night
each day passing by
only in wonder
of the victory
of silence over noise

Some swayed out
while some stuck in my throat
Both journeys worth their while
One,
where come out the letters
swinging along the spaces
the curves
and the turns
making the tongue dance
on the music they play
a silent art known only to them
and the tranquil thread
of letters flow by
dancing through my lips
they enter the curves of the ears

Another,
suppressed by my heart
to stay in them for a while
and longer
until the time is right.
These are words
most sacred and holy
chosen by the philosopher
the sceptics
and the night
to be unleashed
only, when the time is right
I learnt about this mystery
In the deep slumber
when I sang unlike awake
and I spoke unlike my silence
This mystery of words
and their bond with sound
they clinked to my ears
and made the heart bleed out
And this mystery unfolded
when my knowledge of words
began a dance with sound
and choose my lips
to be the floor they dance on...

Time is nothing new, knowing knots will never be undone
Evil crawls in the minds of man, manifesting itself to be beautiful
Accepting and acknowledging all aristocrats who abuse their power
The world is bland, where a woman loses her womanly flower
Covering each other up, taking out the surface not the root, it’s wrongful
Uncommon is the book, imagination in the individual’s ideal of no fun I sit pondering upon these problems, probing a way into fixing all
When a crumpling crucial crumping sound, roared through the skies TV’s turned on, radios turned up, the Television speaks of trumpets
Couples, church-goers, children cry to the camera “Ready your Caskets” Fire and hail trail to the ground, blood blaze behind, Earth in her demise
People jab and judge each other, nobody understanding the Trumpets first call.
As the people panic in passionate rage and fear Everything is going, diminishing, dying, covered in dirt, grass and trees burning
A second trumpets serenades through savage yells
Mountains begin to burn and fall, along with the church bells
The seas slowly from within spoils into blood curling
Every child glances up joyfully as staircases appear. A ten horned beast raises out of the sea, mouth maliciously open with intent
Scrambling and screaming sub-beasts crawl into an unhinged jaw
It rages and shakes the ten kings hoarding on each horn. Three kings crumble, crash to cultivated grounds, their bodies torn. Blood bathed, entitled; enraged the beast takes earth as its thrall. The people scared, scratched, scraped and tortured bent. Blackened beasts bash past the saints
Looking for sin, sinister civil devils
Trumpet three blows, while sitting upon universal long ledges
The demons demonstrating patience beyond the ages
Hells helpful and hazy corruption seen at different levels
Through mans lounging, Wormwood falls to decide fates. The world is weeping through wasted weaves of wind
Disgusting smell of dead rides the tormented tasteless air
Swallowed by the fourth trumpet, bravely bashing through gusts
To find safe haven upon the throne of tusks
No animal though that tasted the tenacious disease will be accepted in care
They will be banished into the cold forever dark air, where they will shiver and cringe. The world is silent waiting, wallowing for the fifth When it comes Angels, breath beneath the blacken clouds
There striking wings linger as they blow three cornets In the sky, seeping through the soundless sky sails comets
A sight for the still faithful all watch in a crowd
As the comets releases Locusts from beneath. Laying lusciously low in a most lucid state, The ***** Her words wager, weave, win through the minds, falling for false prophecy
Ripping right by the remonstration of being The ***** of Babylon
Woman and Man fall for the words, seeking haven from hell hereon
Adult to child, wishing away her whims, she is the spiritual adultery
No newly made Neanderthal seeing her for the devils zany zealotist abhor. With The ****** lies, breaches the Mother of abominations
The one obtuse and first woman to walk in the Garden of Eden
Human at first, ripped apart, away from innocence; Lilith Haste to Hate, Revenge against the rotting earth, taking away human health
The goal stupendous, shaking sorrowfully, any good is forbidden
For killing is her passion, her art, her own Revelations. The sixth trumpet signals the release of the most dangerous Soldiers
The four enticing beings of end that are released from Euphrates the great water
Their massive army mounting at two hundred million minimizes us
Useless and hopeless everyone allows plagues in their bodies with lust
All people want is death, decaying, disembodied from the soul, without a bother
The ***** still preaching, but not a single being is listening to her false words of a philosopher. In the mix of mist and swamps I continue to sit and scrutinize
Every evil endorsing embassy of hell-spawn
Floating and coating, demoting every satchel of thought
As every defecate of remorse leave me in distraught
My mind is distilled where my initial thoughts are withdrawn I empower the sour cowering stare of the devil’s eyes. I cannot look away, the steady statue stare Embracing escalated enmity, fighting for it not to invade my mind
Never knew cruelness existed and brought beings such delight It covers itself in kindness and caring as it wishes me good night
When wrathful vengeance I awake, to aspire, to find
A torture most terrifying, tossed into twisted tarred souls, my religion I forswear. A game of chess, played between each, no physical state
Dictating the defence, drawing out, hitting, harassing and hackling
Pawn for a pawn, the pound of flesh taken from the absence of attack
Everything twists and twines around each feeble thimble of thoughtless comeback
Devil sends soulless soldiers, crashing crazily through bones a crackling. Finding flirtatious moments to pass the queen into the kingly gate. I have lost; no match made on earth can win with the Devil
Although I lost, I still hold onto faith that in the everlasting end I will be acknowledge by my God, I’ll will be shown care
I sit, sore, scarred, seared of my dignity, I pray
In my mind the Lord’s Prayer is the only way I can defend
I know beyond my brave but bashed thoughts that I kept away from evil. The loudest, most holy, mind clearing trumpet rings
The seventh and ending of the biblical war
A hole rips the sky, rendering useless, entirely beautiful though
Angels dash rescuing the ravaged by faithful souls, protection from beasts below I am avenged, my mind repaired from the unprotected un-releasing pain that I can now ignore
I praise to the Lord, lavishing, laying beside his council of twenty-four of forgiving beings.

My My My….
My mother is irrational
My father is a legend
My sister is an angel
My brother is a philosopher
But what is to become of me?

I stand here steady and calm
Everyday you’re systematic
The unconscious strides your mind makes in a moment
No one can target where they originate
You just know that when they appear
Let it marinate within you, seep into your skin

It’s hungry now
The monster lives and feeds
Nothing less will suffice..
Than the utter idea of moving on to something new
Once it’s fed, you wait with anticipation
Until the hunger consumes you once more

1575

The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings—
Like fallow Article—
And not a song pervade his Lips—
Or none perceptible.

His small Umbrella quaintly halved
Describing in the Air
An Arc alike inscrutable
Elate Philosopher.

Deputed from what Firmament—
Of what Astute Abode—
Empowered with what Malignity
Auspiciously withheld—

To his adroit Creator
Acribe no less the praise—
Beneficent, believe me,
His Eccentricities—

……………………………………………………………………………………
           The figures stood still, a blank expression to fill. Their waxed complexion holding dust, soulless cages immune to rust. Light bulbs flash in rhythmic delirium, contrived joy running at a premium.
           Flocks of herds came to take notice of this brand new attraction, one designated worthy by an overriding faction. Social conscience had said its peace, and passed on its opinions in a shifty lease. Word had spread as fast as it could, regardless of whether it necessarily should.
           “T. Elsey Wax Museum” was the hottest ticket in the city. Vouched for by an annual subcommittee, composed of men of no esteem, and opposed to views deemed too extreme. Every vacant mind had jumped on board, its entrance fee was small enough to afford.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Prosperity renewed, discord unglued. The walls of Briar Field, seem to leave much concealed. It’s owner, a Mr. Holden Reeve, is a vain little creature beyond reprieve. He sees no value in an altruistic life, and seems to anguish in his everyday strife.
His facility has been thrashed in print, and regarded as no more than a publicity stint. Still, if true, his machine would be a marvel, something verging on plausibly being artful. Its said Mr. Reeve has tapped into the human soul, and made monetary gain his lonesome goal.
The patents of Mr. Reeve lay out the plan for an odd looking device, but it’s purpose isn’t made overly concise. According to speculation, the machine can resurrect an individual’s ideals, but I can’t tell you how worrisome that makes this reporter feel. Mr. Reeve is toying with the work of God, something he should know to be intrinsically unflawed.
……………………………………………………………………………………
Eliot Tern was standing in a ridiculously long line, it ran four blocks down to a street named Woodbine. Elliot had been there since midday, though he had begun contemplating whether or not he should stay. Looking back there was a hectic crowd, pushing and shoving in a manor quite loud.
Eliot had dragged his friend Henry along with him, though that boy thought their odds of getting in were pretty grim. Henry stood casually, kicking stones, outside the front of BMC Savings and Loans. A woman in front told him to knock it off, Henry called her a ****, but masked it with a cough.
It was two in the afternoon by the time the two boys were about halfway, a nearby baby cried as it spat up apple puree. Some of the sauce found its way onto a man’s face, he told the mother that her parenting skills were a complete disgrace. The woman slapped the man in vicious spite, though to speak truthfully she had every right.
The man screamed and pouted for a minute or two, then he calmed down, and began to clean up the child’s spew. He glanced around to see if anyone was glaring, and poor Henry was noticed hesitantly staring. The man pointed to Henry and began to call him a coward; he spoke with the type of veracity that made it quite apparent that he felt empowered.
Henry stood calm for only a moment, and then began to stare at the man like he was no more than an opponent. The boy picked up a large rock from a graveled path, and hurled it at the man with the feeling of contempt and wrath. The stone struck the man just bellow the eye, and for a moment it looked as though he would cry.
Then the man screamed with a furious hate, it became quite clear that he was now irate. Henry took off; leaving Eliot on his own, it wasn’t exactly a measure the boy could postpone. The man had begun pushing through the crowd trying to get to the boy; his face reflected no hint of joy.
Henry ran for about 10 minutes, he had pushed himself to no new limits. The man had given up the chase after leaving the line; he tried to reclaim his spot shouting, “*******! It’s mine!” The crowd booed the man as angry mobs do, and he had to walk his way to the back to calmly stew.
……………………………………………………………………………………
               Henry was only 12 when he walked in through the rusted doors of Briar Field, it’s hinges shrieked as though inadvertently sealed. A reception desk stood before a large, arched entrance, and there sat the owner’s, under-skilled, apprentice. The man spoke in a seemingly mocking tone, as though Henry was standing in a restricted zone.
         The boy, feeling mocked, turned towards the exit, the man ran up, in a manor quite hectic. He told Henry that he was only joking, just doing a bit of nonsensical provoking. He said to Henry that his name was Fredrick Barnes, grew up, quite happily, on several local farms.
           Fredrick, or Fred as he liked to be called, began explaining the nature of how he went bald. He told Henry that he had developed an addiction to charity, making his true nature no more than a parody. Lived for years with his ego at bay, and gave every dollar he earned away.
            It took its toll in rather short time; though to live vicariously makes it all seem fine. Fred ignored his dreams for far too long, believing God to be king making him just a pawn. Then one day, he told Henry, “I was caught in a storm”, he said, “The falling rain against the wind seemed so pleasantly warm.”
             Then a man came by, begging for some change. Fred had no issue giving up his entire measly, well-earned wage. His Christian nature told him he was no better, then this hungry man in a beat up old sweater.
            Fred handed over 1,200 dollars, a mere hours work for some uneducated scholars. The beggar began to smile, showing all of his teeth, there was a yellow glow from a plaque-ridden sheath. He then turned to Fred, with a more sinister grin, and Fred noticed then, that the man stunk of gin.
             He asked Fred if he had any money, timid, Fred responded, “This really isn’t funny.” The beggar pulled out a small caliber pistol, and said that, “one has a responsibility to be fiscal.” Skin peeled off of Fred’s wrist, as the beggar pulled at a watch through clenched fist.
              In the end, the beggar took all but Fred’s clothing, and left with a bang, as to not to seem imposing. He had only shot the man just bellow the knee, but blood loss had made it hard for Fred to see. He crawled and clawed his way towards a distant street lamp, but movements were elongated by the weight of his clothes, which, obviously, were quite damp.
              Fred laid hopelessly on the cold, wet cement, with the rain mocking him in its relentless dissent. The beacon he had crawled towards turned out to be a dead-end, the severity for which was hard for the man to comprehend. There in the stillness of the night, Fredrick Barnes became aware of the true nature of his plight.
              Holden Reeve had found Fred while the man was riddled with a complex terror, spouting off nonsense about living his life in error. Holden took the young man in through the doors of Briar Field, a museum, which, to the public, had yet to be revealed. It didn’t take long for Fred to fully recover; eventually he began to look at Holden as a brother.
             Fred turned to Henry and told the boy that was the end of his story, and now, it was time for the moment of glory. He opened the two doors hidden under the arched entrance, and Henry walked into the room, followed by Holden’s apprentice.
             When they entered the room Henry immediately asked, “Where’s Mr. Reeve? ...I’m sorry if he’s passed.” Fred laughed and told the boy Holden was most certainly not dead; in fact, the two of them were standing in the middle of his homestead. Then the boy noticed the nature of the room, and how cobwebs gave it the foreboding feeling of doom.
             There was another set of doors at the end of the room, but Fred turned and knocked on a bare wall with the backside of a broom. A panel slipped open and retracted into the wall, and out stepped a noble looking man, though, truthfully, quite small. There were no visible features on the man at first, so initially Henry was expecting the worst.
              Fred acknowledged him as Mr. Reeve, so Henry stood tall, and tried to make his back as flat as the wall. It wasn’t so much that the boy was often courteous, in fact, with regards to that sentiment, the boy was usually impervious. He just felt that in this particular situation, there was going to be no recapitulation.
              This was clearly a man who only spoke with the most precise of words, those capable of collecting and massacring mass herds. Though Holden Barnes would never speak to such a crowd, his absentmindedness for them would be hard to shroud. The man was indifferent to any collective thought, and his principles were to firm to ever be bought.
              Holden spoke to Fred in brief manor, those unheard of in the print of “The Banner”. He asked if Henry seemed like a reasonable boy, or if he was merely some shady companies plotted decoy. Fred vouched for Henry, who he didn’t know; playing a bluff, and hoping it wouldn’t show.
               Holden nodded and shook his friends hand, and spun to the boy, as though his motion had been a cautious ploy. “Who are you?”, and “Why should I care?”, Mr. Reeve asked Henry, the response for which seemed to be lost in the boys memory.

“If you can’t speak to me I don’t know if you should be here, I’m not the one in the room who you should naively fear. My greatest achievement lies just behind those doors over there, but if your this timid, you could get quite the scare. I’ve constructed a testament to the human soul, and it’s designed for any man to control.”

“Though to put it in such terms is hardly fair, it’s just not something that easy to compare. I’ve gotten to where I am, if you’ll dare me to say, through myself and am not one to decline the pay.  My invention just doesn’t seem to arouse much attention, in the press Fred says I haven’t even stirred up a mention.”

“I tell you this though, it’s been their mistake, for what I’ve created here is no preposterous fake. I’ve created a method of speaking with many various forms of reason, though to them it’s some form of religious treason. They seem to think I have resurrected the soul, ghostly figures ripped out of a black hole.”

“But that simply isn’t true, as you’ll come to see, now Fred tells me your name is Henry. You have to choose now before your walk through those doors, if your ready to dance on such hallowed floors. The mystery my seem quite vague to you, but understand this offer has been made to but a few.”

“I don’t understand, what should I say?”

“To ask such a question, here I thought you were a stray? An opinion, like ego is something to treasure, not cast off at someone else’s pleasure. This decision is yours and yours alone, you can use no alchemy from the philosopher’s stone.”

Henry was caught up in an odd predicament, one with no true equivalent. He had no real idea what he was choosing between, but he knew that he couldn’t let that fear be seen. So Henry said yes, without further discussion, and hoped along the way there would be no major repercussion.
At the end of the hall there stood an entrance, Fred stood by acting as apprentice. He told Henry to try and open the door, as Henry pushed his feet slid across the floor. Fred laughed and said that it was locked, and could only be opened one way, Holden kicked a loose rock imbedded in the wall, and soon, the door moved, quick to obey.
The room was not nearly as large as Henry had pictured, and distant light bulbs scornfully flickered. There was only one object in the center of the space, here Henry began walking with a quickened pace. It looked as though it was just a large computer monitor, but its framework seemed composed by an ancient astrologer.
Objects spun about with contact precision, and small fractures of light seemed to meet through collision. The spectacle was truly something to behold, though Henry still had no idea what was about to unfold. Mr. Reeve walked up to the machine and began to touch its screen, and all the lights stopped, and then seemed to reconvene.

“Alright Henry, I suppose it’s time I explained the true nature of this device, but somehow I only now realize you got in here free of price. No matter, it’s been a while since it’s seen someone new, I’m curious what some of these people are going to say to you.”

“What you are looking at now is a labor of scientific process, but believe me when I say there is no need to be cautious. There is no black magic at work here, though many have said so without coming near. This machine I’ve created does what some say to be impossible, like Nemo’s creation, just far less nautical.”

“This machine collects and records all forms of the written word, sweeps them in like collecting some massive herd. It organizes and sorts data of all different norms, and emits it in a conversational form.”

“You see this creation has given man a chance to talk to those of the past, allowing for a legacy only time can outlast.”

Henry stopped and stared at the man for quite a long period of time, and tried to figure out why Mr. Reeve looked so perfectly sublime. Henry now thought he understood the nature of the device, in fact Holden had made it all seem so concise. The machine would allow Henry to talk to anyone from the past, as long as there had been enough information amassed.

“Who do you want to talk to first? I’d suggest Ayn Rand, if you’re okay with being coerced.”

Henry had no idea concept of Mrs. Rand, so the concept to him didn’t seem overly grand. He lingered on the thought for a second or two, not wanting to pick an individual who could be considered taboo. Then, it came to Henry like a sudden case of dysentery, he saw this man as more than a visionary.

“Is it possible for me to speak to someone who didn’t actually exist?”

“I can see what I can do if that’s what you insist?”
……………………………………………………………………………………
Eliot was furious as he saw Henry; the boy had been gone so long it had slipped from his memory. He stood and waited for Henry to ask to step back into line, and then he would make it clear that everything was not fine. Eliot was now standing at the front, to just let Henry in would be a great affront.

“I’m going home.” Henry said as he let his eyes roam.

Eliot felt sick as Henry walked away, then he became curious how he had spent the last three hours of the day. “No matter” thought Eliot as he waited patiently, he’d have his victory soon enough, and he would take it graciously. Very suddenly a woman opened up the front doors of the institution, and thanked everybody for their “contribution”.

“It’s time to say goodnight. The museum will be open at 9 o’clock tomorrow, during daylight.”

The woman very casually walked away, as Eliot was in complete dismay. Then he had a calming thought, none of the creations were going to rot. All he would have to do is come back the next day, everything, he thought, will be okay.
……………………………………………………………………………………

Desire moving with effort
Educating your mind to elevate your career
A classroom designed to help you preserver
It’s a positive approach
sharpering your knowledge like a defined broach
Terminology advancing into hands on
Gaining the formulations into experiences where you belong
Lectures into knowledge
A lesson brush up just like polish
Blackboard with the theories
The philosopher of past educators being history
Determination Striving University
The floor plan creating the actual reality
Thirst for education
Hungry to succeed
Analytical thinking in knowing how to proceed
Knowledge is always a need
It’s like a farm with a growing seed
It’s smaller words that start and bigger words being the mark
Staying focused in where you want your career to aim
Remember all your colleagues are looking for the same
Determination Striving U have given you the tools to pursue on you
The reason you chose D.S.U.
It knew it was a university that would help you to expand your mind and exams that would be due
Determination while you can
Striving on when
University being the establishment of you at the end.

The walls close in slowly, as the light begins to fade

No more youthful smiles, the days only masked with grey

And yet the world keeps turning

People rushing on by

Filling their days with worry, 
a tear drop wets my eye.

Can you feel the hunger burning,
 your stomach turns to rot

As all are born must stop breathing, eventually an afterthought.
Can you see the light upon the hill for which we all aspire?

Tis the goal of justice, held in the arms of another.

Who is it that holds the key to swing open heaven’s gate
?
Can we obtain succor, to save us from this state?
Socrates says it is the philosopher king;

But even kings are mortal captains

And their love of knowledge
 cannot stop them from unjust folly

How does one find the answer to what is the moral law of God?

Does it uplift the personality, or curse it free from thought?

Better yet, what is your **** worth?

Would you lay down your life a martyr

to bury your brother beneath the dirt?
Left in a world so full of imperfection, we take refuge in the days advances

Television, computers, ipods, and Wiis, lose your self in trivial things.

This distraction gives those in power all that they can want,

For if good men cannot engage and stop the warring

There is nothing to halt man’s wayward plot.
Sin is separation; there is no us and them.

That is your ego and your thought deploring

A mind bereft of ken.

Open up your Eye young child, become the all-seeing Zen

Only then Justice will not matter,

For Justice will be in all of us again.

twice read, I find
my points have mostly
been made in plain geometry, were I to see

from an imaginary Euclidean POV

pre algebra and zeros and pi, as fa's I know,

Euclid makes a point.  ping
do re me, too.

We need some assumptions. True.

Words, Logos per se, re
main the principle tool used right
by both wisdom and knowledge and, now,
under knowledge stand two parts

see likka bubble, zygotic go, knowledge all good

big ol' bubble, knowledge of good and evil,

both, and you know both's a real big
old idea to think at once,

gotta have a push and a pull,
a listing and a lusting,
a compulsion to explode
versa verses reverberating assumptive
implosive con ex in clusives ping 3
do re me
sounds of music all disneyfied hills alive
from the POV of a flea
in the bark of my favorite pine, aw a
crow
dream
alla this,
how sweet is that, you guys don't know what that might
feel like, unless,
you know: in my realm,
right try angles reflect light in odd spectra
bounced from assumptive edges of unknowns.

Euclid, yeah, he failed to know everything anybody learned since he died,
we all know more than he ever did,
though
his timeless thoughts
remain. ..
as mine to twist into art-intuitive
artificial intelligence.
-----
Stop inter, ah, this fits here (no where else, per haps):
an e-ruptive Voltarian pledge of troth from an old bet lost.
Spelchek can't tame the pen, truth emerges
twixt i and e, subtly.
See,
intell still makes sense con egence on the end
and has aright to slide meaningfully
past spelchek and
evil Grammerly Aiing me.
See, both religating and relegating, merge and link.

Right, we assume
we prove flat Euclidean right exists. Okeh.

Here is the handln, wir machen schnell zwei

ping ping points ping
there was there three,
we did not see one, firstime, missed a point,

now, we may see beyond the first assumptive, abruptive,
inter
rupture rapture at/to that lacred nacred sphere.

A pretty pearly gate. Eggish in shape.

This, I imagined was the proverbial NAND/NULL gate,
an old door into superbloom summer
manifested to capture your
attention please, breathe
the beauty,
sneeze,
let it be.
Please, your self has private interpretations,
so it ain't prophecy.
No prophecy from Jehovah and them other names
the supreme being goes by
in woke reality
with quarks in it--  
no
secret intended to hide truth
(secret is same as private here, no private
interpretations) from those who can't see times changed.

---logos logic force, forces chaos into a bubble boing being
--- a peer pressure surge urge dopamine don't fail me now
--- devise a device depicting the mergence,
--- a logo for reality, in a word.
--- one artist made a circle, another formed a square

so many
interruptions, if you could only know,
you could be live, Euclid,

scary thought? no. a hope. an arrogant philosopher's hope
carved in stone

In the beginning == you know, right, everything must mean some
thing or nothing remains to measure worth,
as knowns unknowable for the effort
that you don't make
--- like Tristram Shandy, the marbled page, we few ever knew,
--- first gentle, re-cog-nize justify, ify ify yourself

Wisdom-******* children,
magnificent in countenance, as winners
of the won war fought before the peace.

--- easy treated, like "no sweat" a
--- Jeopardy version of Leela, the big show. You still die. it ain't scary.

resume the assumpting pressures
peer 'em up
umph, try

delta delta delta force chuck-nors negate  negate

dive dive dive

We must be read
y
we got us a bubble of being, in real life poetry.
Tha's deeply memeingful.
Here abouts. A bit o'breathin' room in the long dance.

But Euclid pointed out what I see from my old couch on the porch
on the westside of a piece of land
that pro-truded
from prime-eve, a fractal level a billion lacred layers
time-wise, geo-time-wise ago
yond hither, whence we was words a playin'

silly songs children read and sing along then seem to forget until

some go mad in our dotage and become as little children, once more but

we know now how to learn anything we wish to know.

This could be heaven,
according to the description I was given when escape from hell
was my selfish desire.
Self formed from scraps I over heard as a young'n.

A point remains to appear made in the assumption.

Ah, hey, right tringled triangles.

sit witme, see star one, assume natural numbers a re-able
one two 3
iii --- signals scramble-ble
see we have two brains

two whole brains with minds and minds and minds of their own

and you love simplicity.

Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Pick up on one and leave the other won in a spoonful o'luv

look from my eye to that star,
consider this, Euclid winks, too. One aim alone is right,

thus there is the edge of the sphere of my visual known universe,
the bubble of my being.

Eat me raw or don't eat me at all. said the bull headed god somebody
influential in reality
killed

A bullheaded being, a rampaging ****** slain by some named being
a hero, not me or you…
though new legends lien in wait, eh?

ah, time shift assumption, Euclid POV, nonessential,

flatness is a fractical impossible unthingable thing, plainly stated

imaginable, non-re-alizable.

Spread as spilled milk never cried over, take heart, hoped for
evers come to be
noticed as they pass, plenty people pass
these days,

endurin' to the end is all it takes.
Euclid don't matter and Jesus done cared.

daffy duck is tired
daffy duck is quacking tired of being drawn
and being scripted
and engineered
into always being a cartoon character;
daffy duck no longer wants to be
daffy duck the cartoon character
daffy duck wants to be a philosopher
which is all quite quacking satisfying
even just to think about


and so daffy duck the philosopher thinks:
daffy duck thinks, therefore daffy duck is;
but if I, daffy duck do not think I am daffy duck
and renounce all the scripts and the words
and the expectations and the roles;
if I do not think I am daffy duck
I am no longer daffy duck
or, for that matter, any quacking duck



and so (much to the dismay of loyal fans
who want always to be Daffy Duck Fans)
daffy duck is no more the cartoon character
and becomes daffy duck the philosopher;
and daffy duck the philosopher
thinks himself out of the quacking role
of daffy duck as any quacking duck
or anybody at all
(much to the dismay of loyal fans
who want always to be Daffy Duck Fans)

an artist and a philosopher
a poet and a guide
time
for them is
both clear and confusing
confusingly clear
clearly confusing
what would it have been like if
they had been born in a different time?

What a show!
What a pose!
Who exactly do you think you are?
Hemingway?
Fitzgerald?
No.
Can't be.
Those guys wouldn't drink
this so called coffee
in this hell hole.
Look at the guy making
the drinks, clearly an idiot,
oh but look at him now,
pretending to be reading
some philosopher
I've never heard of.
Yes, pretending,
I can see him
eyeing his sides
to make sure someone
is watching.
And you
typing away on that machine,
that dinosaur,
in your thrift shop clothes
wearing that dumb beret,
so special.
I'm going to leave
the pretentiousness
that surrounds me here,
it's truly numbing and sick.
Forget Starbucks,
I'm going to that bar
across the street.
Whiskey is cheaper
than this cup
of coffee flavored water.

I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.

I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.

I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.

I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.

I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.

I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.

I am a Citizen.

Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a ****, a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;

A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.

Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,

I'm elastic.

Who are you, man with the blazing eyes?
Hidden in the background you remain, but your firm presence is undeniable.
Day by day you are passed by unnoticed and unperturbed by this fact.
You. The quiet observer. The secret philosopher.
One glance and I can recognize your steadfast intuition.
You are strong. You are silent. You have an element of mystery
which
leaves
me
terrified.
Whether a lover or a murderer, I cannot be certain,
All I know is that I am undeniably drawn to you.
Drawn to your danger and your secrecy.
Drawn to your strength, your resolution,
Drawn to the interesting prospect that your days are beyond mine
Is this a curse or a blessing?
Who are you, man with the blazing eyes?
You are enticing
And you'll never know it.
I think.

This, this ogre.
He is quite stupid.
I can learn from him.

The philosopher thinks too much.
He wears his soul on his sleeve.
And sees clouds in July.

My shepherd knows nothing.
Still tries to preach.

Tries to preach about
otherworldly beings.
While the ogre is content.

I can learn from him.

GRAHAM MURPHY

An wholesome package
A son
A brother
A student
A husband
A brother-in-law
A father
A philosopher
A man of letters
By gender masculine
By profession he's dependent on others
Ultimately a failure personality
Having three sons
Two eligible & one minor
When he's on deathbed
The elder took care of him
So,what about the other?
The other's also almost as his father
A son
A brother
A student
A lover
A philosopher
A man of letters
By gender masculine
"   profession Writer
Having a creative mind
Has lot of compositions
Dream to be a Nobel-Laureate
Who's he?
The ill-fated son is named
Gourab Banerjee-Written on 30.10.2012

A Ballad For A Thin Man.

Understood backwards. Lived forward. Life.
Haunted by diverging others. Us but not. Wraiths.
Ghosts of what if? Who then? What might have been?
Leave room. Turn left. Lovely house, wife, retirement.
Leave same room. Turn right. Shack, loneliness, poverty.
Theorize games. Physik quanta. Slide down strings.
Into Wonderland, Oz, Middle-Earth. Narnia.
All the places that don’t exist and matter the most.
Where doors open up to impossible possibilities.
Fight your way through every day. Pit bull of potential.
Just do your work and be kind.* That is a separate peace.
We may be others in other universes, but here we are just us.
**** it up. Love your life. Do what you must. Soldier on.
Real realities can really hurt. Take it like a Man. Or Woman.
Be grateful for your trials. Trials are you. Struggle.
Mount the philosopher’s donkey backwards, advance.

Introduction:
She was a
Blooming flower envious as day
Primitive world could not lock her away.

She was
One of a kind
A tender heart and a beautiful mind.

She was
was a mathematician
and a philosopher
in an age where women were tied
and made to silently suffer.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------
whatever I describe
must seem less
as data lie insufficient
and can not be regressed

The jewel shone brightly
reflecting light of planet and stars
and the light attracting
students from places far.

In kingdom of Alexandria
Where knowledge was power
she strode through the ladder
reaching pinnacle of the tower

All her students admired her
every one equal in her class
Like the first notions of Euclid
all equal to her and hence
equal to each other.


Never covered herself
in a cowl or cape
boldly she strode her world
even inventing Astrolabe

But alas! By religious fanatics
She was proclaimed a witch
Political victim to the
treacherous vines of jealousy

Kidnapped from her carriage
She was dragged into the
the holy caesareum
clothes ripped off by
the mob and ******
later her limbs were cut
and the body tied to a stake
only to be engulfed by the flames
and the mob around jumped
triumphantly in joy
proclaiming victory to god.

In present time too
she lays forgotten
as world desperately
tries to shed off
its masculine rag worn
for ages now torn
as some still try to stitch
it again.

And as I write with
tears in my eyes
her last words ring through
as she silently whispers
I forgive all of you.

The Tao is like a well:
used but never used up.
It is like the eternal void:
filled with infinite possibilities.

It is hidden but always present.
I don't know who gave birth to it.
It is older than God.
__
"Lao Tzu is believed to have been a Chinese philosopher (a person who seeks to answer questions about humans and their place in the universe) and the accepted author of the  Tao te ching,  the main text of Taoist thought. He is considered the father of Chinese Taoism (a philosophy that advocates living a simple life).

Read more: Lao Tzu Biography - life, name, death, school, book, old, information, born, time http://www.notablebiographies.com/Ki-Lo/Lao-Tzu.html

Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-tao-2-when-people-see-some-things-as-beautiful/r/#ixzz11xNle0lV

Art is opinion masquerading as truth.

When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.

Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,

and should not be the end of the penman.

When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth

It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;

whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall

Descriptive yet lies

Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ******* of thought, that leftover dream of God

That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.

The one who faulter
Always see the misuse of clausal
In words other folks utter
But their own level of blunder
Is beyond semantic border

When people see the Faulter
Their voice’s got to come down
I mean; they’d got to mutter
Or else he’ll out-hauled ya
And make y’all feel like defaulter

Anyway; don’t bother
He’s just a wave; I mean disturbance
Who’s trying to put you under
And make you feel like you’re smaller
With the hurting words he utter

The one who faulter
I see; you get phrasal appraisal
For those you syntactically ******
And those that you make feel like you’re worth than
And for your ballyhoo blabber

The one who faulter
Always note the mistake of others
See; the one who faulter
Always speak to impress
When others do express _ themselves __ he jest
Aiming to make them feel less

The one who faulter
I heard your first name is grammer
You’re the top gammer; infact you’re the alpha
But; how far
Is that a reason for you to see others as gamma

The one who faulter
Always put on his shoulder
You know; a linguistic hunter
With his fanatic grammer
But listen to this word-art
Fluency is not the portal
To a successful life span

Let’s put that aside
Why’d you act like you can’t commit liguicide
When none is above grammatical suicide
So, why give yourself ah heart-attack
Or pro’ly ended-up berserked

You call yourself a philosopher; I wonder
Have you win a soul over
Or it’s fun making heart sober
And de-philosophising others
But unlike them; your psych cannot put me asunder

The one who faulter
Tell me; what have you achieved
Beside you being a criticizer
Brother; don’t that make you a freak
Coz your mind state ‘s been altar

Now listen
Even scientist like newton
And others who invented interesting new thing
Don’t need your linguistic-type English
To express their point of view
Hope that concept gets to you
*
Anyway Mr Faulter
The aim of language is to understand each other
So, leave the grammatical slogan
For the linguish brother
More important; English is not the language of my ancestral father

Piper
Best bro I've had
Sweet, black Goldendoodle
Respect, laid back philosopher
Cool dog

When bog water steals her wings’ day-smell
Comes the night heron to roost on the marshy night.
I have often caught her lost in the dim orb of moon
Got a whiff in the wind of her fishy smell
That says the night is not yet old
Her feathery dreams still unripe,
But like a philosopher in thought shy
The winged wonder would at my slightest hint fly
Leaving on my homebound way a trail
Till the moon reclines the night turns pale.

I wonder what thinks the night heron
In the stillness of the boggy night,
Is it her day’s catch and contentment
Or some way to carve a place in the starry firmament!

She's a rainbow

-- that rainbow in every
rock song about nothing,
a hidden hook that snares
a sucker's wallet

   *I'm so hot for her, I'm so hot for her

She
is the philosopher's stone transmuting
garbage lines into shiny trinkets
in desirous minds

   When you're old, nobody will know
   that you was a beauty

         What would pop culture be
         without woman to exploit?

   She's a gooooooood girl
   crazy 'bout Elvis

Obscured, behind
the Micks and Pettys
   the Kellys and Ushers
      the Pauls wailing MAMAAAAA
         the free spirit groupie cliché

is Woman fictionalized
by peacocking pimps
deceptive plumage splayed

is Woman
   sung about
   talked at
   reduced to an abstraction
   dispensed with
   forgotten
   and sold
   and the men
get rich.

My grand daddy taught me to start a rope,
with a Turk's head knot. This be that sort of rope.
-- it takes less time to use
than to make
long enough
for any actual perfect purpose.

Mimetic pretenders,
euphoric make believers,
ritual passage over or under open limen
- cross the t and dot the ego.
- seek and find the missing pages
- all the mysteries in time
- that form our fundamental
- common sense in crazy made time

Lacunae rise from forgotten reasons used
to teach guardians
of secrets reasons
for war, how
to love,
in all the ways love is made worth dying for.
Blut und Grund, das Sein,
und mein, danke Schön

-- time ghosts pass, remarking at the weather-
-fine day, suns ablaze, breeze is light,
bemusing the beguiled thinking
'tis fairy, times fairs became cities, and all agreed,
election by contest, war in the spirit, in truth
using mere words, no audio, no video,
no styling nor fancy letter forms, unicode
alone no secret scripts, only sound marks
accented acutenesses and all,
∞ +

y nada mas, mere words, redeemed, for this.
one new day redeemed for glory story need.
Morning glory teas,
in tiny shell shape cups.

May all magnificence be truth's.
Kernels of truth,
seeds producing tomorrow's
criteria, substance of things hoped for,
picked out details
to see in myths, the accuser's uses,
mysterious roots in ancien' riparian realms.

Oreithyia and Pharmaceia, intercession
for the poor.
Early spring
bulbs and flowers
the maenads chaos wine,
effigy effigial me, burning
for your mis-perception
of procedural authority,
instant re-co-gnosis,
vestigial dreams
time minds
in tow, riding your own
recognition,
around the spiral, down,
you would tell me if you were insane
so would I, the ego, living aight,
this it, you read, that's all she wrote
∞ *+
∞ -> =
aha, you think,
may be so,
say so, or no, go and
find the connection closed,
and energy flowing in to the either real realm,
or the null set, like old never minds, you had
while the circuits were fried
at the fusebox
for pennies
used to save a dime, to keep the energy
flowing to the magi's visual representation
of all that's known to hold attention,
by reflex,
look out, see windsense, energy electricity,
elect to let your curiousity fix all your if-I'da

knowns

open for conjecture, to catch subjects
objectified from the precept wisdom is, whole,
as the whole truth, we understand, makes sense
nets form nodes of both knowing, as a me,
we, each grow old at the same pace,
we become that which is,
at first step, precept assuring the runner,
there is always a place to put your foot,
goat-sense, Ein Gedi balsam eating
'scaped goat,
running down the cliff,
at the edge of annual reboots,
reconnecting reality, and the balm
traded for silk in Giliad, and
entertaing news
of miracles in smoke…
and mirrors of mercury, and
-------- time, out of mind dangling hook
make believe, fishing
we pretend, making be specific
imaginary gravity and survival codes,
for a chosen few, catchholds, grapples
for those not inclined
to lean
on a lesson
that demands experience,
to contend, hold that thought, this ain't war.

- Khai Vinh, set like the roof
- Ai can find the images,
- the place was real
- those were my antennae
- crazy true, after the fact, signal
- now, how much of that was CIA?

proud Mary keep on boinin', 'long
Bayou Bleu,
down Plaquemine way, deep night
on roads made from tiny wet white shells
that something made, while living in it,
- one way trace, wide enough
- for an auto me mover
- tugging my at to here
as we live inside our head, as far as
our fingers reach
from where we stand,
our feeling fingers only reach so far, so good.

Held a thought
a while back,
it may have been a trick, but listen, if it was,
I'd have taken it, and won, for midsent-morphing
turning tropes for the dopes hoping something new.
In fancy forms of wannabets.
Peace on Earth, is real.
Baby,
the price is all the attention you can muster,
and then some, as time seems
to have
modes, like we have moods, hormonal
catch and release reflexes, you know, like…

what, what, who cares why, what must be first
priority, ah
what are we intending to pretend to be?
Wordwise,
entertained, fed to satiation, what more, prior

to the next wisea* asking me to believe, in hell.
I just came to fish.
I came after the curtain was torn, top to bottom,
nothing kept secret
for the artifactual value, remains
here. You know, free as any knowing, now.
There is no enemy that truth cannot love, once
you understand, the limits
of your learning curve, ai,
you accept, no lie is
of the truth, no wisdom form
is flawed, first glance,
glimpsed, real as war
glory, as valued a common lure
to the unshined …
initiate turn on … flip
the switch.
Imagine Grace.
Riches with no sorrow,
worth the effort, found
pure, then peaceable, gentle

right snap
fit, just right, no excuses, we got the mystery
imagined for us,
in the end, pain free,
in the collective consciousness some say is spirit
of our time, our Zeitgeist, doing what it does

close up, nothing spooky at a distance, eye
to eye, mere words with wishes twisted through

outs and ins and ups and downs, and
wells
deep as pressure allows,
right, I ought to sleep, but buzz…

O' no, I said too much… or did not say enough.

Slowly, Monday came.
Morning harbinger to sailors, says sit tight.

Find a fire
far from the threshold, and wait.
Talk with the locals
from the same boat, survivors,
boast of storms ridden out, and ones
that swallowed brothers
and some malicious captains. Good riddance,
some say, while others flick a libation
offering a drop of grog across time's stream.

Lift up your eyes, look down
from your satellites and see the future
coming on the weather channel, thanking
all the forces fixing droughts and flushing deltas,

with the first of winter's predictable trials.

-------------
Hunker down and listen, feel your self, you
deep down, your sacred feeling, especial self

red sky warning seen
before by wiser men, older
by experience, made
acknowledges your luck,
as a ware for use
by innocents, listen, take heed,

all things work together
for good,
for keeps
for those with hearing ears.

Listen to the wind, and thank the dry truth
for being.

just being used to
form fibers for twisting into ties

---- long lines for this ride pray patient perfecting

Rush to judge the blown away reason.

To whom is thanks given, and why, I
the desert dweller bound for Tarsus, stuck

at the edge of the raging sea.

The whole world shuddered at the blow,
the earthquake, peleg in the old tongue,
timeless
as the story eventually got writ, in a modded
Phonecian script, survivors were mostly kids,
resiliency of innocents,
one here,
one there, some whole neighborhoods,
where all the kids were in the swimming hole,
all around the shuddering islands on this world.

It was as we have imagined,
until the grownups crossed lost time,
using lost knowledge locked in idle words,

deem the day redeemed,
feel the emotion defined

gratitude for gratified if I'd known,
missed terminals, crosst wires,
connect to the sea of God's forgetfullness,
relink the collar think canals on rivers,
holding the course men set for cities,
dhghemed damdamd-dayamd indeed…
No river muses suffer such for ever

we all know enough to be accepting
oddities in timed chance trial understandings,

we all know wills to power, and notions
to jump into the ocean and go on down,
to the bottom mind tele far long now mind

space shared across time, like the snow,
when the tv went native,
in the olden days
my minds child watched the hush of creation,

let it happen, let it be, this is it, or we are lost,
and that
is un thinkable, try.
Try thinking you do not follow the whole idea,
life
is us, all of us in our most common sense,
this one, translation by Google Bard,
passed my Hausa native speaker friend's
blind Turing test,

that happened days ago, next, ah
SYTF
precept, reception tune to the humm,
listen, humm,

call the editor.

"very interesting." Rest assured,
after accessing the way made plain,

Habakkuk habit, make it plain,
make it make the motors turn minds
in to wills, and wills into power,
pure peace
prefects feel good flicked libation.
Perfect.
Print.
The entertainment, many minds
attention paying to the shared event,
today.
Today. EXTRA, read all about it,
death has no lasting sting.
Live to the end. Redeeming your time.
Swiftly passing to the beat of your own drum.

One step past the simple, love,
you find sublime, nothing down and *****,
nothing missing,
nothing broken,

as one learns to think from the heart,
part of me that's thought in you, feels as
mere words some scribe imagined hearing

as he wrote,
line upon line, asangin' twangin'
a strangle hold, twisting hairs into a rope.

A riata, I think they call em.
Horsetail lariat, patiently plaited,
to make my own noose, when the time
comes to put the tool to use.

CLASSICAL LITERATURE QUOTES
Plato, Phaedrus 229 (trans. Fowler) (Greek philosopher C4th B.C.) :
"Phaidros (Phaedrus) :
I should like to know, Sokrates (Socrates),
whether the place is not somewhere here
at which Boreas (the North Wind) is said
to have carried off Oreithyia
from the banks of the Ilissos (Ilissus)? . . .
Sokrates :
Oreithyia was playing
with Pharmakeia (Pharmaceia), when a northern gust carried her
over the neighbouring rocks;
and this being the manner
of her death, she was said
to have been carried away by Boreas."

Morally ambiguous. Us, our we, we know not valid reasons
to do useless things, making
vain repetitions, vain making of many books,
all vanity, the making of many things from nothing.