Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
brandon nagley Oct 2015
whithersoever thou goeth, Mine pneuma shalt follow.
In the eve where I shalt be, I'll be in the crypt of saint's, a seraphic place, where there's a pinpoint of light to engulf mine glowing face. I shalt leaveth thee an otherworldly trace, where third world grace is placed upon thine head. I shalt be living; not dead. Do not angst nor fret: I'm here mine pet. Followeth the scent of white roses I shalt leaveth thee: the petal's shalt gleam in stream's of everlasting life. Mine soulmate, mine wife, if tomorrow doth not arriveth for me; remember this life's just a passing to ourn eternal loving reality. Dear Jane, mine sweet.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
pneuma is the vital spirit, soul, or creative force of a person.
whithersoever is archaic meaning old language for ( wherever)
Angst and fret means worry same thing pretty much.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
They were both ****
As ghost's;
Dissapearing into another's loving soul's.



©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedicated
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Mother-naked just means **** lol has nothing to do with mothers thankfully loll... Enjoy (:::
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i.

Beset next to me
Coadjuvant to mine need's;
I couldst not asketh for more
Mine Reyna's all do I believeth.

ii.

She compasses me in Dwarf Daylilies
Her suntanned dermis is momentous;
Wallowed in her oversea's memories
A throne surpassing, Hari and Reyna scented.

iii.

In Luzon, the older part of the firma
Betwixt the Cordillera Region, see through pneuma's;
Hand-poke tool's, for me and mine dynasty amour'
To get tattoos, of her ancestry upon her own shore's.

iv.

Covered head to toe
By these inked protection's;
Spelling out the word's
Brandon and Jane's resurrection.




©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication/Reyna of mine soul
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Purely noumenal or epistemologically maieutic?   Existentially transcendental transmogrification, transmute, transude, transubstantiate.  Spiritual apercu’s incarnate.  Infinite possibilities eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology’s perfectible ontology.  Elan vital’s entelechy’s apotheosis.  Psychic clarity’s evolutional ascension.  Perpetuity’s adamant tenacity.  Sentience’s inevitably irrefragable logistical tactician.  Preternatural’s ostensibly immortal fecund.  Yes, lie with me and I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind with mesmerizingly enrapturing ecstatic euphoria.  Sublimely surreal futurity fatidic and  decadently arrogant blatant flagrancy.  Incorrigible atrociously impetuous impudence,  pusillanimous no.  Enthrallingly endearing sensually demonstrative flirtatious flamboyance.  What’s to extravagant exorbitance portray……… exserted protuberance’s indefatigably indomitable.  Sexuality’s infrangibly latent virilities, erotica erectile errantry’s hubris!  Feral phrenic frenzied ****’s salaciously seductive.
Prophylaxis protocol's impecunious obviation.  Irate tirade treatise, vehement escapade tedium.  Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic.
There is a peculiar lightness
I have observed that appears
to increase with age

On the anniversary eve of my
70th natal year
I glance towards the
Western horizon
stars all lit
stellar candles beckon

My breath, Pneuma
with gilded wings and
golden vessel
longs to explore the
vaster regions of self

Constellations dangle
Happy Birthday across
the Bright Unknown

I wait......

A vacant silk sari
fluttering, flickering,
in the fiery sunset dusk
PrttyBrd May 2015
Take it, take it all
I give you all that I am
Each breath is for you
5415
Senryu
I give you my soul
They always told me of my pneuma,
This creative spirit,
Capable of conquering nations or liberating the unjustly incarcerated
Unearthing fabled, folkloric myths,
With all the pummels I’d expect a brain cyst—
Still, he trudges on,
Like a scapegoat in its farcical, ineffable glee—
Why are you telling me
To manufacture and market my life
Like an indulgent, indulged on swine
Conforming to the convention,
Supporting units of straight edges

What in this straight-edged maelstrom
Can help the creative pneuma
To thrive in a place so confining and restricting
And detrimental to discoveries, breakthroughs,
Spiritual sustenance?
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”*
Jorge Luis Borges

I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.

You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.

Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.

The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.

Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing  in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.

I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.

I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.

White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.

And the same color of your so polish, european skin.

The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.

I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.

I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.

I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.

Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
In the elevation of spirit, I am seperated;
Drawn apart from the land-dwellers,
I am propelled into the arms of clouds.
Eagerly embracing my new fate amongst stars,
I rewrite the patterns that form my destiny,
As a god amidst the heavens.

I fabricate new avenues as I venture,
Liberated from the fetters of ground,
I find freedom - escaping to new planes.
My sole duty to self,
Uplifting ego; regal in posture,
I am kept aloft of storms in my flight;

A seer, with third eye opening
To envision silver linings and goals.
And even in my solitude I am connected,
Solar energy soaring through veins,
Spreading wings to swallow sun,
I fly with Nut, drifting in meditation,
Each breath an inhalation of frequencies.

As subtle as Oshun,
I am deity as tranquil as stream,
Unbounded and infinite;
A soul of fire, air, ice and earth.
I am element, atom, and energy,
One with universe, a sound ensemble,
I am cosmic pneuma -
A human.
touka Sep 2018
that
which is breathed,
and blown

well
do not exhale me a soul

exile me
to the cold

impinging
sinking, stinging
pity

no

be brief;
be terse

without a kindness to me

cast me off;
trade the scald
for the scoff

no mercy

leave

go, love
go and love
at the cost of me
destined, empty
linger, singing
like the limping thrush
caught under the cat tongue
of nicotine
numbing
throbbing
thrashing in the blood
Arik Fletcher Jan 2017
I am more than my skin tone,
More than my place of birth,
I am more than my culture,
My species on this Earth.

I am more than my gender,
More than you may have heard,
I am more than a pronoun,
My *** is just a word.

I am more than a number,
More than a head to count,
I am more than a trophy,
My flesh not yours to mount.

I am a different person,
More than I was before,
I am my true reflection,
My secret life no more.

I am a phoenix rising,
More than the heart you spurned,
I am alive and learning,
My past self dead and burned.

I am a new beginning,
More than I was back then,
I am a different ending,
A chance to live again.
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! "
Dyticá Leiak's twilight
Asim Javid Jun 2015
There are times when
you are not yourself.
You blend into something
unwantedly & unwillingly.
Something that is
too distant from your
psyche & guise.
The transfiguration makes
you a whole another person,
one beyond your bridle.
But you always hit back to
your archetypal persona.
The endeavor to recrudescence
is always tenacious,
summating unscrupulous inscriptions to your crasis.
People will judge you
on this substructure of your psyche.
But this is not who you are
& what you are!
It is mere an icky phase.
Your elucidation lies beyond
this transfigured self.
Never relinquish your
pristine pneuma.
We all face a transfiguration sometime.
typing away at the writer;
like a machine gun
lock and loaded
and ready to fire
ink splattering
like blood and
words shot out
like the fusillade
of the ******
hands tied behind
my back and the
fold has blinded
my eyes with a
cigarette lit and
my senses of
unflappability
prevails again
no last words
no last requests
just barrels of this
machine pointed
at my head and
my heart in all it’s
glory like a man
taking a **** and
it could be all taken
away by the trigger
just as quickly as
the turds flushing
down the river of
cowardice gunslingers
but if you
glint towards the
charlatan of brutes
like a dried up
white elk, then
you’ll know what
a poltroon
really
is

however,
the mastery
of the world
are eager to know
how much they can
squeeze out of you
like blood from a
rock before
they stick a
skewer into your
vitals and roast the
ebullience off of
your pneuma like
a burnt kabob
and that’s why my
gutter fingers must
rip sheet after sheet
from this monkey box
like the slightly torn pages
from the loose hands
of madman, and it all
comes down en masse
like four walls meeting
in corners
like the miraculous cry
from the sadist
like 7 billion in existence
and which one am I?
the cat burglar,
the dream alchemist,
the televangelist,
the czar,
the grand master of underlying,
the time traveler,
the creator of happiness
or just another standing
in front of the execution
line for one last time
because we never know
how many seasons
we have left
until the end
brandon nagley Aug 2015
Like pop rock's
When she saidst she loveth me;
I jumped out of mine body
As mine pneuma went thither the nebulosity.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
SassyJ Jan 2016
Fire burning, logs marching
A path daunting, ranting taunts
Chanting seamed Arabic hymns
Chargrilled silky toned offerings
The exquisite yurt tent warm
Enclosed in ethnic kaleidoscope
Bedouin tribal pneuma radiates
Tensed and cordially punted
Feral wild ones sociably awake
Reticent,drained in frail noises
Fainting in lapses, trailed to fail
Tidal noises permeates above all
Waved and enveloped in beats
A drummed goblet, strummed oud
Announcement of the lived life force
The tidal rhythmic music timed
All clapping and mesmerised
Drawn in dangerous curves
A continuum of introversion sorted
The ever censored extroversion summed
Content: A group of people gathered in a Bedoiun Yurt, a very colourfully decorated setting. The oud guitar and goblet drum was being played, meandering music.On a cold cold day all gathered by the burning fire to keep warm.
However, spending sometime with the Bedoiun Arabic tribe in the desert. I was fully drawn to their entertainment. All soaked and enjoying entertainment but still constrained by introversion. I guess the question I wanted to externalise is "the relativity of the introvert-extrovert continuum"....... Or am I just socially awkward?
brandon nagley Dec 2015
A lunar eclipse passeth between ourn Soma's
A solar eclipse maketh glitz
On ourn lip's;
Kiss of pneuma.
                            Aforetime quietus, breathless existence
                            Now coalesced in vivacity;
                            Sculpted, in the creator's
                            spiritus.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-filipino rose dedication





Note;
Happy four month anniversary Reyna Jane Nagley!!!!
Love you more Reyna, thank you for sticking with me the last four month's, seem's as If we've been together for lifetimes now,which verily I've known thee a lot longer than thou hath known!!!! Mas mahal kita Reyna.... For anyone who don't know what ( mas mahal kita Reyna means) it means I love you more queen.. In Filipino tongue.!!!!!! Me more queen Jane!!!! Happy 4th mine Reyna!!! Mine soulmate....
Spiritus means- the Latin term for breath, often used figuratively to mean spirit.
pneuma means- (in Stoic thought) the vital spirit, soul, or creative force of a person.
Soma means the parts of an organism other than the reproductive cells.
the body as distinct from the soul, mind, or psyche....
Aforetime means before in archaic in other words...
quietus means-
death or something that causes death, regarded as a release from life.

Vivacity means pretty much alive or lively!
PaperclipPoems Apr 2016
I buried my heart in his hollow ground
Latched my soul to his sinister pneuma

He was the walking dead
And I was his conduit.
Glenn McCrary Aug 2011
In the incandescence of this empyrean nocturnal rhapsody

A remarkably rare yet, aureate creature appeared before me

From nightfall until daybreak she smoothly crooned an infinite array

Of enamorous symphonies to which I naturally could not abstain



A subtle spark of ardency was cast upon my sauntering pneuma

Inundating me into a catalepsy of which I zestfully fancied

Her charisma suckered me in with ease, illuminating my euphoria

Masquerading my pervasive mourning, cauterizing it to ashes



Each lyric alleviates the suffering that I have so hazardously acquired

Every note speaks to me in a language unknown to the community

The tasteful euphonies that perspire, carefully assuage my heart

I raised not a finger nor did I enunciate a single word or syllable



Her musical prowess completely squandered me with passion

Jauntily I danced to the cadence of the beat scouring my veins

Ceaselessly I could bathe in the essence of her bubbling sound waves

Never shall this finely crafted music pause, It shall remain on replay
Ricky Nov 2015
If you asked me what my favorite color was, I probably couldn't tell you
But what I would tell you is I am a combination of gleam and gloom
Bumblebee color! And I've earned my luminous yellow and wretched black stripes
Meaning when I bleed, these colors reveal and they smack against the pavement like bang snaps
That is they ignite a spark gold as honey but the color is placebo
For instance, the direct Spanish to English translation of my last name is castle, but I do not feel like a king; In fact, I haven't since my thoughts held me captive in my own kingdom, put me in check mate as if it were a game of chess then proceeded to dethrone me
I like to try and convince myself that I'm one with nature’s convection but the reality is I'm experiencing hazy views from under in the fog rather than the suns bliss in the clouds
Sometimes I may appear to be oozing with confidence. That is unless I can see myself falling in love with you. See the mirror shows reflections of another, the mirror shows reflections of the boy who could barely speak to his own sweetheart because his voice was an old man walking with a stutter and her hand slipped away, she was gripping on butterflies danced in my stomach as I gazed into her pneuma
I'm an artist. But not in the traditional sense. I don't use a paintbrush or a physical canvas, my mind is the paintbrush and the canvas. I like to paint pictures in Ricky's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad brain of myself in a world where I don't have to write about Ricky's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad brain. If I move to Australia my brain will come with me
I often find myself sharing smiles and laughter with my acquaintances but I've noticed that when they
part, there’s always one acquaintance that does not
That acquaintance is anxiety
Anxiety never leaves me in fact it's my number one friend because anxiety knows how to keep it real
Anxiety is always there to remind me that again, the gleam is placebo
Anxiety reminds me that although I have these elegant, gorgeous, sheltering feathers on my back I'm not sure if I can call them wings because when no one was there I took myself under them but the weight was too much to bear. I cannot fly.
Anxiety grabs me by my arm and chest and like weights, drags me along wherever Anxiety feels like going, which is often nowhere
See the glass may seem clean on the surface but a few things I've learned about myself have made me see that the glass is stained by the kiss of desolation. I look into it and see a shadow of myself because
I wear my heart on my fingertips, my mind on the pistol grip, and my spirit on my shoes cause my psyche is a sunken ship
A 5 step tutorial on how to find out what it feels like to live in these shoes
1) Bring me a glass bottle. I'll bleed into it
2) Throw it against the pavement with as much force as you can so that it shatters into thousands of pieces of broken vows
3) With your dominant foot step, no STOMP on it like it's the only way to feel the vibrance travel through your bloodstream
4) Realize the gleam is placebo but the gloom is very real
5) Pretend everything is okay as it penetrates your sole
anna Mar 2019
him
I only caught glimpses of his eyes while he spoke

words, lacerating this pneuma

and stuffing superlatives in this innermost being.

the wisdom I believed I possessed tumbled like Jericho

and I could hear the audacious screams of the Israelites

like blood torrents in arteries.

it’s a shame, I thought. He had a good heart.

pomegranate pnumbras flicker like fire behind my eyelids

and it burns there, too.

can I leave?

a smooth muscle ***** pumps blood and serotonin through platelets back into arteries

and I hungrily drink this newfound oxygen.

and all around the splintered cage

I saw orange slice smiles and white yacht clouds drifting through a blue ocean.

but a quick slip up pulled me away

and the faceless effigy stood pristine with metaphorical eyes,

of which I only caught a glimpse.
Purely noumenal or epistemologically maieutic?   Existentially transcendental transmogrification, transmute, transude, transubstantiate.  Spiritual apercu’s incarnate.  Infinite possibilities eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology’s perfectible ontology.  Elan vital’s entelechy’s apotheosis.  Psychic clarity’s evolutional ascension.  Perpetuity’s adamant tenacity.  Sentience’s inevitably irrefragable logistical tactician.  Preternatural’s ostensibly immortal fecund.  

Yes, lie with me and I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind with mesmerizingly enrapturing ecstatic euphoria.  Sublimely surreal futurity fatidic and  decadently arrogant blatant flagrancy.  Incorrigible atrociously impetuous impudence,  pusillanimous no.  Enthrallingly endearing sensually demonstrative flirtatious flamboyance.  What’s to extravagant exorbitance portray……… exserted protuberance’s indefatigably indomitable.  Sexuality’s infrangibly latent virilities, erotica erectile errantry’s hubris!  Feral phrenic frenzied ****’s salaciously seductive.
Prophylaxis protocol's impecunious obviation.   Splurgeness spry sporadic sprawl, spurious staunch succinct stymie tacit, irate tirade treatise vehement escapade tedium.   Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic.
Onoma Apr 2016
True rise of true
rise, true fall of
true fall...as if
these gave mind
and body the
mythology of
direction.
Afterall, there's
everafter at every
turn.
Gifted a ghostly
long lock, for
good luck and
good measure...
to keep the pneuma
from transmogrifying
stillness.
A silver cord as
brittle in appearance
as the world it
harnesses to experience.
Where release snaps
silver, lightning return
of no return.
Mainline of soundless
music, en-silvering stars...
cord of web and Word.
The etheric umbilical cord said to tether the soul to the body.
Cataclysmically holocaustal catastrophic cacophony.  Spurious staunch succinct stymie tacit, irate tirade treatise vehement escapade tedium.  Belligerent barbarian of a berserker bodacious katzenjammer.  Ostensibly deterrent savage vicious violence.  Ghastly gruesome grotesque gristly groaty gnarly, awfully terrible hideously horrible heinously horrendous.  Inundate liable culprit, assay relay's convey, inveigh irrefragably inevitable inure.  Tercel theocracy, anticipate angary amentia.  Attenuating arbitration accidence ambiance acoustics.  Diction's enunciation execrating eventuation evocative expletives.  Reconnaissance reconnoiter rectilinear recrimination.  Incessant barratry Bailiff's rake-ness rails.  Détente, demarcate delirious destitute demiurge.  Diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt, annex annul's edifice *******. Spiritual apercu pneuma's palatial estates!!!!
Evolution of psychic clarity's inevitably irrefragable.  Noumenal sentience's semantic regalia!
Fiercely ferocious rant-ness!!!!!
Exponentially extemporaneous objectified manifest's totally tangential to trajectory extant.  Chicanery dynamism's fealty to astral projection's categorical imperative's eventuation evocative expletives of existential extremity!!
samantha neal Mar 2015
I crave to stain your lips with my name
Easing every syllable, vowel, and consonant across your tongue
Excavating into the base of your throat
Edging through your lungs
Becoming your every breath and sigh alike.

I desire to drip my mind down your back
Lacing every thought I can through the notches of your spine
Allowing ideas to glide across tranquil shoulder blades
Enable my intellect to become your most sumptuous support system.

I necessitate tracing my soul across your collarbone
Purr my subconscious into the deepest crevices of your chest
Inspire my pneuma up and down your incomparable neck.

I can make you feel meaningful again,
Touch me so I don't feel so empty anymore.
there was a draft of this published under the same title (now titled empty first draft) and I said I would edit it but I never did then someone I adore challenged me to edit it so here we are with a considerably beautiful final to an unfinished thought.
Trepidation deluges my pneuma in its state
How did I ever ebb this far?
It’s like I never sensed accomplishment
My reason? Such frailty in making.
I can’t ever invent an inkling of a use!
But in the case that I could, here I’ll be
Faltering into a trance
Of conventional panic, but dreadful still,
Dull pain in a rush,
As I know I lost my love,
I’ve never accomplished anything
Because I’ve never had the courage to
Christos Rigakos Apr 2012
Awakened by the rumble in the ground,
I stared unfocused at a rolling cloud
of smoke and black soot falling all around,
and startled at the thunder-crack so loud,
          that scared to lifeless sleep a thousand faces,
          which littered fields to the most remote places.

The rumbling, now with squeaking iron wheels,
grew louder as the iron beasts approached,
I stood  and reeled upon two aching heels,
the sight of monsters ready to encroach.
          I fell beneath the belly of one beast,
          devoured into its raging, trampling feast.

Awakened by the whooshing of my breath,
pressed out from lungs and skin so completely,
after the cracking, crunching sound of death,
where pneuma from its flesh finds liberty.
          As light as soot-less air that blows away,
          I bid farewell to me.  I could not stay.

Around the fields where soldiers came to slay,
some shadows danced their jig victoriously,
while others puppeteered warriors in play,
and bathed in blood-warm sin so joyfully.
          And white-robed praying men stood off aside,
          with faces deep in praying hands to hide.

And,  as if sniffing blood upon the air,
some shadows turned their heads at once to me,
proceeded to approach like floating hair
of one drowned, pushed about, under  the sea.
          Their un-mouthed accusations, gurgled screams,
          struck fearsome that I burned up at my seams.

Yet one warm hand upon my shoulder stayed
my tremblings, my accusers ghastly shrieked.
My fears, not fully quenched, were much allayed.
The white-robed man, in un-mouthed words did speak,
          in my defense, recalling all good deeds,
          at times when his advice I'd somehow heed.

The raging shrieks cast all I ever did,
from infancy until this very war,
all things exposed and all I ever hid,
my very being was bared down to my core.
          In minutes lasting for eternity,
          my every living moment I could see.

Both sides had piled my deeds upon a scale,
each deed a colored weight much like a stone.
When one would add his stone,  the other'd wail,
till finally I found myself alone.
          I looked around and saw no one in sight,
          as darkness overcame me with a fright.

In blindness, all around me, grinding teeth,
unreachable, beyond my farthest reach,
a heaviness, as trapped down underneath,
a chasm, somewhere, never to be breached.
          The argument had finished, I surmised,
          with my conclusion hardly a surprise.

(C)2010, Christos Rigakos
For lack of a better genre or poetic form description I would categorize this poem as a Linked Quatrain-Couplet Narrative (or a Venus and Adonis Narrative--after the Shakespeare poem of the same name written in iambic pentameter), and somewhat in the style of William Wordsworth's "Daffodils" (1804), written in iambic tetrameter.

After more extensive research, I found this to be a Narrative of Sicilian Heroic Sestets (of rhyme scheme ababcc), not to be confused with the Italian form (of rhyme scheme abbacc).  The Sicilian Heroic Sestet is identical to the English Sestet (which I believe was brought to England from Italy by Petrarch?)

As an extra aside, this form was inspired in me after reading a poem of similar form inside the wrapper of a Chocolov chocolate bar.  Great chocolate, great poetry.
the black rose Feb 2015
ironically, love has ofttimes robbed me of my sanity & my peace of mind. my being.. destroyed by the time in which i’ve endowed in those i came to love. those whom requisitioned to love me in a way that would make forever seem reasonable..

and i find myself conflicting with people like myself, people that are looking for the same things that i myself are: soul intelligence, brilliance, killig, and a love that loves equally in return.

and when im away from him & his 'love', i feel homesick.. homesick for a place that doesnt even exist.
i sometimes question myself, i ask myself will i ever be able to experience hygge.

& sometimes i want to apologize to him.. for loving him so much, for being so passionate about caring for him in ways that he could never imagine, for trying to hold onto him when he obviously didnt want me in his life. all he wants is to be set free, but i dont think that i will ever be able to completely let go.. & i know he'll probably be happy without me & heaven knows that happy is all i want him to be. but when i love someone this much, a piece of my ego is with them.. if i let you go then you'll have to take a piece of my pneuma & quite frankly, im on my last piece. i am dying for your love & i am willing to face mortality.
venting..
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i.

Into mine soul
Into mine soul;
Lieth mine Reyna
Mine amare, mine abode.

ii.

Into mine head
Into mine head;
Lieth mine sunshine
The one I've awoken to, from the dead.

iii.

Into mine spirit
Into mine spirit;
I commendeth mine pneuma
Into her Filipino chariot.

iv.

Into mine death
Into mine death;
I shalt be renewed
By her every last breathe.

v.

Into heaven
Into heaven;
Awaiteth mine angel
I shalt be her minstrel.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Tashea Young Jan 2017
"Let Me"

This is the oppsite of loves Abyss.
I am Awaken me with warm hugs, and The fragrant smell of your sweet Chocolate passionate kisses while telling me you miss this. Cant you be my Mr. And Ill be your Mrs.?
Let me be your genie as I grant you three wishes.
Let me take a ride in your mind like a test drive in a new car just to see the real beauty in you and who you truely are.

Let me be your tour guide as you sit back relax and enjoy this ride but keep your ears and eyes open wide so I can show you the things I have been trying to hide and disclose to you information that has been classified.
Let me Be your bonnie and you'll be my Clyde. For you I willing take a bullet and die.
Let me Take your hands and rub them slowly all over my front and back side.
Let us make a California King Bed full of white, pink, and red rose pedals in which we both will lie
Let me drank from your fountain of youth and get a creatively euphoric high
Let me Tell you your thoughts That I can hear coming from your heart and mind inside.
Let me have a piece of you just to consume.
In your life Let me be just as a metaphoring caterpillar in a cocoon turning into a butterfly soon
Like a purple priscilla flower
Gaining its God given power
Between the Spring's early rising of the sun to magical Fluorescent colors of the the moon as its preparing to blossom and bloom.

Let me get hooked on you like a pain killer prescription
Let me have you as my favorite addiction
Let me Feed my mental temple knowledge from the chapters worded in your paperback novel of non-fiction.
Now ill let you grab the body of my guitar, grip my mic and sing like a star as your soothing barry white voice sends quivers that travels distances over my soul near and far.
But you must Hand me the lighter
So In The quintessential part of you I can  ignite a wild fire with hot blooded flames burning with heartfelt desires.
Let me intensify your pneuma taking your higher and higher.
Let me my love sedate you like Tranqulizer.
Let me decode your messages as if I am your decipher.
To love you have been a backslider.
Let my baptize ya
Purify ya.
Listen to your inner being and let our vibes guide ya.
This is a message to my peace King........Holler ✌
I wish he would just let me
irinia Nov 2014
"In paradise the work week is thirty hours
salaries are higher prices always dropping
physical labor is not tiring (because of lower gravity)
chopping wood is like typing
the social system is stable the government moderate
it's certainly better in paradise than in any country

At first it was supposed to be different
luminous circles choirs and rungs of abstraction
but one couldn't separate body from soul
precisely enough and the soul would arrive
with a drop of blubber a thread of muscle
one had to compromise
mix the grain of the absolute with the grain of clay
still another falling away from the doctrine the ultimate one
only John foresaw it: the resurrection of the body

God is seen by few
exists only for those made of pure pneuma
the rest listen to communiqués about floods and miracles
in time all will see God
when this is to take place nobody knows

In the meantime Saturday at noon
the sirens roar sweetly
and heavenly proletarians come out of the factories
carrying their wings awkwardly like violins"

Zbigniew Herbert
translated by Oriana Ivy
Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1988) was a Polish poet.
Antiphon Benedictus II / Sybilla Herophile

The wide influence of history was automated in rituals; it would indicate a bibliographical time rather than secular. The antiphons will take us through the hallelujah of eternal times and along the path of the Spring of Castalia. In singularity will be Delphic Herófila, primordial of Delphi prophesying Trojan conflicts. By reinterpreting her priesthood, she leads us to the Templar Adyton, which can be reinterpreted in a Christian way in the classical antiquity of this antiphon. Being able to be captive, she looked serious and wise, visionary and with customary strange gestures, for an abnormal state of Young Sybilla woman who was later supplanted by older fortune tellers.

The Antiphon Benedictus says: “Herophila you were plagiarized and ridiculed by a heterodoxy that knows rituals and sacred cares, the Pneuma that emerged from the cracks upset your incongruities, which settled on the millennial pedestal in Macedonian territorial geographies, uniting with Alexander the Great, recirculating in Sibylline centers and dividing the doors of Sober Hell, towards epiphanies of the cult of light, and of the sacred pairs of wisdom.

The discussion took place in front of those who surrounded the perimeter of the Antiphon; there was Vernarth and Saint John the Theologian. For decades the twilights have not made the red blood cells of the Cassotis iridescent, which defied a hydrographic competition, for the purpose of desembalming the bodies of the Falangists that emerged from the Temenos of Patmos; secular space for the auditoriums of the antiphon. With ornamental fictitious oracles envisioning the inadvisable opening of opposing eyes towards a Mysta or Mystírio Eleusino, so that finally, given the toxicity of Mercury's sulfide, they would emancipate themselves by making objections to the hypothesis of ruddy post-mortem symbols, which the braves of Tel Gomel, when appearing outside the extinct topic, so that the Benedictus songs would button their navels, which was the only thing that united them to the Sybillas who came from the expropriated ethics, and from the Cinnabar outpatient clinics for long periods providing life in the quantum of Mercurial Ambrosia. Being this preferably housed in the skulls of the V (Fifth courtyard of Helleniká, but this time with eschatology of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi). Eurydice is associated with an exhumation in front of the alerted and emitted effluvia of the Herophile after the Zygastron, which shone from a canvas and that Borker preserved from the Laurel Woods, in a sycalyptic horizon of the equinoctial Aftó of the Kaitelka Cetacean, which nitrated oxides from the eastern vertical, on its back, spauto shredding with purple carbonates towards the Rubicunda del Tinctorium, and from the rhizome that hydrated the enervated and dispersed drops that remained from the convulsion of the Metelmi wind, and shaking the fin that came from this Balaenidae specimen Mysticete, in casuistry of a whale with Down syndrome, but with prodigious psychic powers.

The Cinnabar wandered through the clothes of Tel Gomel's disembalmed ones, who colored themselves with sulfur mercury and revived from the oracles of Herófila, who woke up early with Eurydice validated by her Orphic impetus like no one else. The specific parts were tints of vital signs and epidermis shoots that trembled through the epiphyses of the tibiae that decanted arthritic through the femurs, and that rose with timid muscular masses, until they reached the instep where the celestial holes of Vernarth appeared, that he struck each one of his faithful with his Xifos sword, to bleed a bronze chalice for their reduced movements, stacked on crossed legs with dejected cheekbones that fell on their feet.

Reddish spots on his jaws and on his forearm they were transposed with red salvific footprints of Eurydice that he brought from Charon, but that expressly limited them in the posterior scapula that came arriving from the fifth courtyard of Messolonghi completely stiff in black. The muscular insertion was made of pale ocher, and the Cinnabar was elemented to verticalize the involuntary bodies of the earthquake, before the controversy of the makeup of their resurrection, after an outfit that they had never used before, pigmented by an antiseptic oracle of Herófila, which already insisted to compensate with war shrouds the size of the Benedictus that self-shod the iron suns, and that buried fangs of light and life in their facials, moving in the nervous of the trigeminal towards the ethmoid, causing rales of stimuli feminoids, for the enthronement of the women present in the only atrium of the Mandragoron. Thus they remained in multi-partial stages of the psalm that revived them, to go to meet the Hegemon Alexander the Great, who emerged synchronously from Larnax, from an eruption that uttered the greatest insults of political clarity, in the fierce agonies of his perforated lung. Parasites were sprinkled like empathic germs of Hellenism, conferring Masken resurrection, beyond the curtain or canopy that separated them in Persepolis..., returning from the Indus, for the funeral that would pass through the departure of Hephaestus. Rigor-mortis buried a soul overheating in pulmonary contusion, after a feverish respite, and re sulphating in the rhetorics of Plato and Aristotle.

The Sybillas no longer menstruated on the tripod, the Pythoness in their prehistoric eagerness was conceived twice cyclical, which were reconverted into prehistoric female raptures that confirmed the exo-red blood cells of the menstrual torment, to become reconverted Christian goddesses who were doubly buried in one past joined to the other, and that they were about to precede the next past-present, on an oak that supported them, clinging to them to bear the pain that never existed.
Sybilla Herophile
Irlomak Feb 2016
Oh little dove
you know what you are capable of
your fears are just getting in the way
if only you could take a second to step back from the negativity
and start trusting and believing in yourself more
your fright will stop existing
and
you will start to live
a positive and peaceful life
so let go of all the things
that's preventing you to achieve happiness
let go of all the pessimistic thoughts consuming your mind
for it would not give you a healthy sanity
*let confidence and optimistic ideas devour into your pneuma
for it would give you a vigorous, congenial fate.

— The End —