Mother Nature broke her water
But the baby never came
Our inundated world
Will never be the same

We watched slowly
With a growing sense of impotence
As an elemental army
Took our innocence

Some  left their homes and died
In another place
They never did return
To their own space

Politicians waded 'round
In their wellingtons
What nerve they had to even show
Their sorry skeletons

Pontificated platitudes
Filled the element of air
And those who had been flooded
Didn't really care

To hear the sly sermon
Those words were barely heard
Though so well-written
Practised and rehearsed

Mother Nature has retreated now
To her slumber state
One day soon she'll wake again
We do not know the date

Windermere 2016 February 14th

We rise and stand to the praises of hypocrisy

We sit and listen to the opening speeches

The narrow minded preaches 

We rise and stand again fumbling for the right dog eared page of the bible 
Looking for the hymns we hum in disjointed rhythms

Feel the spirit 

Feel the passion

Fill the collection plate

We have to build a church for all the Buddhist heathens that haven't heard the Gospel

We sit and listen again
Hanging our heads and closing our eyes in prayer

I only pray I don't fall asleep this time

The preacher

The reverend

The pastor

The pope

The Speaker of God's Word

The man annointed to deliver the path to God and Jesus but only if you seek salvation thru his sermons

The only thing I can do is watch the seconds ticking away on the wall clock
We've been here for twenty minutes and I wonder if it's impolite to stand up and walk out

But I'm kept in my seat as a sign of loyal friendship to friends that dig this kind of entertainment 

Conversion is on the mind
Saved is a word repeated and replicated until all meaning is ****** from it
Feeding grounds for the imaginary hole that only Christ can fill

Another glance at the clock reveals that God is real and he has chosen to slow the seconds down to a slow trickle

Acrimoniously I keep my mouth shut tightly 
Resisting the urge to laugh at a photoshopped picture of a prim and proper white woman teaching a school of Africans about God and how he provides for all

I imagine the children praying
For food to feed them and all they know
For the wars that have torn apart their families to end
For the death of diseases we found the cures for long ago

But they don't have the money for such nonsense like that 

so please fill the collection plate
We need to build a church in Fiji

I hear its a real nice place for a vacation

(The purpose of this parsimonious pursuit of perplexed passion and phony persecutions progressed prophetically by pontificated prayer and perseverance promises pompous pension plans for prolific preachers and prostitutes preparing for purgatory.)

This church is built for social and business networking
High class socialites and low end born withouts trying to buy their way into heaven thru redemption and baptism

The doors open finally and the choir of angels sing their praises as if God has tired of this gathering just as quickly as myself

Shaking sweaty hands and spreading our words of false sincerities 
We walk out feeling more like heathens and atheists than we did when we entered

Next Sunday I think I'll just stay home like usual.

If you
Want to shoot
From the hip
Make sure
You're not firing blanks.

Anyone worth their salt
Will tell you to be yourself
Then step aside to let you find that self.

Run from those
Who claim to see  
The truth too clearly
And with those that want to
Meet me I say...

"Meet me half way,
Then there is no extra mile".

Leaders
Have in mind,
To lead.
Preachers..
They want to preach.

Story Tellers tell stories,
Some, fact filled,
Others are sprinkled
With truths, still others
Are boldface fabricated fiction.

Looking within to find
The answers I've come to know
To be genuine..
And with Wisdom comes
The pain of responsibility.

A responsibility
That resides in the acts one does
Or the lack of action
One chooses not to do.

Others don't hear you
From where you're at,
They hear from where
They are at.
  
Either it's
'Pearls before swine'
or a gentle reminder
to heed or discard.

Knowing a whole lot of
Not much at all
I remain eager to learn
More of The Mystery.

My aim is to walk
Shoulder to shoulder,
Not ahead of nor behind
For in the moment I can see
where once I was blind.

"Don't Worry, Be happy"
So easy to say, at times
So hard to do,
"The Proof is in the Pudding
and the Puddings in the fridge".

And with that,
The last quote
Will have to do.

Distinguished disguised dancers
masquerading man-made makeshift moral-plays
complete compelling communicated classical conversations
penetrating pontificated, pompous perceived perceptions
incisive impregnating indecisive ideologies.

nomads, no longer nomads
humanity, hardly humanity
children, no longer children
innocence, hardly innocence

agitated ardent adversaries arguing
open-ended opposing opinions overtly
disregarding discussed details on.. display
meager moronic monologues misused mindlessly

as..

politically-powered perverse points of 'principle'
vigorously virtual virtues vehemently vested in
stolen sordid 'salient' solutions set to 'save'

To save what?
A system born to fail?
A culture devoid of culture?
A materialistic, sophomoric generation of deadbeats and mindless sheep?
A corporate ******* of sound bites and advertisements?
A persistently forced state of wage slavery?
A game of he said, she said, I'm right and you're wrong?
A seemingly endless spiral of despair and dissatisfaction?
A time and place living in fear of the next epidemic or incoming atomic bomb?

Where's the sense in that? I mean seriously. Why can't we all just get along?

I. Solitary Men
GOD: "I am."
MOSES: "Me too."
SOCRATES: "So what?"
ALEXANDER: "What's next?"
CAESAR: "Why not?"
JESUS: "Watch this!"
MUHAMMAD: "Watch this, or else."
SHAKESPEARE: "Dream."
NAPOLEON: "Out of my way."
WASHINGTON: "On my signal and forward."
LINCOLN: "On my example."
******: "Love is cowardice."
FDR: "Justice finds a way."
GHANDI: "This is how."
KENNEDY: "Turn the page."
KING: "Wake up and believe …


                                                 II. The Lost
I saw the best minds of my generation caged by the fears of their parents, organized for meaninglessness, and watching too much ****.
I saw you all around me kneeling to the angry God of television, and I knelt down with you.  
I saw the flames of our shared future burning down The Church, we held hands and danced around it, spun the bottle, and finally told the truth.
I saw myself lost and lonely among you, excusing myself for a cigarette.
I saw the aisles of the shopping center as the gateways to our dreams.
I saw twelve airplanes on the horizon, the disciples of a new race.
I saw the boys and girls of my generation staring at screens learning always learning that the world isn’t real.
I saw the sun rise like ribbons to burn The Poet. Sad, she laid her eyes upon the rocks, let the river flow and finally felt the wet climbing up from her knees.
I saw you Little Girl, the night you found me, and took me out into the trees.

I heard you say, “Brave Boy, this is a good day but we'll find better days than these.”
I heard a Man sing about a thousand tongues broken, a newborn baby with wild wolves around it, and a mystery *****. He asked me "how does it feel?"
  
I heard The Nun shouting the slogans we are afraid to write on signs.
I heard Caesar shouting from the other side of the Rubicon.  I was late and he wasn’t pleased.
I heard the sound of Your Daughter ******* to the rumble of the unswept highway, the trucks the men the steel on steel, the knife, the lime, the tequila, and two sweat wet pillows.
I heard The Preacher in a lab coat and a **** star that was preaching the income gap.  Both conversations were boring.
I heard The Radio play Mozart to the smell of burning wood.
I heard The Night fall down.

I met the Devil by The Lake and I laughed my *** off as he pontificated on his role in History. We tied the rope swing on a rotten limb and swung out high above the clear blue water, let go,  and fell in deep.
I met The Martyr that is trying to **** me.  He was such a sweet old man, so wise, so kind, his hand trembled involuntarily as he squeezed off a round.
I met The Politician that represents the deepest recesses of my conscience, and he ****** me just how I like it, but just a little different every time.
I met The Warrior at sunrise, chose a weapon, and died fighting for land that would never be mine.
I met The Lover on her barstool, laughed at her jokes, typed in her number, and strolled home smiling at the strangeness of her mind.
I met The Leader under his podium where he was hiding watching shoes.  He assured me everything i could see from there was part of a larger plan.
I met The Follower on an airplane.  We shared are snacks and watched the window, and discussed the name’s of strangers we wanted to be.
I charmed a Dancing Princess, laid her out like Ophelia in the river, bought her Mom a fancy car.
I scared The Fish out of the pond with a Mardi Gras mask and a six pack of beer.  They walked out of the water and hitch hiked to the nearest theater.
I lied to The Farmer when I told him I smelled rain.
I told the truth to The Doctor.  He just shook his head and made me wait.
I interviewed The Emperor on his way home from the office.  He squinted at me through the smoke and asked what I knew about moral philosophy.
I answered The Judge’s questions.  He asked about the birds above and the blood dripping from my eye, he asked what the final equation was, and whether I wanted to die.  I remained silent.
I forgot that Life is fragile, but wasn’t made to pay the price.
I learned that sooner or later God will **** us all, but I touched **** and *** with soul.

I stole privilege from the Gods of Mercy.
I gave The Girl a flower I picked along the way.
I burned the statue, but I saved the books.
I built a slick Death Temple for the ghosts of hermits and Marines.
I danced knowing I would never remember.

I lay down determined to forget it all, and rise the next day baptized sparkling clean, a child of forgotten violence, a leader of forgotten men.
I bought the last secret, and I bought the last machine too.
I sold the secret to the enemy so I could buy their loyalty.
I saved the Old Man from himself, all his frightening well learned ways, and I carried him up the mountain, and left him warming by the fire.
I killed The Child just because she was barking at the moon.
I was an animal lost on a race track.
I was like a little boy lost, like my world could not be yours.

I saw blood smeared on the mirror of the penthouse bathroom and I heard a child scream, the help won't be here until Tuesday, we need the number for Mr. Clean.
I saw a college girl hitch hiking up I95, she was sad about her boyfriend, but she walked and walked and found another world.
I fell in love with a *****, and she fell in love with me back, and we held hands by the River and laughed about the Sorcerer who snored in his sleep.
I ran from the apartment, found a bar with a backyard, and disappeared into the New York City night, got lost in the subway and emerged street side less whole, more lonely, more aware, less alone.
I bargained with The Queen Of Hearts, but she would not bargain back. She just took my belt and shoelaces and assigned me a number.
I sweat through my dreams so I hung my shirt to dry above the Boardwalk in the morning, as shade for passers by.  I sat down to watch them walk, feel the sadness in their eyes.
I felt the breeze bang up against my brain like ice cream on the sand.  I groaned, vomited, put on my sunglasses, and took a stutter step no one could see.

I saw a wedding dress on the Internet balanced on a beam.  The hemline was appropriate.
I saw your husband on Facebook.  I didn’t like what I saw.
I asked Darwin to guess what exactly is in my pants.  He said he had never studied human beings.
I asked Darcy what was in her glass, she said she didn’t know but I could taste.
I asked Georgie if it was such a great idea to drop acid before he played football, he grinned and shook my hand.
I told Bobby his sneaker was untied, but he said the getaway went well.
I told Jerry I’d like to soothe his soul, but he said he does all the soothing now.
I told Mickey I was on my way, tumbling like a dry cycle that rips the chord, humming like a drunken hummingbird.
I took the shortcut all the way downtown to the black end of the street, strutted shyly to the corner of the bar, ordered expensive whiskey with three cubes of ice, sipped it slyly, pulled my piece, and shot that dumb ******* in the face.
There is no Love in an empty room, just like there is no God in space.
There is only your senses, what you hide beneath, your luck, and the path you make.
Death and Salvation have always been the same, do the math and take a drink. Whoever is coming is angry, and She is coming sooner than we think.
I hid in my car in a parking lot on a rainy afternoon, closed my eyes and thought of her, the way she thought, and moved, and laughed.
I lit a cigarette and laughed to myself, “things can’t really be this bad.”

The Sun, The Moon, The Stars, The Snake seem to be part of the same thing.
But The River answers with a song about the tricks of destiny.
Dear God, I will never bow to thee until you get on your knees for me.
My hands are rough my feet are tired my Soul is full of hatred for The Sun.
When You turn around and see nothing there you will know that I am done.

                                       III. The Saint In The City
Hello America,
I think I'll try to burn the candle down.
I know you know my story
We share our secret shames and glories,
I am the Saint In The City.
I am a river of tears.
I am the questions of a clown.

Save my seat sweet thing,
You know I shall return.
The first cut is the deepest,
The second night is the sweetest,
But the third time you see my face,
I'll try to love again ...

Police told me,
They're looking out for my best interest,
Just what might I remember?
What can I reassemble?
Why can't you fix your broken mind with your broken mind?
Please answer true or false.

I put the gloves on,
Drove up through the North Country hills,
Took a left on I90 west towards The Plains,
Crossed the Mississippi before I could explain,
Why I was running away, or how intend to pay,
I got one last joke left, it better ****.

Hamlet laughed hysterically
At the prisoners working in the fields.
He said, “The weight the sword wields,
Weighs the same before the flesh yields.
Like the stars that burn bright in your coldest nights.
They were dead 'for thine eyes were a babes."

I stepped outside the bar,
And met a lady, made a deal on her Mercedes,
The brakes were ruined, but the tires were new.
If they force you to live like an outlaw,
You better make them pay for it.
You better keep it like a secret,
Now that its you verse the machines.

But I'll tell you what I know young ladies,
I'll walk you past the dark end of the road,
We'll be bouncing like bunnies rejoicing for air,
Working for a living, living on prayers.

I couldn't answer what the old man asked,
I guess that was his point.
He asked for water from the nursing home sink,

I went out for air air after I passed him the joint ...

I saw the best minds of my generation caged by the fears of their parents, organized for meaninglessness, and watching too much ****.

I saw you all around me kneeling to the angry God of television, and I knelt down with you.  

I saw the flames of our shared future burning down The Church, we held hands and danced around it, spun the bottle, and finally told the truth.

I saw myself lost and lonely among you, excusing myself for a cigarette.

I saw the aisles of the shopping center as the gateways to our dreams.

I saw twelve airplanes on the horizon, the disciples of a new race.

I saw little boys and girls staring at screens learning always learning that the world isn’t real.

I saw the sun rise like ribbons to burn The Poet.  She was sad and she laid her eyes upon the rocks and let the river flow until she finally felt the wet climbing up from her knees.

I saw you Little Girl, the night you found me, and took me out into the trees.

I heard you say, “Brave Boy, this is a good day but we'll find better days than these.”

I heard a Man sing about a thousand tongues broken, a newborn baby with wild wolves around it, and a mystery *****. He asked me "how do you feel?”

I heard a lullaby at sunset about rebel soldiers on the move.

I heard The Nun shouting the slogans we are afraid to write on signs.

I heard Caesar speaking from the other side of the Rubicon.  I was late and he wasn’t pleased.

I heard the sound of A Daughter ******* to the rumble of the unswept highway, the trucks the men the steel on steel, the knife, the lime, the tequila, and two sweat wet pillows

I met The Preacher in a lab coat and a **** star that was preaching the income gap.  Both conversations were boring.

I heard The Radio play Mozart to the smell of burning wood.

I heard The Night fall down.
I met the Devil by The Lake and I laughed my *** off as he pontificated on his role in History.  We tied the rope swing on a rotten limb and swung out high above the clear blue water, let go,  and fell in deep.

I met The Martyr that is trying to **** me.  He was such a sweet old man, so wise, so kind, his hand trembled involuntarily as he squeezed off a round.

I met The Politician that represents the deepest recesses of my conscience, and he ****** me just how I like it, but just a little different every time.

I met The Warrior at sunrise, chose a weapon, and died fighting for land that would never be mine.

I met The Lover on her barstool, laughed at her jokes, typed in her number, and strolled home smiling at the strangeness of her mind.

I met The Leader under his podium where he was hiding watching shoes.  He assured me everything i could see from there was part of a larger plan.

I met The Follower on an airplane.  We shared are snacks and watched the window, and discussed the name’s of strangers we wanted to be.

I charmed a Dancing Princess, laid her out like Ophelia in the river, bought her Mom a fancy car.

I scared The Fish out of the pond with a Mardi Gras mask and a six pack of beer.  They walked out of the water and hitch hiked to the nearest theater.

I lied to The Farmer when I told him I smelled rain.

I told the truth to The Doctor.  He just shook his head and made me wait.

I interviewed The Emperor on his way home from the office.  He squinted at me through the smoke and asked what I knew about moral philosophy.

I answered The Judge’s questions.  He asked about the birds above and the blood dripping from my eye, he asked what the final equation was, and whether I wanted to die.  I remained silent.

I forgot that Life is fragile, but wasn’t made to pay the price.

I learned that sooner or later God will **** us all, but I touched **** and *** with soul.

I stole privilege from the Gods of Mercy.

I gave The Girl a flower I picked along the way.

I burned the statue, but I saved the books.

I built a slick Death Temple for the ghosts of hermits and Marines.

I danced knowing I would never remember.

I lay down determined to forget it all, and rise the next day baptized sparkling clean, a child of forgotten violence, a leader of forgotten men.

I bought the last secret, and I bought the last machine too.

I sold the secret to the enemy so I could buy their loyalty.

I saved the Old Man from himself, all his frightening well learned ways, and I carried him up the mountain, and left him warming by the fire.

I killed The Child just because he was barking at the moon.

I was an animal lost on a race track.

I felt like a little boy lost, like my world could not be yours.

I saw blood smeared on the mirror of the penthouse bathroom and I heard a child scream, the help won't be here until Tuesday, we need the number for Mr. Clean.

I saw a college girl hitch hiking up I95, she was sad about her boyfriend, but she walked and walked and found another world.

I fell in love with a *****, and she fell in love with me back, and we held hands by the River and laughed about the Sorcerer who snored in his sleep.

I ran from the apartment, found a bar with a backyard, and disappeared into the New York City night, got lost in the subway and emerged street side less whole, more lonely, more aware, less alone.

I bargained with The Queen Of Hearts, but she would not bargain back. She just took my belt and shoelaces and assigned me a number.

I sweat through my dreams so I hung my shirt to dry above the Boardwalk in the morning, as shade for passers by.  I sat down to watch them walk, feel the sadness in their eyes.

I felt the breeze bang up against my brain like ice cream on the sand.  I groaned, vomited, put on my sunglasses, and took a stutter step no one could see.

I saw a wedding dress on the Internet balanced on a beam.  The hemline was appropriate.

I saw your husband on Facebook.  I didn’t like what I saw.

I asked Darwin to guess what exactly is in my pants.  He said he had never studied human beings.

I asked Darcy what was in her glass, she said she didn’t know but I could taste.

I asked Georgie if it was such a great idea to drop acid before he played football, he grinned and shook my hand.

I told Bobby his sneaker was untied, but he said the getaway went well.

I told Jerry I’d like to soothe his soul, but he said he does all the soothing now.

I told Mickey I was on my way, tumbling like a dry cycle that rips the chord, humming like a drunken hummingbird.

I took the shortcut all the way downtown to the black end of the street, strutted shyly to the corner of the bar, ordered expensive whiskey with three cubes of ice, sipped it slyly, pulled my piece, and shot that dumb ******* in the face.

There is no Love in an empty room, just like there is no God in space.

There is only your senses, what you hide beneath, your luck, and the path you make.

Death and Salvation have always been the same, do the math and take a drink.

Whoever is coming is angry, and She is coming sooner than we think.

I hid in my car in a parking lot on a rainy afternoon, closed my eyes and thought of her, the way she thought, and moved, and laughed.

Lit a cigarette and laughed to myself, “things can’t really be this bad.”

The Sun, The Moon, The Stars, The Snake seem to be part of the same thing.

But The River answers with a song about the tricks of destiny.

Dear God, I will never bow to thee until you get on your knees for me.

My hands are rough my feet are tired my Soul is full of hatred for The Sun.

When You turn around and see nothing there you will know that I am done.

Every question pontificated upon deaf ears, ear marked in outer space drifting aimlessly to distant stars, where shadows reign in open hearts that betray our silence in milliseconds

Basic recourse, every letter of every word inscribed in memories of dreams of some joey loves dawson fantasy. the unrequited notation that every syllable betrays my own self-confidence, my duality of existence to live but not to have lived

and so it goes that every question comes with hours upon days of internal self dialogue, over analysis of every gesture, every word, hidden meanings and double speak, that I have to find such betrayal in something as little as a Solemn smile, but the question remains what does it all mean?

Short of action, long of thought, mindless wandering of distant dreams, that one day I may find, Answers, to every question that such expanded diatribes may ease the pain, and mend the wounds, so that my own existentialist facade may crack and wither to dust in the sands of time, to once and for all I may just be another speck of sand wandering aimlessly between the stars, in a shadowless beauty that is my misery, so that every question comes to conclusion with easy, understandable answers

This poem
Allows no entry
For other poets.

Whatever you pontificated
About a jungle with no trespassers
Applies to this poem too.

We were hobnobbing about
A poetry factory that produces
Value added poetry products.
It was then that you started blabbering
“Neruda … Neruda.”

There’s only one way to
Chop Neruda.

Write “Neruda.”

Raise a hack knife and
One chop
Two Cantos.

Now,
I watch you getting shocked
At the sight of two Nerudas
In two Cantos
And laughter erupts in me.

(Note With the permission of the author, the translator has tweaked the poem at this point.)

Don Quixote's

defunct

        who once

        mounted a stale

                                  stallion

and pontificated theimpossibledream

                                                  Christo

he was a ragged hombre

                      and what I have to say is

how do you like your conquistador kid

Mister Muerte

I've look upon the shore
Seen nothing but a bore
I've pontificated the stars
Only to retreat to rowdy bars
Seen light in the darkest cave
To only contemplate my nave

As I lay at last to rest
This soul to shrink without a best
I recall her face at last it shines
Sweeter than the finest wines
Fires my closing eyes to leave
A life to not succumb to greave

And now after a thousand lines
Written along an age of times
With her love I can leave my soul
An age of heaven with this fall
Strike me lord I can depart
Her beauty could make death an art

Trump rallied today
which in plain language
means he absorbed the adoration
of a large group of white folks all red-hatted
& sign-waving as if the election was still going
on & Gods Chosen walked among them one more
time just for the fun of it,

& he trotted out the usual enemies of their illusion
& his incompetence & blatant lies,
the press …

for if its daily being pointed out that you fail,
lie & basically don’t know what the hell you’re
doing then labeling those who point this out as
‘enemies of the people’ is I guess one way to
handle it,

& he played the tunes & he pontificated & simple
minded angry Americans praised him to the skies
& felt better about life as The Great Leader promised
better days even though he’s basically done very little
to help your average folk & the courts have challenged
his attempted edicts & his wall is still unfunded & his
tax cuts essentially give more money to rich folks,
but never mind,

‘Make America Great’ resounded through the stadium
as the white common folks found their voice, their man,
their savior & the rich get richer, & the seas get higher,
& the ice melts, & the innocent get deported & Planned
Parenthood gets defunded & we essentially enter a new
age of barbarism, ignorance & good old down home
flag waving victory of the deluded, fooled & just plain
simple.

Between my words are meanings punctuated
The intentions obscure yet pontificated.

Between my eyes a repository built to our memory,
Alas the past still as sweet and smooth as honey.

Between my hands the pieces of what love gathered,
Washed clean like sand from my fingertips in a sea of happy.

Between my words is bliss
But without your lips I am east of bliss

Borker is instructed in Demiurgy, after learning that everyone was gathered at the banquet. He tried to intercommunicate with everyone looking for the reason and intelligence of the soul that he attached to him when they were reunited. His faculty and the authority of the souls of Trouvere led him to the ancient of Helade, in her ritual that was of great heritage and vernacular purity. His freedom of action led him through the forests of Nothofagus to discover his qualities as a Demiurge, fasting alongside the Geodesic quadrangular of Vóreios, Notós, Dyticá, and Aftó. Leiak with the assertive legal chastity of him assisted him for the possibilities that were priorities of the same to distance himself from the magnetism of the souls of Trouvere and the Ghosts of Shiraz, who were unified in the face of geodesy, to excite flat emotions. Borker takes the sword Xifos from Vernarth, makes a circle separate the barriers between the ghosts and the souls that were summoned, so the hoplite grotesques that were relatively close to that dimension, began to grasp the center of eternity. The circle will break the taboo so that the rules of the Duoverso allow the opening antiphon that is pre-figured in the eclectic portal of the nearby cell of Procoro, there was also a bronze vase that would be used to symbolize the reality of unreality, under the level of the condensed water that used to be stored in these Borker rituals. Annelids and pieces of meat from the Falangists were seen entering the circle, scaphoid ossuaries prowled the larnax of Alexander the Great pointing in advance on the losses of the Soul after winning the World. The Souls of Christi were added as a corollary of the common reason to be alive or dead in a verse, which could inflict a sectarian aligned in the Mortis arsenal league, that is, it began to continue moving before the eyes of others declaring a common parable to the magical sighting. The first ritual was circumscribed to the necromancer circle, which in turn towards another round of front on the precognition of another curved space, which mediates the sepulcrity of all to the future in the senses that have never been referenced for a common, that only sees on himself, and sometimes invisible like a Shiraz or a Trouvere. Borker looked carefully into the eyes that were not typical of those who observe, but rather of those who diffuse inter-spirits that flow through his pontificate, clarifying the vision of others to make Vlad Strigoi the one to assist him, since he would gloss it better. The sensations spoke of the true spirit that passed among all and lived to be reborn in the neatness of their actions, in later seconds they would verify their roots with the image of Notós, for the superior moments of spiritual governance, where everything moves and now it will visibly shake it. , unimpeded by the stages that made her invisible, and without the awareness of abandoning a body, which has always been verve among all the perceptions that speak of the Psychic Being, incomplete shimmer of transition towards the Austral, towards the supra-austral! where the Necromancer calls to the Demiurge to quench his physicality, to turn it into a physical and psychic tactility, which invokes a moderate spirituality that converges on the physical, but without limiting in his vitality. Borker released the fetters of the Notós, to travel to the southern-Boreal of Jakidiki, near the sea of Cassandra, very contemplative of the rapture of foreplay to Kallithea, towards an epithet so that the coast of the Cyclades is not demonized, making the circle of Borker a summoning of Cassandra as a living Sibyl, ordering the dawn of an organism allegedly biologically disorganized. The air becomes furious and the wings become gigantic with Borker's orders to sculpt the obsolescence of greater harmonious sounds, over a breath that needs Aion and limbs to move, before the sudden differential of the spirit that only systematizes the connection of liberation of a being not released. Temporality decides to shelter itself from combined conservatories, and from risky guardians who spread their powers risking their own essence as a refugee object and subjective sedentary.

The forces that were born from others, scalding the physical arcane that transmigrated to the psychic arcane zone, systematizing salutary hordes of immunity, which inflicted the natures of the Corpus that were being formed with the demiurgic necromancy, the willing was based on the ordered numerals that made the acrotera rise. , which remained weightless on Zefian's tetra saeta, marking the Eruv of positioning in the greatest preponderances of a fervent transition risk, which was deposited in the hands of Borker as constructive pollution to get close to the ossuary of the Falangists of Arbela, which they were returning to the world of the Living, from the Tremens or trembling delirium that was aggravated in the non-converted supra-gifted bodies in the fangs of history. All the skills of the world roar through the lamps that will discover the work that hangs from a Níma, which is spliced by its rethreading in the Physical Spiritual world of Borker. The will to dig over himself transformed into the revival of the Arbela soldiers so that they would revive, to assist in the construction of the Megaron, then they would stop being unburied spirits purging the broomsticks that throw the dice from the cunning of the throw. , and from the bravery hoplites that instruct the intruders that they are only risky pavites, but without necromancy training. The despotic of the swarming souls are liquefied, with empty bodies but as whole spirits, the ossuaries are quickened and trembled with cold, the bad regretful moment of the bad omen shone in the circular container, and vanishes before everything with the ocher nails of Vlad who assists Borker to open and then close the environment, under an arcane attribute that would resemble everyone's appearance under such *******. The movable objects of the pantry and cellar of Prócoso were sneaking along the path of expropriation, leaving visions behind the ashes of the mantle that temporarily sheltered the full moon of the uncontrolled regression by the shoulder of Getsemani, which alluded to winged tetra appearing in the lattice. that hid the night in its curb, beyond the exact devotionals of San Juan and San Pablo. The lifeless tongues lay to revive in the sacred spaces that touched the earth of the unlived new world, from nothing they only aspired to the prototype of Hillel, for the intelligence that flourishes in the ******* coarseness of those who do not escape from ignorance and who he only thinks and does not act. Shemash and Apochróseis (Sun and Shadows) were lengthening from those that grew through those who still stood on the flat Encina as a console, and were under the predestined Mataki of the pilgrimage of two worldly and momentarily unexplored dimensions. Saint John takes the chalices and illuminates them with the Menorah, where they were encouraged to reside on the sparkling curves of the full moon, which was only preparing to reside in only two cosmos that would unite, under the ******* of one who did not collegiate ... they empowered facilities in the trances.

The Ekev or reason or cause, was in the domain of Saint John when he blocked his eyes and was transported to the year 70 AD in the Judeo-Christian war. Jerusalem was destroyed and its temple too, devastated as well as the Beit Hamikdash that was collapsing, each stone deposited in the free fall of its walls textualized a Christian Gnostic in the stage of analysis of the Apostolic Apocalypse, which led them to the Analogy of the Ditycá , or Equinoctial after the points of expectation that everyone captured when San Juan opened his eyes. The values to prove the truth pontificated before the Ekev, which consolidated the importance of the events of the fall of the wall caused by Tito's troops. This flaunted regression of parapsychology was always guided by Vernarth, Saint John interceding with the matrix of the collapse of the Neshama soul of the Beit Hamikdash, which was inaugurated from there with the free fall of the grafted stones of the voice of the Mashiach, to appear together in the reinforcements of the Zealots to collect the orphan stonework from their free fall, generating the blessed word and testamentary supplication with the fact of bringing all that daring to collapse, for the next oscillation of the Ekev that affected the Testament of Levi, with a large amount of mass tonnages that would follow the parable of ascent, to ***** the word and the action of generating and raising the Megaron, before the Stav or Aramaic winter from where the Mashiach will resemble.

Saint John says through Vernarth: “we were surrounded and lacked legions to stop the advance of the barbarians, the walls were destroyed by the draconian battering rams, but our tefillah turned in the adversity of the siege, seized by our resistance and attracting the forces that rebuilds everything, captivating the volume of voice that determines everything that has already been done, beyond all periods without any architect to redesign it, free fall will be what is catapulted from the uncontrolled fire of catastrophe, which is also rebuilt in reverse. People and their moans became escape routes to sneak into the Tefillah or prayers that skimmed past Caesar's head on his dais, taking with them the souls in the flames that engulfed everything. The demolition was the grace of new construction of the elemental material, and of the consecration of the wasteland of a table under the Mataki, where everyone with total normality dried up seeing the visions of the Prophet of Bethsaida, tying the laces of their sandals, with the towers of Fasael and Miriamme, for a great height of observation of an equinoctial that was now made in the analogy of the Dyticá, which carried the aromatic images of Saint John to perch in the cyclamen forests, towards a divine encounter in Patmos, moving the vocality of the crowd that brought with the force of his voice, in all the building of the stalls that would be contemplated in the twinkling of the eyes of the Saint with his Ekev, for preterism as a prophecy of a Yeshua who was born in the walls turning their voices into the bricks, which built the living gospels in the column that diverged in the Vernarth archivolt, celebrating with him.

I love you like yellow
No lack in luster
But soft; no bluster

Frozen in the first days of fall
Forever facing a change
Which I don’t mind making

I love you like a back bend
Folded flexible in contortion
Carefully pushing comfort

Weathered as a willow
Wondering at rising winds
Just below concerning

I love you like language
Carefully articulated
Detangled whatever pontificated