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In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
Ephren. Oct 2010
White moth are thy not drawn to dull flame?
Hath said flame to emanate from Night Mare's mane,
Shall thy flutter past all the same?
Nay,
Whitest moth in darkest night,
dance towards brightest flame tonight,
Embrace her tremors, Embrace her hate,
Embrace the void she procreates,
Kiss her in the form of impending threat,
Spill crimson beads across her *******,
White moth are thy not drawn to death,
Be sleep but hollow in final breath?
Nay.
John Destalo Feb 2019
i am nobody’s son

love without love
is a sin

and mostly sin
is a little thing

that grows
and procreates
and separates
like cells

like infected cells
spreading through
generations

she chews gravel

so every sound
aches for
absolution

and when I hear her

i want to
feel my
deepest aches

i want to
feel my hardest
separations

i want to be
disconnected
from everything

i am doll parts

bent arms
bent legs
tangled hair

a plastic smile
painted in
pretty pink

to create
full luscious lips

I am love without love

i am an
interchangeable
sexless torso
A Lorraine Feb 2014
Dear you,
My heart is loudly confused by you.
The only thing that makes sense are the
ordinary differences between night and day.
I’m solidifying from the inside to the outside.
Only evanescent recollections of us so vaguely remain.
Insensibility procreates itself within me.
I suppose I have you to thank for that.
I sit there for hours wondering:
Where did it all go wrong, huh?
And I wonder—
Why did it go wrong?
The clock finally strikes 6 P.M.—
The atmosphere changes with the roar of the wind,
And oil paints of the sky, yet
I’m stuck there fixed to my loudly-confused heart, the
Crackling glass, and the ******* apathy
Coding within my bloodstream.
So many things went wrong, yet
I thought we were right.
The general warmth of chemistry forming
Into one beautiful reaction.
What a shame that is.
I know I can never not love you.
Sincerely, me.
Ugh at romance and its entirety.
Zywa May 2019
In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning

and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later

infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun

so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day

and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time

will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity
Collection “Being”
Seher Seven Sep 2015
passion in my chest heaves
the cavity.
embraced in a waves crest,
held deeply, love in its simplest.
rest and birth again, empress.
yours the sweetest essence.

lungs with false puncture wounds
ripples of grit run the edges,
simple forms of welcome gestures
of creations path.
create new paths to follow tomorrow
and the days next.
the heaving extends and blossoms
within, sending pulsations
to the tips.

the sensing tentacles grip
the flow always moving through,
cleansing as the defining lines
lose definition.
the false thought conception
of separation making these blurred lines
difficult to see.
energy moves regardless.

shapes, regulates, procreates.
She initiates.
She that changes over time.
Sue Collins Mar 2020
THE CHILD
There is that head-slamming moment of clear sight. Something akin to a sucker punch.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. The girl first slides out to a pink blanket and bow.
Isn’t she a little doll? Daddy’s princess will make her mark in the world with all that beauty.
Please dance for our guests, darling. And bake us a cake in mommy’s little helper oven.

THE ADOLESCENT
The frills and curls and princess talk take their toll, cuddle the girl into steps of submission.
Twirling for dimes and validation, letting the boys take a peep for love, fluffy mascara and
Glossy lips for insurance. The M.O. of pleasing becoming implanted as smarts go on hiatus.
Friends grow clique-est daggers, and gossip about the nasty abounds. Will she or won’t she?

THE ADULT
Of course she will and she did. Disappointed that the earth still turns, but who is she to judge?
Through the small measures and sense of her, we see that she begins to ask questions of herself.
She is not an afterthought of a rib. She wants to write to the world. Her silence has been corrupted.
And the metamorphosis begins. She loves, she procreates, and she sheds the princess skin of the child.

Maybe not head-slamming or sucker punched after all. She just grew up into herself.
Identity

    What does it mean to be human?
   What is identity a word used to classify ourselves,
   Setting us apart from other animals, and why
   Have we been given intelligence to destroy?
   The planet, and consciousness to do good when
  The instinct is to terminate what is a bother
  To our wellbeing.
  Is a multi-ethnic approach useful for the identity?
  We tend to gravitate towards the tribe we know
  With people, we feel a kinship.
  Is religion good for us?
  but we invented it together
  With the massacre of those who do not believe like us.
What is morality, not ****** morality which is
An instinct procreates but often sinks to bare lust.
A dog knows it is not human but does it know
Is it a dog, do we know we are humans?
Shannon Drue Oct 2020
Torn from twisted chaos mind emerges like an infant bourne upon a raft of minutia, adrift in a barren void of eternal emptiness.
It's darkness illuminated by the faintest belief in a systemic reality of falsehood.

Consciousness arises from within and beyond, the same.
It bubbles to the surface adrift again in memories before and after, the same.
Eddies escape the drift and envelope like a strobe lit cloak of eternal nothingness.

Irrational fear procreates and devours the bridge to transcendence as a voracious swarm of locusts to a field of ripening crop.

I am left without us.
We, a child, sat upon an alien rocky outcrop at the mouth of an ancient cave gazing into a star fired ink soaked icy abyss - ignorant of time.
Yet tick by tock it builds to a raucous crescendo of dissolution,  decay, and entropy.
Is it only here it should be?
Veena Iyer Apr 2020
In the beautiful sunrise I saw the ray's gleam
Sparkling like gold into a bright beam
As the cool summer morning began its race
To fill the world with its bounty and grace.
But today was different for some odd reason
For it suddenly grew dark, unlike the season.
Bees were not abuzz nor did the birds sing
What had the creator planned to bring?
The trees were still and so was the river
My heart sank and I began to quiver
Was this the dark serpent raising its hood?
Was it going to wipe out all that was good?
In a whimper my heart sent out a prayer
To the One that procreates even the slayer
To protect this tribe and uphold His grace
And show us again those sunny bright days
Where children could laugh , sing and play
And humanity could once again see the light of day ...
And sure enough He did hear my say
But asked His tribe to learn to pray.
He said that for too long we have been vain
So this time around there will be some pain.
But Hope always to the occasion rose
And promised it would soon end our woes..
That there would be light and there would be love
And a big shower of blessings from above...

— The End —