"progenitors" poems
We killed
Hart Crane
Though he leapt
To his death
A poet’s plan
Or perhaps a whim
We hold the blame
We killed Freddie Mercury
And stopped the music
The callous political games
Blocked possible gains
In a needed cure
We killed Harvey Milk
We were the bullets
And the metal frame
Held the assassin’s hand
We hold the shame
We killed
The blond burnt boy
Encouraging
The hate
We killed the strung up
Beautiful boys
The hung up
Beaten up
Broken hearted
Brothers and sons
We are the progenitors
Of the violence
Through action
And more often than not
Through inaction
Maybe a little more guilt
Would serve us well
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
But I remain a believer in my ancestral religion
Whose God is wele but not the Germany world, it is a religion,
Like most of universal ancestral ones,
With appalling moral threshold,
When Elijah Masinde of dini ya Misambwa
Despised those who condemned man as notoriously religious
He meant human religious approach to life is absolute in nature
However diverse religions compete for human ears
Rich ones glorified in the luring away of modal ears
But all are devoid of spiritual impetus
Disappointing the progenitors of religious imperialism
These short-cutters in matters of sanctimony
Will not come to our heaven
They will get me sharing a cup of tea
With my sister- in-law; Mary, the mother of Jesus
And I will shun them, I will not know them
I will not invite them to a heavenly cup of tea
They will be suffocated by cadaverous appetite,
For we honor our religion with ancestral regard;
The Faith of Our Ancestors
But in ridicule they call us kaffirs, pagans, christo-pagans,
Animists, atheists, gentiles, non-believers, mediumists,
Rebellious rebels or whatsoever they call us;
The anti-muhamedan-mis-christologists,
Let them delude themselves,
If they disparage us with sick contumely
Abreast the dumbfounding development in sciences
Plus so fortuitous humanistic awareness,
Humanity in Religion has to adjust optimally
Religious masters have to help
Interpret the religious Books, bible, gita, quran
All Written or verbalistically in the glory of epical orality
In tandem with the best centered
Life extant,
Otherwise selfish religions becomes an old wine bag
With its old and stale wine,
You will persuade Russian carousers to drink
But to your chagrin, none will condone, your stale wine
Do not seek to sell your faith
Because every human community
Has an ancestral faith
Respect them all for that is gods in their accolade of
Omonipresecence,
Any man or woman without religion is dangerous
But do not advantagize yourselves
At the expense of people of other faiths
It is good you reciprocated
Planet earth is our only sure and known abode
If we lived well here, and there is another world
For those who will be good, we hope the conclave of Gods
Would all sit in judgment for their credit
And reward those who helped humble humanity
Of their religions as well as those of other religions
As for all the Gods love humanists.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
For he's going through,
A time so tough & rude,
Loving mother has undergone,
Surgery for knee replacement,
Ya it was a difficult one,
As she's so senior in age,
May time be merciful & help her.
May time help a son to look after,
Loanee we all are of our parents,
Only few get such chances,
Gitacharyaji, we are lucky,
For both of us have gotten ample,
Opportunities to look after them,
We must serve our parents.
Still we can never repay the debt,
They gave us life, they taught us,
Of course we are their symbols,
We are lucky to do something,
For the progenitors of ours,
May your faith guide you,
And impart strength to you.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
drought dry only a fortnight, and no trace
of the swimmers--not a bloated bass or a skeletal carp
only a few lily pads burnt russet by the sun
all else, perverse interlopers from modernity:
bullet banged beer cans, truck tires,
and the ubiquitous bottle water plastic
waiting patiently for the next ice age
no sign of one fish that emitted a last gilled gasp here
deep beneath the bed though
progenitors rest, theirs and ours,
antediluvian, Permian, as permanent as the word allows
my footfalls above them today
tomorrow silent where they lay
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
Sweeten, let’s, a coast of dun
Therefrom which, the tides erode,
A castle to blind the mighty sun
Affront to that Poseidon, and others
On the beach.
***** the walls and battlements
Fair crystal arm the turrets
The audience of the hermit *****
Pay silent homage to the throne
Intricate are its libraries, etched
Our history inside the tomes.
Only grains of perfect stock
From which antiquity, in full credit,
Will revere the lot
And poetry of human might
Shaped and forged to kiss the day of light
Only that may suffice.
In this endeavor, no ancients will tenet
Its salty beams but the children of the morn
For we shall build the universe
From when progenitors are born.
Before it began, we were dismayed
Our future, castle, by waves waylaid
Aspirations sink, now, from shape.
But, Gods, I curse you!
Let my destiny rise free!
Look now before you:
A stone in ocean of mediocrity!
All these that build up forts
Lack in that spirit to fight, retort
**** you, **** you, waters of my doubt
Turn false the shades of realism
Which I thought it all about
**** you, **** you sands of time
For now all that founds my dreams
Is erosion of the shoreline sand.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
We, the children of a system that awards you simple papers
That state 'he/she has achieved what we deem quality'
As we are all judged and graded in exactly the same way
Because they promote individuality unless it's intelligence
'We all learn differently, and at different paces'
Is an often preached sermon of our progenitors these days
Yet I know more about synonyms for ancestry and parents
Than how to survive once our papers begin to mean nothing
So here I'd like you to tell me what is considered knowledge
And I'd ask of the older generations to insert customary wisdom
Because more adults have spat quotes to me like gospel
Than tought me what I really need to know and value
I've got a track record spanning back almost two decades
Of being sorry for just being myself at all times
So I think my teachers should be proud of themselves
To know that the things they preach to me really get through
You see, homework and exams mean almost nothing
To those who need to really think on their feet
Because this same system idolizes the memory
Mistaking it for a wealth of rawest knowledge
So I love it when they say school is too easy on kids now
Rewarding losing and not promoting any ambition
Because I've been berated for attaining success at any level
Due to grades that define me not successful enough
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
there is no privacy anymore
tinker with your settings,
imaginary dragons, but to no true avail,
your scathing privacy has since sailed,
only to return for another sinking
what you forgot,
is very well remembered
in a some very overlooked place
see me in my summer camp class photo,
blonde crew cut and goofiest of grins,
find my poems of eons ago,
in living tricolor,
to my now better understood
"eternal" embarrassment,
they writ on, vainly looking
for a way to enjoy a
natural unnatural aging,
a wordlessly, self-destructing death
on a someday,
though the probability is that
someone's gigabytes
will cloud store them forevermore
because accumulation is
cheap and easy and
whatever
everything you need but didn't want,
the tangled webs, births and deaths,
multiple divorces and successes,
ancestors, progenitors,
children who no longer acknowledge
parenthood,
the detritus of lives writ even larger than the
original reality life show
confrontation tween my suppression
of long term memories that
are dangling participles,
going gone being been,
confusion resultant in
the tenses of existence,
I was therefore I still must be
but no longer
the me
I pretended to be
*there is no privacy anymore,
especially,
not even from thine own
prying eyes and faulty memories...*
when they ask what is my name,
to better trace my leavings,
I will
like Jehovah to Moses respond,
I Am that I Am
(אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה, ehyeh ašer ehyeh)
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
I
My five-five-fingers of my hands
Zestfully lived In serenity.
The three thrill fingers of my right hand:
Thumb, index finger and middle finger
Stoutly lived civilly and gleefully
Amongst her BROTHERS:
They rested gleefully upon the placid,
SHARP-SABLE-POINTED-DART.
II
Sharp sable pointed-dart;
Perched in the midst of the three thrill fingers
And laid rest upon the hungry,
****** DUSKY-SHEET, which sprawled
Bear flat on the glossy desk.
The glossy desk accompanying the earth
The earth accompanying its depth.
III
The other two fingers of my right hand:
Ring finger and little finger
Calmly leisure, plopped on the hungry,
****** dusky-sheet
And lent ears to the Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering vignettes of yesterday
Muttering vignettes of today
Muttering vegnettes of tomorrow.
Upon the glossy desk
My five fingers of my left hand too
Laid rest, and eyeballed the sharp-sable-pointed-dart,
Muttering deep thoughts.
IV
Look,
All you who waded through lines:
All you who unearth the heart
Of this earth, hunting for treasures
Pore over my ten fingers.
My ten fingers,
As pure as a full ****** moon.
I have dunked deep my five fingers
Of my right hand with my progenitors
In a bowl of sweet dishes
And nibbled singed YAMS amidst
The thriving vegetables.
V
But my forefinger of my left hand
Never been raised above
To curse the heavens
Never been raised up to pinpoint
My progenitors' homeland
Never had it tasted any depravity
And never will it be licked
Or bit by the savage butchers of Meat
Who loved to fatten themselves on ******
And gratified their heart with
Juicy cup of blood and gore.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
Staying in tune with the balance
Courageously looking into the mind's eye
into all eyes
what is swirling in my limitless expanse?
Recursive Recursive
Tell me your dreams
share in thought
find the silence holding the world's sound
Peace is a pebble in the blinding storm, Pick it up
Fantasy touch Reality
Drive along watch
Find the tower over looking the expanse
climb the mountain high
stare around the expanse until your vision meets the endless horizons
its all out there
globular circle, perpetual motion machine
spinning, flying, tumbling round & round
hurtling at 7 decatillion light years
through time space and beyond
we, these seeming ants along for the ride of our life
space time travelers placidly in our world of chaos adapting,
adaptive shoulder shruggers on a planetary scale
This planetary potential genius to awake in us all
Does the last man come?
What will the over man make of paradise?
Sleepy progenitors, laugh
shake your curly hairy heads
cover yourself with rags if you must,
or Don't!
Are you comfortable in skin?
Do you fathom what is beyond your sensual limits?
***** woman do you know?
Have you found it in your fleshy delights,
the secret invitation for discovery is in every niche, every hole, every fold, every kiss, every caress, every stare, every touch, every smooth slide, fingertips tracing lines of hips, lips, backs, calves, feet, jaw, ear, cheek.
A young lover may know it there, or especially an old, a bucktramp
or the loveliest ***** lady
Label the divine and holy if you must
its all out there waiting and engaging
its here now with you, with us
linking along
the water moves but is constantly there, co arising,
what wave is where
Its all here
chant OM, can you feel it?
Hold that vibration, pulsate with your mouth closed and hum and shout melodically
emitting the vibe
Be the Vibeman.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
The softest whispers of
Past ideas, and inclinations
Postulating long ignored dreams
Of long dried progenitors
Upon which we now look down
From the mouths that pour out banal well wishes
To the frozen digits, attached to architects and engineers
Most come to understand the past lies in fragments
Crucial details overlooked, time and time again
Lost amid a sea of bleak optimism
Futurism has its place, along side the winds
The ones that bring the same tired tides
I've drawn myself yet another line in the sand
The definition is as lucid as I could possibly be
Maybe a reflection of identity
It keeps shifting
Stepping forward, though unsure why
Commandeering tidal waves
Building bridges between figments in the skies
Attention drawn
To the edges of half way signs
"Onward and forward", the dead still proclaim
Long after the earth is packed
After death, so many still remain, if for the moment
Apparitions, spiritual possession of discourse
Tearing away from the pale, and digging deep into the fresh crop
You'll be gone soon enough
Into the standstill, though
The dead see it differently
Cosmic mistrust, a classic case
To free yourself from the very shackles
Blood had prepared you for, oxygen raised you for
Natural order now spurned
Floor to ceiling, ceiling to walls
Connected them seamlessly
What are you still fighting for, now?
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
Couple of astral doors
Duplicate diamond cores
Lovelore progenitors
Essence of evermore
Smoldering passion wraiths
Burgeoning ashen faith
Conveying eternity's weight
Resounding mystery slate
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
I know my job.
it isn't on the assembly line.
there is no recipe for what I do.
no program, hints and dashes
of this and that,
no progenitors,
all orphans, but with a tradition.
write to
elevate and levitate.
****** hard.
talking supernatural,
no adagios with strings,
to lift you up mechanically,
talking real magic,
no music, no tricks.
the banque of words busted.
deposits, sure, why not, yes,
withdrawals, no,
you are on your own.
no drawing down of previous product,
if you write anew,
you write to renew,
the reader's acquaintance
with delight.
magic potions used up,
magic words all forgot.
but before I write,
before I bid au revoir,
de vous,
jusqu'à ce que nous nous reverrons,
of you, until we meet again,
gift you a poem salutation,
I asked myself this?
tho not flawless,
for when will that ever be,
has it met its primary purpose,
to elevate and levitate
the passerby, the stranger,
the guest in your hostel,
for but a nightly minute?
then all well and good,
and this rest-less passage,
a voyage well spent.
5:44am
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
seventy-three silk worms
live on the peripheries
of my consciousness
i see them
encounter their stares
hundreds of silver eyes
their ravenous mouths
that keep me emaciated
in my own mind
long vertical ropes of thread
spiraling in molecular contortionisms
among my thoughts
there is an elasticity in their movements
their speech is laden with androgynous chic
they possess and exacting ambition
not to be kept alive by toxins
and look to their Dadaist progenitors
for encouragement in their silken tasks
seventy-three silk worms
who find affirmative properties
in the rebirth of my brain cells
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Adam and Eve lived here
before she went vegan
and chomped the wrong apple
dropping them both into deep schtuck
with a difficult learning curve
before they got up to speed
as our progenitors
and began begetting.
With only two to start with
there had to have been a lot of ******
with begats here and begats there
and still, the gene pool stayed clean
without fits and starts
so there must have been a Divine Profiler
in the sky keeping the books straight
with our future at stake.
But there is a question?
In the beginning there were only two
so was Adam the midwife
and if so
where did he learn the skills
the whole midwifery bit
the gentle initial slap
to get the first wail ever on this earth
Interesting theological
and philosophical thoughts
not even thinking
about baby clothes
and the like
I suppose breastfeeding
was a must before Baby Formula
Deep thoughts for Easter
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
i never would have dared
to dream that here upon
this rival's stoop i'd perch,
discussing the theoretical
forces that affect and create
and effectively create the
world surrounding us, and
never would i have guessed
it'd be you with whom i'd speak.
the red dragon symbolizes
man, you said, angular,
linear, power, strength;
the yellow dragon bears
the fruit of the feminine,
with spiritual compassion
for all and sanctuary.
and in the collisions between
the gentle and the forceful
by accident, or intention,
we find genesis.
you carried on to talk
about a belt of silent
asteroids from whence
we supposedly came,
our progenitors massive,
with trilobite heels, but
that theory was a little
too astral for me to grasp,
and that bothered you,
i could tell by the sighs
and frustration that
spilled from the leaky
faucet of your lips.
so i changed the subject
with a splash of tea,
and washed the remains
of last night away in the
soft waters of whimsical
conversation.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
paid mercenaries
these are not riots
this violence is all paid for
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you have sold your souls
you are stirred up pawns
you have been pawns
for a long, long time
voter puppets of the democratic party
not ever expected to think for yourself
so easily used
and manipulated
kept in a different type
of slavery
shaped and honed and fed
like cattle
in a stall
to be used only as
inseminators
(let's create more voters)
not allowed to be fathers
(let's **** the family)
(family?)
( what's that?)
fatherhood
a forgotten trait
only progenitors
raised by generations of women
on the dole
fathers not allowed
in the home
used, used, used
can't
won't
see it!
stirred up in the cauldron of anger
who are the real haters????
???
??? whose lives matter???
???
only those killed and used for media attention
and believe me, they are used by everyone
from the president on down
never waste a good crisis
and
when necessary
create
one
do the large numbers
of
brother killing brother
matter?
and why not?
we don't hear about those numbers
on the nightly news
guess those lives must not matter
do the lives lost
the babies killed
the genocide of planned parenthood
one in every neighborhood
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
do they matter?
no one speaks of them
why not?
why not?
why not?
why not?
why not?
why not?
because brother against brother
and baby genocide
don't matter
to the media
HELLO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
they all fall in line with Bill Gates
population control
anyway
only the deaths
used for
exploitive
incendiary
political purposes
matter
to the elitists
the George Soros types
and the media
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
pawns=slaves
generations of pawns
whose usefulness
will soon be over
being used one more time
to start all these fires
where will these pawns be
when the fires go out?
who will bother
to pay them
to feed them
then?
their usefulness
to massa'
will be over
then.
I cry for the pawns
for my brothers and sisters
for all the fatherless
children.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much more.
a life is worth so much
a life is worth so
a life is worth
a life is
a life
a
.
.
.
.
.
Cj 2016
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
a cairn on every mountain
chronological tricksters stacked
by near naked natives, or frat brothers
who pointed the way there
with crushed Bud cans?
fossils were less disingenuous,
treasures from a Jurassic sea, staring
back at me--coprolites a fine find, evidence
our voiceless progenitors also
squatted and shat
after days of wilderness
wandering, I found a lonely menhir
tall as two men, wide as one, in no
particular vantage point
to the sun
who carved this monolith
I'd never know; how it was dragged here
would vex me even more
I sat beneath its shadow
until it stretched a desert mile
all the while watching, waiting
for someone to return
to claim it
when no one finally did,
I rubbed my hands on its weather worn flanks,
and bid goodnight to ancient strangers
who worshiped this silent stone
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
Alexander k Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Of Orwell George and his satirical 1984
Manufacturing words abracadabra and demagogic phrases
Making juvenile English to swell in size and all
Beyond Shakespearean bossom of a teen African woman
Forming ubiquitous the double-speak whose
Attendant ****** sisters of England are
Double talk, double talk, and double smile
Who said the suavity in double love and double cross are
The twin progenitors of Eric Blair the farmer of animals
Collaborating with Jones to sleep in the pigsty where swines mate
Plummaging the world with plethorae of yutopianisism
Wherein glorious big brothers watch you African double speakers
As you sheepishly Sleigh international criminal justice in a beautiful ploy
To obfuscate mellifluous bambinos off the buffoonery powers that be
But When 1984 comes after a full circle of idiosyncrancies, the fools will be seen
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
What its like to be a segment of salacious commodity ?
OH YOU! beautiful fragment of fabricated chimera :
enclosed ! trapped !
inside these avaricious periphery of pseudo rim..
The frangible bedizen of synthetic praxises..
What is the sentiment of being a trade off legacy ?
while the legitimate corroboration of the quid pro quo cant be found:
yet to this lethal covenant of undesired commingle you are to be bound..
For have they hold the confinement
so do they decide the Nemesis:
To succumb your esse to the dread of
your ultimating youthful ****** pulp.
And just like a marionette..
there are thee:
concurring to cede for the felicity of those progenitors..
Immolating your notions and aspirations.
vanquished by the fidelity..
Just to commence the relinquish.
Just to cease the sentient.
Oh YOU!!
Just .another ...abiding flesh .
Just. Another....forlorn bride.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Her pants will not ascend up the body.
They exhibit the various mountains and valleys of exhibition
that exhibit all and every stifling opening in the land between the limbs.
The progenitors apparently never trained the lass in class.
Her pants will not ascend the body.
I slam the image processor shut
and beg the higher powers for more cloth
but the portrait remains hung in the palace,
exhibiting, exhibiting, exhibiting,
weakness and detestation in the wake of insomnia,
for she can spine-chillingly be pictured in the movies they show,
the ones with palm and sand and *********** for all.
When the tape ends its shift as a documenter she still exhibits,
plagiarizing the greats like a trombone entertaining itself with exhibition,
its brass perpetuating nausea and its horn emanating
aromas of catastrophic consequences
while it sits there like a ********** echoing the words of the vivacious
director in the silk scarf of silhouettes and the exhibition of pure animosity,
that pops and fizzles like the dying carcass of an ****** ridden rodent
who decrees that Cersei is the finest in the land.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
an intrepid inheritance
predicated on delusion
processing profuse refuse an
iconoclastic self-absorption suffusing
each and every molecule
we’re confusing consumption
with an inane ideology
as we choke the atmosphere with
CO2 and pump toxins into
our food will we pause as
the doomsday clock tick-tocks
closer to midnight
and the terror alert
goes code red
to consider that we
are at once
this planet’s cancer
and its cure
if Jesus is truly the
reason for the season
do you suppose he’d
impose on those
who do not
share your faith
for the love of Christ
let’s depose the overlords
the Nazarene opposed
hell
that’s something even
i could get behind
Mary
did you know
that your baby boy
was an anarchist who
practiced non-violence
and met death on a cross
as a terrorist rebelling
against the unjust
to those who deign to
name themselves Christians in
homage to the divine
why profane the memory
of a socialistic hippie who
bred an insurrection and
bled for the cessation
of human conflict
the negation of
self-serving intentions
disguised in capitalism
in the spirit of Christmas
defy the death drive
propelling us towards mass extinction
abandon corporate bookstores
protest in front of city hall
the kingdom of god is within you
so go home
kiss the ones you love for
“if we are not the word of god
then god never spoke”
it’s up to us to recognize
that we ourselves
are progenitors of the divine
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
This morning I woke up feeling lonely.
I don’t know why.
I have people around me who love me
and want to hold on to me
and I onto them.
I know…
feelings like this
and dreams
fly and soon evaporate into the cloudy sky.
But today some dark critter
a residue of the night
has hooked me
and won’t let go
it has reeled me in
so here I am using these lines
to cast my mind out into the choppy waters
to see if I can connect
with something swimming there
that’ll make sense of this tenuous mess
in which I wander and wallow.
I don’t seem to find my self
comfortable, wholly accepted and at home
with the people and places I roam
in this soaked and leaky vessel.
I know it’s stupid to be out here floating
when songs and words I’m often quoting
drift inside my head
planted there by many magnificent progenitors
who earnestly bred
a young man for whom they cared.
But loneliness does that.
It puts me where I know I shouldn’t be
by all grateful accounts.
I think to myself
I wish so and so was here to talk
but they’ve long gone and walked
from me
who has lived so long.
So here I am alone
casting out
or in
to find the answer, a home
or a place of some special grace…
while I sit here with these lines
in this lonely state.
Hello out there…?
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC
I enter the sanctuary
my hand traces the brown skin
of the smooth wood
atop the last pew
where Saint James sits every Sunday morning,
his slender body planted in spit-shined shoes
that reflect the light of that sacred space
the light that pours from each tortured soul
that sings the praise, joy, pain, and love
inked in the green hymnals
that we open, feeling with our thumbs
the edges of pages
gathered over ages
from the fervent hearts and minds
of our faithful progenitors.
I will hug and touch
the shoulders and backs
of my fellow believers
who will grace these pews,
beating hearts scattered like red pearls of love
in the perfectly aligned rows
where each of us broken
beautiful brothers and sisters
will sit and listen to the Word
stand and sing
and breathe in and out the same Spirit
that cracked open his heart
and bled the universe.
I myself broken
and opened
am here where finally I belong
among my fellow travelers
pilgrims one and all
living our salvation
among each other
shoulder to shoulder
heart to heart
cheeks traced by tears
of joy, sorrow, faith and hope
we, tied together by Love.
Jun 24, 2024
Jun 24, 2024 at 9:07 AM UTC
2 long 2 incubate
do u not c the stakes?
go fast, kiddo
faster than your
progenitors
move it faster,
skin disaster
move it faster,
u skin disaster u
4 lorn 4 lack of love
were it 1 4 u n 1 4 me
praise Aristophanes?
move it faster
move it faster
get baked, get gay
dance 2 com truise
move it faster,
u skin disaster u
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC
In the heliopause
Where the suns magnetic field stops
Between the stars
Man has no cause
Where the solar winds drop
Away from the heliosphere
In a universe so cold
Interstellar space grows
In matters of gases, ionic & atomic
Wearing molecular masks
Cosmic rays blasts
Intergalactic space
Where it's safe from human trash
Primordial nucleosynthesis
Produce nuclei
Without hate without race
Bigs bang
unstoppable isotopes
In particle rains
In the heliopause
I had a dream
Where peace was
Radiating in a radiation
Far from us
Where transient astronomical events
Occur in evolutionary stages
Of massive stardust
Where there is no Hollywood
And progenitors accretion
Form the art
There is a space
Interstellar
Without a human face
To bring it to ruin
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 5:36 PM UTC