I looked at her,
like how the first sunlight
glimpse over the Earth's weary atmosphere.

I kissed her,
when I saw those jaded eyes & worn-out soul
hiding underneath her blithe veneer.

I held her,
like how the shoreline
embraces the rushing big waves.

I felt her,
when I saw the sharp edge of misery
carving ****** marks on her flesh.

..But she shoots a bland smile
and that's when I knew
she handles raging storms in pursuit of smooth sail.

Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and higher, a certain anti-demonological air carried a Keri towards the sails of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. He had on the floor of his cell some branches of Tamarisks, like Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired in his own monk's feet and became perennial in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the re-transformation essences of the lexeme of greenness conventional in Patmos, being very deflowered in periods with high tempers, only with some secretions in which Procorus felt adventitious of its reflowering, from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of the inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Lion of Sulfur that derived from the Cinnabar, and with the Anemoi wind that was impregnated in the capsules of the Tamarisk, under the feet of the acolyte. In the aquifer of the groundwater phreatic layer on Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Post-Gaugamela Lid, I get in the Ex Varna with re-transfigured iridescence on Mount Tabor.

Procorus says: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk, has poured the limits of our Oikodomeo, to retain the surface plate and reuse it in absorbing the fire under my feet, compelling them to readjust under the igneous soil concentrated in the cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae, which imposed themselves on the bruised beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisks, showing themselves innocuous in the cloister imagination and right here asphyxiated by some Chaldean tribes, who felt themselves from the stand of illusionism of the Ex Varna ”.

In the compaction of this epic hyper fantasy in that instant, the dedication of the Gift was born to interpret the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would seem until now, under the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere, by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which is finally restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and the chamber of San Juan Apostle, being finally supported by layers and shawls of subterranean aqueous filters, towards a restructuring of the Euclidean plane and towards the vicinity of the plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were three-dimensional already in the construction of the Oikodomeo, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would be triggered when the Hexagonal Progeny arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-purgatory construction, for the Oikos in Abode of the social unit of Aquarian spirits or Aqua that is terminated at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace and between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodom, here every day spectra purged and rubbed each other in the archetype of the Megaron, which was intended to give in oblations and votive connections in the massages that the spirits of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal fight to live in friction and in the brown partitions of the Megaron bloodless to inaugurate it as a solid bulwark, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly snatches vitality co-energized in their extremities, of total imbalance and of bumpy patrons maneuvered on their feet crawling towards the karmic Saetas of Velos Toxeumas and Dorus unscathed. But feverish and threatening their integrity, when they fell and stepped on the Euclidean edge, opening from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric in the paranasal of Kanti and their neighborhood spatiality in the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse of its coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the columnar of its Sabines and of the Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians of the 4th century BC. C., already entering into borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, near all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them drunk with Nepenthe, by nozzles of intense rain of vine in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, Handing them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori... and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solidly in his solitude when he saw that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single chandelier to expand more inaccessible in the semiglyphs and in the grooves of the Megaron, which glowed synarchically. in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian)

Nervous butterflies
emerging from a chrysalis
of chrysanthemum wings of doves.
Flying towards burgeoning horizons
fluttering erudite on solar winds
lost amongst deranged proximities
bounded by blackened skies
Escaping realisation
subterranean rainbows flicker in prismic identities
diverging depleting
diminishing deconstruction into distinctive dominions
waning light that merges into surroundings
(bound together by the unfortunicity of birth)
[aren't all?]
Falling since conception
“all things are a part
all things are apart”
Loud
crimson daylight
excess is the prerogative of the crystalline
...
time
distances
people
such a petty quality

one feels more distance
by degrees
the closer the surroundings.
(and when I say dancing, I mean jumping through galaxies)
[oh good, I am better at the latter]
(it's like tumbling,)
[was all there ever was]

[a can? Or a cylindrical box of tin?]
…
…
…
[but I digress.]
(My my my
Don't touch the apple pie)
[if you do I will cry
antelope bones down a chalkboard.]
(what?)
[Screaming “sirens, sirens
Sleeping alarm bells
show me madness,
I am cluttered”]
there are no gods
only pillars of marshmallow
transforming, caressing
endlessly

-oliver and jonte

The handle
to the front door won't budge,
but it can still be locked
from the inside.
The overgrowth is five years
in the making, vines took over
this home of once improvement.
I don't believe we ever
owned a gas can.
A boarded up pool.
The one in which the dog died.
His body was as bloated as my eyes. The puppy in the pictures still hung in the basement beside the kicked in window.
Leaves and insects rest
on the linoleum floor, a cohabitation that was formed out of vacancy.
A long dresser left ajar from wood paneling, insects crawling around,
not that one would know how they
got there. Old paperwork and letters survived. The assumption is that the moths never arrived to join the spiders nestled in their leaves.
Both longhand and typed sentences that spoke of longing, love (young love), happiness, direction, and lastly evaluation. Broken glass fixed against the dresser, a reflection shows.
The dirt and grime is of a
subconscious level.
One that exceeds the proximities
of the appropriate metaphor.
So what is seen is loss.
And although this occurrence
comes as a new beginning, the best solution at the given moment may perhaps be a broom and a dustpan.

Russia and China are not friends. The two Asian giants tangled for centuries over the vastness of resource-rich desert and mountain between them. They remain uneasy neighbours. Their leaders, Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin, recently proclaimed a partnership in a ‘new order’. But they are trapped by geography, birth rates and strategy in a very old order; one that explains why the Chinese leadership distrusts the Kremlin, fears its own subjects and keeps an iron grip on the borderlands.

‘Chinese Turkestan’ only exists in vintage travel books. Today it is officially known as the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region. It is in the news because China is accused of committing crimes against humanity in a campaign to instil what it calls ‘stability and order’ among the original inhabitants and Chinese settlers, who now outnumber them.

The Communist regime’s well-documented abuses against the Uighurs, a Turkic Muslim people, are so gross that they tend to obscure a paranoid insecurity that is as real today as in a bygone age.

awaken love in me
gently. fallible.
     spontaneous.
     alive.

laying beneath the sense of each
word is the armistice
  of mind versus heart
  of body versus stillness
  of sound versus silence
  of distance versus proximities.

this long-winded gasp of breath
     holding on to gravitas
     keeping things in their
     designations.

or this desperate hum of quietude
     yearning to be noticed,
    concealed in immense portage
     flowing to be bequeathed
     to cupped hands and touch
      a face callow. mild. tender.
  
like water falling again
    and again in repetitions
     memorized - permitting
   desire to utter plainly rendering love's easy, breakable structures.

Says Etréstles: “The immortality Aeternitas trepanned the fury of enchanted isolation after descending from the crow's nest on a trip to Rhodes, sinking haggard towards an underworld dressed without pain or ischemia that complained to me originating from transient cellular fatigue. This was enchanting me towards another pseudonym that renews it under the pretext of digging itself into the eternity of unspeakable silence full of possessions in shallow Beech leaves, and above all those ungerminated senses. Abbreviated topic and placebo speeches that were exerting a cluster of cloaks of once fermented and materialized in disconnected lapses disintegrating towards their perpetual movement, exiled and physical-dynamic, but not eternal. Aeternum was boring itself into the continuity of perpetual preaching where nothing and no one emits it out of everything unknown chaos overwhelmed or becoming independent of its effects full of irony and tragic moans sniffing out its dying flat lux, and separating into double archetypes torn from the rehearsal of the thousandth life like all reflective floaters not being afraid of being in a substance that was seeing itself crazy and seduced from its imaginary. For everything that is intolerant, unable to see rolling chariots of fire and not evolving with the exactness of an eternal minstrel. When we were on the deck of the Eurydice I saw how they danced through some diaphanous fingers when observing how the same color of the Ouzo was fading all over its sudden and rebellious sphinx, falling from its own feet insinuated to others that they were apprehended when counting of the cheers and emotions to be later discerned in Aion's ashes. Powers of a potential beginning became a cautious being In Aeternum in a straight line to his clone without beginning or end, without time or matter, being himself his own deity rebelling from the correlated fractal dam. What notion is born from the concept of “Instantaneous being, immune to the cloistered effective and continuous knowledge when materializing as a god…, God of Bern-Gethsemane, among the songs of abyssal seas before the perfection of a hymn, ceases to exist, falling out of tune in the court of Aionius”. I stresses; mandated the zeal to stay in the twelfth cemetery being able to get rid of the symptoms of ****** and Harpies with the flourishing of venerable pious beings like Vernarth, behind these beautiful winged women remaining lustful just by looking at him, and subsequently being swallowed with all their evil thickness resulting from snowy genius. All of them rested with their sharp claws breaking their intrinsic heart in everything that is sometimes a tear before moving through banal philosophical philanthropy, which was lightening their days to discount it in what they learned from another pair, not being the subsequent ones same. Nothing is suffering like the jubilant flute that solfeggio when its sounds are randomly listless making ****** in its trepidation with harmonious notes and emaciated tears on the surface of a mask. Behold, his parallel face is a disfigured universe, not being possible to count distances between his equidistant eyes, and formerly sighs that go unchecked with his physiognomy at the end of the egress that rubs against his relative beloved, disintegrating his own turned into nothing. All these ailments are melified universal emotions that stand out in harbingers of destroyed futures described in some Olivacea Bern branches, made up of the precepts of multiple physiognomies, father and son hating of so much affection and orbiting in lasting decadent cycles with areas and divine contained rootlets of Beech tubers satiated in reliefs of insane emancipating curves..., called Empresses of Vernarth, just like In Aeternum with spaces falling from various inter-tempos to its high grace and radiant help towards the final pinnacle that was ready in the will to lighten him up and go cornering leaf after wasteful leaf.

Everything was recreated in minuscule variations between Romanzas Tchaikovskianas, recent and terse when they divulged him near the Volga. Vernarth planned with the facade of him to resist amid musty and gutted late musical papyri; called scores of illusion and fervor at the sound of the celestial harp that was nothing more than another harpy, coming close to him as it fell on the pegs that struck a Muscovite bell. The borders in themselves became a reality in his space and accompanied him, making him feel that he was still outside the spaces of the Hermitage when he remembered it..., even though he did not know anything or the coolness that attenuates him indistinctly from the Bern-Time that was frolicking in his emotional cover, making him feel such hypothetical compunction at realizing a deadly thread. His life mechanics hesitantly fell off V.V.'s lectern. Gogh, developing in un concretized models with singular embarrassments that have not yet stopped in its squalid rind, on the way to uncovering and then imagining knowing whose it is or was, knowing that no precedent would model its sensation of hyper-Ouzo, aggravated with maledicence in his space Bern-Time, and surrounded by his **** hysteria coming out of the bellows of his veins and ferocious ******, singing to cruel people who laughed with great art for whoever challenged him and concentrated his sorcerer's trick. Ferocious evil devils were still in their remnants rolling through some cracks that ask to circulate in Florence, in Tuscany among some Diavolo with multiform cosmogony, "Possibly reliving" that has decayed from himself, and resorting to himself to facilitate the last parallelism of the variable molecule and lung protervo balanced in grim expansive hopes by validating him..., perhaps of a false revival. From here he will have to absorb himself with hepatic gargles, and seriously insulted desires as he gets drunk from the unknown universe, pretending to decipher the encrustations on his back full of particles that were hidden in residues without mass or gravitations, overestimating the heart that hangs from a hedonistic Longines and from a mischievous ending outlined towards the woods of Hylates longing for him. His verses are confused with ailments and consciences without trace or trace or firmament that remains ephemeral before closing the cousin Lux that was passing in front of In a Gadda Da Vida, whose symbol is the one who outlines it in darkness highlighting his metaphorical soul intangible solemnity and portraying his adolescent face that dozes under the attentions of his ascendants, removing intemperances, and prophetic doping that was torturing and invading him on the fold of Alikantus's haunches when he was annoyed that his own steed would carry him in his arms resting on his disturbed property endorsed in an equine Hoplite. Its iconology is and will be in the hexagonal baptistery of Ein Karem, solfa templar choirs and choirs that thunder from the spawn of the sheaves to a sanctuary that nothing calms in infinite and allegorical deities with tortuous moratoriums enduring the resistance of the obtuse sprains of the ineffable.

Vernarth Antithetical to an Auric medal, it rested superimposed on his arms, wrapped in well-tempered cymbals, nourished by turpentine allied with Ouzo caramel, minced after thick Hellenic toasts when they began to perpetuate themselves with sagacious heretical attacks and narcissistic bravery as they went cloistering himself in maturity that dressed in an imposed narrow law fame, which was expiring under immutable and succulent decrees perched on the same aphrodite in love with himself. Meanwhile, Vernarth stocked up on medallions chained to garments of happiness they were inscribed with precise digits and sighs that would name him as Vernarth, "Son of Sisyphus perhaps", the guru of pending conclaves and hesitations "Here is who I spoke of allowing him to delight in named feat and with trivial branches in plunges that were varying in the spheres that were degenerating into heavy lightness towards their alter confusion. He bites the line of a comet falling on him, knowing that the Sotíras or Sóter has done penance within it that will not let him sleep on the motionless stars. Unstable from a primordial advance, then starting from the worst chaos that could have engulfed Vernarth In Aeternum. From this adolescent temptation that will launch meteorites and elegies at the castle of his courtship, telling him to remain confined in the solidity that he will postpone for other winters and the same passages that will make him come from the northern *****. The sweet necropolis would then light up by not being lost among the living, rather by the fallen who would have to seek the living among the fallen to help them and reciprocate between nearby verses by resurrecting them from In Aeternum…, seducing them from his active life! Vernarth denies coming and going along the aforementioned hillside with his courted delay... she will have to remove his dagger from his wrists, more or less restricting soporific arteriosus threads, smoothing the scaphoid and pyramidal, permeating with tender fire and playful irrational object "instigate In Aeternum to my onerous mind, whose world map and impolite split in the valleys of Berna-Universal..., as Adonis planted that was perceived in agreed cycles,... only by alternating his instigations..."

In æternum Auream Consecratam, Vernarth defoliated after the axis mundi and exaltation of the Bern-Universe world, encrypting in the engravings of all the memories of the Harpies, even in their finished archetypal capital where they moved through the midst of trunks cosmogonic footsteps and of the gods with spare hearts in frank wandering architecture, rebuilding themselves with new gods of consecrated aura. The party continued with decreed dialogue and continued with the medallion on the drag chain that went under the draft of the ship indicating the message to verify and rest in the preciousness of one who can balance his man's maneuverability with his Lynothorax open to the world so that Zeus in this day of utilitarian morality makes it part of his infinite use, but with orderly practical use. In this proportion, St. John the Apostle warns him of the sighting of Cape Koumbournous, approaching Prassonissi, not far from these two appears the third, Karpathos, all this limited to the south of Rhodes in the concordant uniform of his entire work, transforming integrally according to the conception of St. John for the predicaments of maximizing the weight of his alliance with Vernarth; now converted into a dogmatic designer, placing Gnomic poetry to help his memory. For all the themes of wisdom and conversion in each stone on another with a liturgy of construction of the temple that extended them to Patmos, in intelligence biblical verse was explaining the versed maxims converted from the prior cadence of poems in sequence, and legacies of stanzas of wolves that save lives to their hunters with prosaic testimonies delivered in hilarious argumentative eagerness, but not transgressing the expository towards Bernese-Hellenic poetry, with rhythm and cadence of the hours of the day that the centuries do without questioning its cyclical beauty, although I walk on it in a drama of lost revelry.

Saint John says: “The maxims, aphorisms, and apothegms will be where they differ from their charm like the beloved fugitive that Werther awaits from Goethe, like Vernarth, threatened by his madness to escape from the harpies emitting in his apothegm “His intensity is neither worthy nor irritable, but abhorrent." Vernarth is detested by large masses of clones of war comrades who make their apothegm young death in the hands of abhorrent old age, which falls into trends of compromising verses, and circumstantial that require doses of Ouzo on those levels of the classic apothegm, seated on a Klismós with a bald and contoured ***** on the four legs of Vetrubio, and a backing of light Rembrandt being born of all equal synchronicities at the dawn of a preceded and pseudo-literature, which more than letters will be retractable symbols of his bellicose artistic memory that bears of the tabulator of its reflective collections, leaving divine blood in the claws of the Griffin that slices blood of vermin that bind the light with its red pupils, like Werther and Vernarth swallowing the divine gesture that differentiates from those who are not prey to the erratic intensity of the wolf wise, who pursues his prey beyond cold and hunger, finely leaving his victim between nearby hooks and his neighbors Garfed Family members making enemies of natural blood relatives. Here is every part of our challenge in every listless use that is consistent with our entire works since the trade winds put us in the best climatic emotional mode, towards those who live on the food of wisdom more distant than the ignorant fools, but rather for those who they make their species our own variety in good moments that will be intense, but nothing that we cannot moderate with this greatness of small lux, but with great expressive mechanics dissecting interstices and remains of sediments that will remain for us to reassemble with public voices a Messiah as a great speaker, even with nubile apothegms that do not allow to be portrayed. We are sailing here slowly with the force of the blows that drag us to the Koumbournou cape, we can look at the highest peak that can be seen, being devoured by our own expectation that makes us go beyond what we thought we could achieve as a founding prize in the new religious laws that we have to refound, after the phylogeny of Olivos Berna. Not only does the Greek landscape manifest itself to us with the mythical laws to re-study them, but they also make them possible with our overseas proximities on cliffs that fill us with courageous courage towards one end of the stranded ship heeling upward, and towards the lavish waves that speak of coasts and white waters on the same waves that sang denominated in verses of the renewed goddess Hera, and who are related by a hero like Vernarth glorified. Neither illustrious nor villainous, but an aristocrat of Nymphs, Muses, Harpies, and Hesperides taking the sun deck with them in the Eurydice triaconter, stripped of benefits to the one who is just beginning to rule over him with his pious song. ”

The Vernarth-Werthian Tragedy was crossing the overseas challenges of Koumbournou, witnessing before his eyes the storms and effects of the intensity of an adult youth with his apothegm “My intensity is neither worthy nor irritable, but it is abhorrent”. But of Werthian scope, with the intention of competing with all the leaders of the courtship and of the sources of its antiquity similar to one more degraded of charm, leaving those who love and those who have been bewitched by all those who have been abandoned by adhesions of love unrequited. Cycles of horrors over the ship expelled the worst that made the ship list with rattles from Vernarth's gouges that made three-dimensional the superfluous darkness of the birch that was anointed on the mainmast, causing populated voices from minor to major near the Koumbournou cape. Certain temperamental harpies perversely wooed him from high to the freest confines of the scale of sarcastic incantation and countless love affairs. He is forced to witness his own indomitable fictions with an adorable room in the peasants where the harpies and their corsets licked the bobbins of some tonal hypocoristic words, contrary to the euphemistic of his apothegm that bordered on the most abhorrent apocalyptic when he found it in his practices mental manipulators and in the fictitious reality of loving beautiful women who do not correspond to those who love them! They knew this interdict that is hidden in the pavilion of some rockeries that hit the doublets of the minor harpies presenting themselves to everyone in the skylights of the sky, which were overshadowed by contested intimacy since they could not correspond to the final linguistic sounds of the lipped apothegm, adjoining in full love and colorful operatic stillness. Vernarth continues with his gouges inscribing his name and the name of his harpy that would finally rid him of ****** ailments. Arhanis; the harpy looked at herself in three glasses simultaneously, giving Vernarth sorrow for the attachment that escaped through the hiding places of the matrix fairies with delirium tremens when they submerged themselves under the decorated breaths of the floripondium that lingered from the totemic censer, recomposing itself in an incomplete wagon with areas of hydro-monoxide heaps overheating and producing viscosities, smearing his chest and mouth in the vortex as he softens the flow spilled by warm lightning rods in each abandonment, while nothing consoled him when everyone attended to them to overcome his catatonic course. The ursids who embraced the females would be outraged by his laziness, and the hopes of finding them would take them to the shore of Aphrodite with her final dirge defragmented and out of tune. Werther, with obvious elegy, appears with essences and disappeared in anxiolytic body parts. Werther says: “Here is Koumbournou, here is Wahlheim where our docks would still like to house rising boats that cut their bows and keels leaving each other in nothingness. Both pontoons would kiss in their death locked up near the In Aeternum, adjacent to the openwork where the auric medallion grieved. For the first time before committing suicide I saw that the heavy doors that led me to Lotte were opening, letting joy fall on my eyes, being the harpy that every female bears with a name similar to the one who fills her cup with desire and vanity. The harpies whimpered with their bellies full of harsh tears, asking Vernarth for two harpoons from the coarse cellophane of the flimsy sea of her soul, still standing before him dressed as a Werthian organism. Until the Panagia Ipseni, the monastery of Rhodes, cries of projectiles were felt that crossed each other in the swift flight of the desires of the immolation of both, whose ballad melted the rows, tying themselves to two naves like bushes grafted onto the hands of the suicide's executioner. The one who speaks here is entangled in Lotte's glottis, still alive to ******, and he calls me with eagerness and regrets my death in the whole world, not for my Werthian love for her. Vernarth says Werther, this rots me with uneasiness, I let myself fall into its obscenities to decay from Lotte's apnea, which is still in all those who suffer when two harpoons cross for the same destiny..., the victim chooses the first " Says Lotte: "Even after the Vernarthian time, both who dare a rude hostility as a way of harpooning doubt and who are not prone to suicide, it is that hope itself sweetly lingers in the one who receives the wound that bears my name..., that of Werther that grapples with the spur of the Eurydice, and that of Wernarth that crosses paths before both of us were lost in the midst of oblivion. I am still in Wahlheim, but I give birth to those who in the evenings after the bells still come to claim my destiny, perhaps their tragic destiny was taken by the princess Eurymedusa who will take them to Rhodes and Patmos, following the path of the myrmidons between them whom I envy and the princess herself loving him in her Rhodes prose”

Parable Hippeis above the Eared One: “Kanti; Aristocratic hussar of steeds, a native of Crete, was broken down from servants as a possession of high rank from Thessaly and Argolis. In his frontal Parasinus he ruminated his psychic frontality of not being defeated for the sole fact of being subjected prolonged in helplessness, and stating what he was not capable of winning by defeating a Hippeis when he has imperturbability prior to a master. Therefore he was assigned from the Krepis or crepidorma to the Golden or Golden number. Dividing from all other paranasal sinuses, by less than the base of the kraníon by e long and factored by Pi ( ). In the Paraseno Spheno Palatino of him; the exterior colonnade in eurythmic balance or harmony was provided in order, optical correctness and rational geometric construction with parameters of the Parthenon and spheno ganglion of ribs of the peripteral octasil, surrounding the arcades of the expiration frieze, and exhaling from Zeus the anti-seismic vibrational integuments and neighs of Hippeis, like Kanti exorbitant and convulsive. In his Maxillary Parasinus; he was subjugated in the Architrave of the lower part of the entablature that rests directly on the columns, its structure worked on its servile lintel, to transmit the weight of the roof to the columns and duplicate banalities of the pontificate of the Samarios horses of Orondel. In the parasinus Turbinate Dorsal; a Metope, occupies part of the frieze where the Doric entablature of a classical building would rest, located between two triglyphs. Like a metope decorated with bas-reliefs, in taboric cliffs of Samaria and its horses in neatness of Hippeis blood. Medium Parasinus; the Stylobate, towards the upper step on which the temple rests, forming part of the crepidoma: on a stepped platform that raises the building above the ground level to give it prominence and greater poise. As a staggered middle to the largest of the great final step towards the Koelum, which joins them in their golden edging of the Equisetum like horsetails with green blood. Of the Ventral Parasinus; In The Opisthodome, a separate space located at the back of the temple, a special vestal element is attached together with the Pronaos (or portico) and the Naos (or sanctuary). Here they take refuge for the snout of their cheeks full of Pleiades evading the hunter of Oarion, each one in decreed steeds of Crete and Samaria, that shine in the transition of the oceanic foam that runs by its naturalness in high tides, and in exalted pause erogenous temptation to an Aphroditism. And finally the super Paraseno or Chamber of Canephore, governing and ruling the priestesses of Baal with the steeds of Orondel, for the purpose of sacrificing the sacred courtesans with their hooves that they consecrated in the stylobate, which esoterically became diffuse. Pro reign in the Canephores along with the Vestals, for dichotomous fajina with Hestia between fires and bonfires that will spill from the mysteries of Eleusis.

They had their six Parasenes separated from their numen septum in other castes that super endowed the confusion that came from Samaria in the kingdom of Israel, being a Hippeis of the Elite Greek cavalry. In the farms of this region, one hundred years after the Syrian ******* in this same analogue, Kanti was assigned to openwork in the meadows for agricultural work, adhered to all the Philistine plains. Plethora of exuberance with liters of pinkish Vine before longed for by some, they tore from vine shoots by snouts and Cinnabar sulfur, already encysted in presses and battles of implicit rows of vines burnished by the thickness of their sulfurous secretion, decanting on the exuberant and grassy carpet. In Thessaly Kanti stood out with its supremacy of hydric seed that raised a surplus of rain when the low waters of the Mediterranean rocked the gargoyles on their similar steeds. In the sagittal of his hoof, below the "U" all the Hippeis of Thessaly were marked with the Vox of ππεῖς, but not those of Samaria, they planted their fourth ends on the ground of Deuteronomy; “He fell in love with his mistresses, whose flesh is like that of donkeys, whose flow is like the effusion of horses. He told himself... You longed for the lust of your youth, when Egyptians touched your breast, caressing the ******* of your youth. Continuing in this way Kanti with his chronicles warned that in his militancies and privileges they did not dig select strings of vines when he had to clear his hooves, which were made of fire and steel from Hephaestus bars by order of Etrestles, who distended his agrazones, letting him levitate towards the clouds with the sweet potatoes of their grafted plantations, that burst those esplanades in hydrometeors of tested sweat on the thick legs browsed by the song of their prayers, and thorns that broke their spiky washdown dueling in the cumulonimbus clouds that lavished care that settled before the eyes of Hippeis foremen, where the strains did not ferment like wine that has no vent and makes them burst into new skins. Thus detonates the patience of the gifted steeds of Samaria, towards some new winemakers who would receive him for a grape harvester who brought spices and olives for a new millennium.

The deposits of credibility made everything in their steeds and genetics of a millennium, to be more effective and fruitful for all that Kanti has not stepped on all the Cyclades, Dodecanese and Messolonghi at the same time as Hippeis from Thessaly, but since the optics of the Orondel; who was the duplicate of Kanti Samaritano, bearing ten times the weight that will make him bear together in tons and more than a thousand oil presses that exceed what his body mechanizes like horse power, thus being able to lighten himself in pruning of other regencies that he does not they shake or shake the branches above the tops of Zeus and his molar that neither expectorates nor pulverizes the best without his terrace. Here, where before the trees grew, they grow in the orchard on the outskirts of the town, Kanti frees all the steeds of Samaria with his gravel in his gummed hoof, mining the lands of the kings and digging up napas valued more than all the fruit-bearing heritage, more than in a fifth year along with all the seas, to make of them the ones that are in other uncircumcised as a reward for those who hide from early taming and their slender task. Those gleaned in Thessaly were from pitchforks in the same cereals that gleaned from those who stopped feeding them and assembled in a grass fable of a rustic sower and fallow farm laborers. The spikes did not fall, the Hippeis with Kanti collected them with their extremities legs in provinces of harvest dragged in sheaves and corsican censers of Epha, like a rope of gold and incense of Sheba who thus brought enlargement to Judah and praise to Yahweh. Epha describes the land where the dromedaries arrive in Israel: "A multitude of camels will cover you, the young camels of Midian and Epha." Incense in a sprigs of Bethlehem, with delicious practices inherited from Ruth reaping the barley, oats and wheat in the same stampede of the Hippeis commanded by Kanti thrashing barley, in which an Epha cultivates the Primogen Gramineae of Thessaly”

(Procorus says: "in the defeat of the Persians by the Greeks, in the naval battle of Salamis, in 480 BC, marked the beginning of the decline of the maritime trade of the Phoenicians, here the East was completely extinguished when Alexander the Great took Tyre in 332 B.C., incorporating Phenicia into the Greek Hellenistic world. All the horses that came from Thessaly were all of the lineage of Hippeis de Kanti, with germines from Samaria and Chambers of Canephores)

Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and upper parts, a certain anti-demonic air carried a Kerí towards the candles of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. On the floor of his cell he had some Tamarisk branches such as Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired at his own monk's feet to become lasting in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the essences of re-transformation of the lexeme of conventional greenness into Patmos, very deflowered in periods with high untemperances only with some secretions in which Procorus felt the re-flowering adventitious from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Sulfur Lion that derived from the Cinnabar with the Anemoi wind that impregnated the Tamarisk capsules, under the acolyte's feet. The aquifer of the water table of the subterranean waters in Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay of their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Lid Post-Gaugamela, with themselves in the Ex Varna with iridescences re-transfigured in the Mount Tabor. Says Procorus: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk has poured limits of our Oikodomeo, to re hold the superficial plate and reuse itself in the absorption of the burning under my feet, forcing them to readapt under the ground scorching concentrated in the Cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae that prevailed in the pummeled beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisk showing themselves innocuous in the imagination of the cloister suffocated right here by some Chaldean tribes, who felt like the illusionist stand of Ex Varna” . In the compaction of this epic hyper-fantasy, his urge was born from the consecration of the Gift of interpreting the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would appear up to this moment, beneath the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which finally it is restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and chamber of San Juan Apóstol, finally supported by layers and blankets of subterranean aqueous filters towards a restructuring of the plane of Euclid, and towards the vicinity of plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were already three-dimensional in the construction of the Oikodome, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would go crazy when the Hexagonal Progeniture arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-construction purgatory for the Oikos in Dwelling of the social unit of Aquarius or Aqua spirits that are terminates at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodomé, here every day specters purged and rubbed in the archetype of the Megaron that was intended to beoblations and in votive links in the massages that the manes of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal brawl for living in the friction and brown partitions of the bloodless Megaron to inaugurate it as a solid bastion, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly, it snatches energized vitality from their extremities, with total imbalance and wheezy guards maneuvered on their feet, dragging themselves towards the karmic Saetas de Velos Toxeumas and unharmed Dorus. But feverish and threatening their integrity when they were falling and plundering the Euclidean edge, opening up from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric of Kanti's paranasals and spatiality that would surround the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse from their coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the column of the Sabines and Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians from the 4th century BC. C., already entwined in borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, close to all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them intoxicated with Nepenthe, by intense vine rain stómas in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, sending them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori… and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solid in his loneliness when seeing that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single candlestick to expand more inaccessible in the semi-glyphs in the grooves of the Megaron that shone synarchically in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian) ..

Parabola Megarón Dódeka Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin and acroballistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and six Para Senos appeared, who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling to the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes in twelve Swords that were multiplied in advance by thousands before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant dimensions and virtual foundation lines, acrostics of steeds from Thessaly on their palfrey mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve wings of cuirasses with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was strung in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands they carried the curved saber Szabla, to cover up the unspoken target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical enemy-unknown but outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed in the impetus of deadly resistance of the betrayed ancestry. The roof that pointed to the south west reflected the light of Orion by aerial forms of the Aegean choir, riding on the high seas with Votive offerings or offerings of Cyclamines and Red Poppies, hovering in majesty in their nomadic obtuse compass of Rhapsodas coffering epic elegies of the Megaron and of those revived venerable triumphs that stretched out on the banner of glory and bed of epiphany. Rhapsode proclaims thus: "In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags in our steppes harassing their moan in blood wars, framed in large sections on the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk.” How much is there to get fed up in the Polish cavalry of the 17th century, that upon glimpsing the barbarous sounds of the temple that approached them to the altar of the Virtual Megaron, showing off in acquiescent ceremonial and counter-revolution of lifeless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortal-living who posed in the rear of twelve thousand officers slain in the Forest of Katyn, such gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here in this place the puffed winged horsemen went by destiny when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions they galloped on their heads sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with Lion and Tiger breastplates with retracted claws. Procorus, observed in the virtuous imagery as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron in bullet-ridden super-existence and a trance of historic architectural dread. Here on a Patmian soil, each one of the officers was aided by each 17th century Polish cuirassier with ferocious wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there of their resemblance, with misty discrepant blood interwoven, executing on apocryphal witnesses who covered themselves with your looks, of overflowing evasion and truce of bodies stained with mourning and despair, with blankets of red poppies scattered adjoining a naive unarmed forest. Over exalted memorandums and secret cries of Adrastea procreating their kind with the nymphs, they drowned out the cries of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing in their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of rotten hopes, of those who hit them from behind, in analogous vexation to heroes of Katyn. Here neither Cronos nor Mother Rhea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for behind their backs, from venting them from the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head as twelve thousand Winged Riders are caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed in the waist of his head, not being expired by ammunition but rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors, who would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies. “The red and steamy cendal of the forest carried the souls of the Hussars to pass them through the sabers of their compatriots, before they were immolated by the Soviets, so their apostolic souls will be catechized by Zsablas of dyed airs of Red Poppies converted into air of respite from the heroes of the Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden Winged Riders of the 17th century”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard, differed in the volatile and explosive metal sabers at the present time that were extinguished in their crooked armor and in Polish beings, in a rear that finally Procorus settled them in urdes of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies flanked by his forehead before being shot from the cortex and occipital lobe, forging into golden sabers and cenobitic transvestites who received them in arms in the sublime stench of effluvium of their blood and hosts, never left and desisted from bubbling by the figures of the acrotera near the Megarón, ditto in the same Forest of Katyn, surrounded in a string of Rosary that dazzled in Procorus prohijando them)

Parable Fourteen Donítikos: “fourteen vibrations were polarized in the enthronement of Vernarth towards his brother Etréstles, making filial gradation in possible anti-filial conception of worship and death in who is suspended from one to the other under the condemnatory rhythm of past lives. It is typical of the facsimile of his own genetic shadow Cain-Abel, but of geomorphological gradation and time-space, which finally brings them together as blood relatives of the same Orbis Alius trunk. Dismissing by not accessing a vibrational anti-Asur (as a healthy creative mind in Genesis) as an energy that manages to restructure itself in any homologous way in the world of Asur as the son of Shem in Genesis..., as comparative and intergenerational mythology , enlivening socio-parental metaphors, pronouncing in cohesion and enchantment what happens in another similarity of gender or Mental field, staging the probability of a mental Sun that dies in a Super Man, and this comes to free us from the ties of existence and plane terrestrial not reflected of immanent and instance of Eon, in geological and sidereal lives. The scrolls of this semi-myth, is subsequent to hanging scrolls on the will of us existed for thousands of years linked to links and human characteristics of knowledge through professed and comparative feeling. Compensation of material distemper between the anti-pivot and life between both refers to the simultaneous undividedness of each specification as a phenomenon lacking hearing in winter and inclement periods. Here the outburst of retro involutions becomes cloistered in Menatira, daughter of Cránae, Queen of Eleusis Pro Eleusis tally fuzzy from the convulsing breath of both through the steppe of silence, both of them. Dodecahedron on an octagon in each one for each one that was interpolated in each area when Demeter was looking for his first-born Persephone.

“Etréstles metamorphosed, so that Metanira reunited them with the sub-mythology of their destinies and the preconception of the elucubrar of a final breaking of the abstract spell, which was mixed with the element of vehemence in their irascibility to wait for a next season in fourteen toasts followed by Ouzo, and goods with intact and distant deities in oscillation of life-maturity, making it after the eleventh Ouzo in determinism of autonomous eternal substances of the ritual of Elusis, appreciable power and coarseness of the one who has to compensate for the one who has everything and the that will never have it. (Eternal Life Spell)”

a) Abundance of rain of red blood cells, in quotation marks of the legacy of Bios as all deprivation of life file, rather for those who yearn for it between a physical trifle alibi...

b) Psujé for Vernarth, “For whoever wants to save the life of his soul, he will lose it”. But he will restore it if he is saved by divine psychology muscle."

c) Zoé, “radiosity and refraction of etherization and physicality, more than a biological physical body re-transformed into purging from the superior to the inferior multi-created, but in a Jesuit adjective and sphere of consequent concatenation towards the plane of the

Mashiaj as holistic of the human cave ecstasy, in inflexible marriage between heaven and earth Ad Aeternum”

(Procorus, auto-irrigated red blood cells, to deliver them both, and relevel the levels of red blood cells of the Mashiach's divine blood, which expected to be refounded in both brothers of the Vibrational in Fourteen Donítikos or Hellenic Vibrations, with the initial D in the lower left ear and the S in the upper right of the vibrational field of the Tinnitus of God, with their ears placed in their hands, take them by their ossicle and from them in the curvilinear dawn that vibrates in what He only wants to do to them Dodeká).

god I need need a cat to
catch a projection of
by body to be caught,
and made in into
an infinite mimic  worth
of "ego" in lunar
geometrics...
    and that: "           "
enclosure is not because
of misnomers or
synonym alleviation
    proximities...    
     perhaps metaphor,
or perhaps...
    a political dosage of
ambiguity....
     which is a less stern
depiction of,
    doe-eyed-myopia of
lies...
    what it is, iß...
                  all the above,
aleviated by the banner
of a-,
            as such:
       the gorging prefix
in an otherwise, open,
conversation...
       women should be taught
the frivolousness of
youth after they've been
taught the leash;
once upon a time,
I met men, who were taught
the leash, before they ever
inherited the frivolity of youth...
  both sexes died the most
unhappy lives...
   mortal,
    naturally succumbing to
a prayer for quickened
anaesthesia of death...
   leveraging on coma and...
a dream of Benekux laws...
what a sombre affair of sorts,
no one will
even master a still life on...
as they say:
  better trust crafting
a replica.

Change tops sameness with minute scrollwork.
Implacable days, the mind’s vast territory,
proximities, wondrous others;
life peopled with the frisson of ***.

The street, polished by shuffling, shines like old silver.
The sky gives leaves a new green
and as if for the first time beautiful
brickwork glows and the houses, the graffitied factories

that come and go between stops,
their ugliness is beat down
by late blooming trees, out there
and on the bitumen stations.

I was at war with myself
I could feel the inner existence
of my creation clashing with the
outer existence of my kingdom,
massive explosions erupting
inside my brain, hyper
volcanoes rising and flaming,
collapsing and shifting under
lifeless seas, sunken illusions,
crazed dreams, empty shadows
suspended in darkness, departed
depictions, abstract realities,
blackened bridges, burning
proximities, toxic chemistry,
a splitting scar soaked in
slippery tar, diminishing
in crippling stages.

How do you write like you’ve got a bomb strapped to your chest?
Any breath you take could be your last, this better be a will and testament
these words have to be the ones that defy death, they better be your best
they will outlive you, every moment they give you is a gift and this is a pen-ultimate test
everything I say, every sentence is a commitment, to be knocked out
I give everything to writing, two percent other elements
and I might be lucky to get someone to shout

That the words are too
the paragraphs need to be
much, moved down a touch
you are peeping toms, you see
there’s poetry in motion and trains building a full head of steam before they leave the station
I’m a locomotive about to explode and my brakes are on, we can fight about
what I write and how, the meaninglessness of life until the break of dawn
you’re off the rails with the thoughts you only think I’m on
I’d cut your house in half with a sharp word, watch those cards fall
apologize to your mother’s ghost for the collateral
family matters, I didn’t mean to **** them all

Oh, what the hell
take this all back a spell
I said every key I hit unlocks another moment
this is my torment, I love it, it’s a test
and I am consistent with giving an F; I keep hitting L
for life, for freedom, and the pursuit of madness, call it enlightenment
crumple up the paper, turn the page over,
embrace choking, strangling entanglement, anarcho-consumerism and politics, order and silence are best friends, I like my music loud, box your ears and deliver me an anarchist, the end is nigh and near, summon all your mounted heads and sainted dead, the sacred stand over your banners where you fall from port to land and mouth back to hand, are you boys proud now, forced a topical message like a burn ointment, crammed into something I said like yes doctor, I’ll call back and [forget immediately to] make my next appointment

Stress impacts the mind
it’s like dropping a pebble onto jello
shocking how predisposed to flaws we’re designed
I’m a head chairman when it comes to being stuck in mine
these gurus all come at the tree of life and how you’re living
with reflexive hindsights attached to their asks,
breaking down every aspect, until gelatin, water, and cold is what they’re given
they eat brains and swing axes
they’re choppy already, trying to expose glitches, digging posts ditches  
profiteers off dread that knows there’s no new frontiers, making illusions out of tears and magic happen here, talents and loose morals, heartless deadbeats, that’s what a life hack is

I never met another writer I didn’t root for, even secretly,
with degrees that shield them from criticism, burn up arguments on proximities
“This is my office. It’s a safe space and GET A LOAD OF THEEEEESE!”
I get it, you stormed the kingdom and took the keys
now you get to sit there in the same chair and talk to messy heads like me
but I get to sit here, and I have the same chair, and I don’t owe a college money
I get to be a mess and you get to deal with it, I can’t even befriend that out of somebody
and we get to talk about my writing like it’s the most important thing I do
but we skirt real issues because no one gets paid enough to handle what’s really true
and that’s why if time was a human being, I’d beat them like they owe me money and I’d collect double on behalf of you
and you’d condemn me for it, but I quit therapy and dreaming, locked it up and stored it
long as it’s not me, like dying, I’m all the more for it

I don’t have faith
in you
I see the similarities
in you
I’m not a man for family, I’ve got so little love left I can feel the ticking when a swell of emotion fills up in my chest, counting down like a held breath
I couldn’t express the things that I actually feel with enough clarity to a reader with letters by post anymore
my audience is invisible and blind
I spend so much of myself currently that I have nothing left to give to anyone or anything, my writing is energy and effort over time which amounts to real currency
so, I guess I’m broke, white flags out, if I had any sense, I’d save two cents
but I’m trying to make you feel this one last time, so let’s rewind
it’s okay not to feel this way and this thing I need to say is really only for the blind
⠊ ⠇⠕⠧⠑ ⠍⠽ ⠋⠁⠞⠓⠑⠗ ⠁⠝⠙ ⠊⠄⠍ ⠎⠉⠁⠗⠑⠙ ⠎⠞⠊⠇⠇ ⠁⠞ ⠞⠓⠑ ⠞⠓⠕⠥⠛⠓⠞ ⠕⠋ ⠇⠕⠎⠊⠝⠛ ⠓⠊⠍

How do I write like there’s a bomb strapped to my chest?
I spin a round in my finger-gun, hold it up to my head and make suicidal idle threats
sitting paralyzed from the chest down and running out of breath
public consumption is a game of character portrayal, I rolled poorly on the sheet,
I’m a walking bad decision waiting to happen, and just when you convince me not to take action
I’ll desecrate your throne, passively worse, a lazy heel, sprawled out yawning, just kick up my feet
I can sleep just fine, but I’m never going to be a body at rest
I’m going to do something even if I can’t do my best
every day this bed becomes like Mount Olympus, the air gets thin and it’d be easier to stay down forever
but I’m no god, I don’t belong, I play the odds, we’d never get along, I’m Promethean and seething again, I’ll steal your fire for all mankind so we can compose roasts and songs, light in your shadows, if I stayed silent for twenty four hours, for seven days, for seven weeks, it means I’m going to crack open Hades with a message not safe for the ill and the elderly or the weak next time I slip Zeus’ beak and you see me speak

There’s no excuse, no simulation, no destiny, no red string can be my noose you cannot magic-lasso me, there’s no institution, no holding cell that’s not in my own body and if I detonated it would be with my own bottled up relentless anguish, anger, hatred and messy mania, that’s chaotic energy, I’d rather these messages get bottled and sent out to sea, find your corpses missing from a field of plague-stricken horses, going coastal with a special delivery, drop my friends off in the dead of night, I know the perfect jetty, I want darkness, put curtains up, break the lightbulbs and nail plywood boards in the windows, put bars up, cut off the electricity, smash the breakers and the fuses, blindfold and cut you horizontally across both pupils if anybody refuses, a primordial void doesn’t even reflect this accurately, show some putrid, vile neglect, before the stars dotted the universe, before humanity, before a blackhole even knew what light was, I need this introspection to match the same inflection of my recent constant, nagging, pull in that direction, to match the gravitas, the gravitational pull towards the murderous, malevolent and sharper, more aware and present, side of my personality who values my own life to such an extent that it takes more active engagement from me than I ever get, I’m nothing short of exhausted, knowing I could be a glass great-sword with what meek average I have in intellect, it’s nothing short of invocation, evoking ire and resentment, to go further I have to devolve, to achieve the pinnacle of my words and see my art evolve, I can’t outrun the world, I can’t be happy, and I’m no revolution, but as the world revolves I revolt with no jolt from the state of always being plugged in, there’s mediocrity in settling, I’ve amassed such a depth of debt to the past it’s built up a toxic venom that I’ll never outlast, I’m just trying to cast a bastion to keep my lines cast in and while I’m staying paralytically still I still feel like I’m going so fast I’m strapped in, I just roll with the loss of control because I don’t fight the spiral, I know how this did happen, even though I’m going slow it’s no race; my life is over twice I’ve been lapped in, the change of pace is a joke to the deck with a few cards short, a full house to four aces, I’m a small hand away from a meltdown and a handful of crying faces, just keep changing gears and the cogs will lubricate, replace themselves and appreciate that being spared the machinations of a breaking down is mercy, if no one is close to me when this bomb strapped to me goes off, I hurt no one, and no one in turn hurts me, self-preservation and spared humiliation, that’s one way to eat yourself alive under fire in the situation, inside out, I spill my guts, no ifs ands or buts, nothing’s so dire, I write sometimes like I’m going to fight the monitor when I see it typed, and if the gate for the match is right I’ll believe I can deliver if I feel that hyped, I write like Atheists are right, like I write like God is spellchecking and Satan is rubbernecking, I write like the Grim Reaper is waiting for me to finish, I write like Big Brother has a special interest, I write like the page is endless, I write like I’ll be shot square in the brain and that’ll plain and simply end all surrounding suffering and pain, I write like my words mean everything and nothing, like I can change the world, I write like it’s the first time I held a hundred dollars in cash, I write with my knuckles white while my teeth grind and gnash, and I write like a thousand people are invested, it’s all the same to me if even one person is really interested.