There was a town beyond the woods,
Ne’er there any water stood,
Alas, a Well, of the purest kind,
The aquifer under, is here described,
Beyond a thousand gallons under
The diamond-esque rubble and sunder.
But one bucket, at but one time,
Kind, the town, taking turns of rhyme,
This essence, used to bathe and cook,
To drink, to create, a cozy nook.
-
The happy town, the gorgeous shire,
The crops grown there as green as Ire,
No law exists, they live but civilly,
A fetching, quiet community,
But always there exists a one,
Who would want power, want this undone,
So it was said regretfully,
Poisoned their Well, emotionless he.
-
Now this village was quite secluded,
No one not there born, ne’er intruded,
Deep in the forest, behind a mountain,
Over a peak, under a cloudy curtain,
It existed in secret and abolition,
And one did seek its demolition,
Knowing the only flaw to here exist,
The essence of life, no man resists.
-
He crept at night, while the guard did sleep,
Promising the pure water to weep,
Dropping the genocide with bucket and crane,
Releasing its Demonic Alchemic Strain,
The Well did hiss as the poison moaned,
Recoiling at this unwanted drone,
The assailant then brought to his steady lips,
A cup and was first to take Devil’s Kiss.
-
On the morrow of the mentioned crime,
Busy bodies awoke to start the day’s time,
Queuing at bucket and awaiting turns,
Each family there a portion yearned,
Not one did from the water strafe,
Each then bathed, then drank, unsafe,
No one could tell different taste,
Water is water, but not today.
-
The plague did start like any disease,
Sore throat, fever, stopped nose, displeased,
The people sought the witchdoctor,
But he from bed, would rise no longer,
He caught ill too, and wouldn’t budge,
Afraid for his life, afraid of this grudge,
He knew this sickness, had heard before,
But told no one, the end was sure.
-
In a week, vomiting and nausea,
Nasal passages sealed, no nostalgia
Brought to memory of any like sickness,
The virus brought about decrepit afflictions,
But slowly and steady, worse and worse,
The people became, some saw the course
But kept silent, to avoid alerting,
The so many children in need of comforting.
-
In two weeks’ time, the pathogen,
Had taken wits of sensible men,
At night, they screamed in somber fright,
Their deepest fears, real now, and bright,
The lutes died out, the bards not singing,
An unfortunate time, but this was only beginning.
-
Fingernails rotting off at the cuticle,
Too much blood for any receptacle,
Leprositic, the fingers came next,
One by one, extremities hexed,
Children lost their legs to run,
From mothers’ faces rotted, undone,
In every other step, heard were bones breaking,
Kneecaps cracked open, shins splintering,
Eyes turned cadaverous, awake, but not seeing,
Cataracts formed, blinded from viral being,
In cradles were witnessed toddlers there suffering,
Their mothers watched with empty sockets, but listening
To the cries impossible to stifle,
The pain too much for these tiny disciples.
The dogs normally to their masters zealous,
Became of them mortally jealous.
They bit the hands that fed them well,
For watering them from the cryptic Well.
Men watched their sons dive right under,
The bridge that harnessed a valley of blunder
Hundreds of feet above sharp rocks and stumps,
Their namesakes leaped, impaled in clumps,
For those lucky enough to still have eyes,
Cried tears of acid for images despised
Sickness was spewed upon the walls,
Entrails adorned the Gathering Halls,
Some had turned to mutilation,
Blood-letting for some, abomination,
Some crazed enough to “cure” themselves,
Clawed throat and stomach til flesh dissolved,
Some rich with elixir tried to embezzle,
Upon some of the poor, tired and grizzled,
Riot broke out amongst the walking dead
Fortune or lack of, irrelevant,
Black pustules broke out that looked Bubonic,
But the cure for that failed, how ironic,
That it rather hastened the steadfast curse,
Faster than iambic verse,
Molecules turned to embryo,
Rising like a great Pharaoh,
They became flesh parasites,
Taking internal organs, slow and precise,
They started with the liver and spleen,
So there lasted hours of wretched screams,
The intestines of some would close and then
Becoming septic, they passed, bile in stem,
A few had throats seeming cauterized,
Friends watched friends closest, strangle alive,
There were in fact, some optimists,
Among them, talk of being “rid of this”,
They too died while clutching life,
Endeavoring their eternal flight,
From noses, there dripped blackened murk,
Thicker than combined oil and dirt,
It then secreted as sweat from all pores,
Fatigue then struck those left to the floor.
Upon broken knees some prayed,
Usually the skin under ribs was flayed,
Trying to understand what went wrong,
Dissecting the dead was not headstrong,
It only furthered viral progression,
The open corpses breathing infection,
The cadavers would move still, the fleshbugs active,
The horror of lifeless movement, corrosive,
The minds of the weak, it pure happenstance,
One found eating dead flesh for a cure, no chance.
All in all, this lingering curiosity,
Provided once good people with animosity,
One man turned good people to hate,
Their neighbors in ways that were irate.
-
The chaos was not anarchy,
For, as I said,
It was civilly,
But verily, I do decree,
That no one knew such misery,
The inhabitants of this village,
Did not suspect innocent visage,
Or perhaps, their cherished Well.
To be culprit behind this hell
So they drank and drank to remedy,
To recompense this malady,
To no avail did blood get thicker,
Alas, they got but sicker and sicker.
-
This hell, the townsfolk then realized,
Wouldn’t end til they all were nullified,
Eliminated they were, eradicated at that,
This pathogenic virus had verily spat
In the faces of the people here,
Decimated they were, not quenching their fear,
Murdered they were by a systematic
Suicidal psychopathic,
Inflamed in the mind of darkness thereafter,
Only satisfied by his own laughter.
Not many, til now, know of this town,
From lowly peasant, to “Godly” Crown.
An explorer found the deserted hamlet,
Body parts and questions then found the hermit,
He had heard of a town like this, he wrote:
“It was a new age Roanoke…”
But the village, not a town to cause commotion,
All that was left of them, a tree scratched, “CROATOAN”.

As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.

And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.

Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT ****. I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.

I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,

he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.

The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.

The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’

The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.

The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’

She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’

She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.

Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’

She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’

David Lewis Paget

Burdened in the cool resentment, of self betterment, hesitant, in its clause, licking pennies from the paws of wolfs, misunderstood and no good in the laws of men, force me on the bench again, and expect to lessen, the sentence, of the commitments pushed to the petal in the proprietary pustules of must haves, postulated from rehabs, of labs and rats, stabbed with needles and smacked, when i doze off, I'm going to go off, like a bomb in class, painting the blast in a bright flash, of mmy baaads.

As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.

And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.

Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT ****. I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and where it as a hat on a first date. OKCupid's not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the guzzling wind, the air that comes into my mouth and looks for any breath within me that it can go out of me with, and I'm breathless.

I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby bourn,

he's the mien of an Anthony Hopkins, living in a hologram I saw in my dream last night.

He lay in bed and he watched the sun
Beam in through the double glaze,
The leafless treetops, withered and bent
In an unforgiving haze,
His wife lay sleeping, innocent
In a dream of former times,
As the clock downstairs in the hallway gave
The last of thirteen chimes.

He slipped on down to the basement, tried
To leave his wife in grace,
Took heart, looked over his shoulder just
To see her peaceful face,
Then carefully donned the gamma suit
That they’d issued with the hood,
And slipped on out through the airlock to
Assess the neighbourhood.

The visibility through the haze
Was down to fifty feet,
The yards were blackened and burned of
Every house along the street,
He checked each one with an open door
Where the occupants had fled,
But every now and again he’d find
They’d not be gone, but dead.

He’d make a note of the time of day
Of the house, its street address,
And note if any had decomposed
So the squad could clean the mess,
His friends peered out from their windows
Watched and mouthed their mute dismay,
While he would hold up a sign to them,
‘You can’t go out today!’

It took him an hour to check each block
That he’d got from Air Defence,
He’d watch the flickering LED
And would note the roentgens,
The cloud had covered the neighbourhood
But would move along, they said,
The dust-storm muted the morning sun
And at night, the sky was red.

The Homeland Squad would deliver food
To the ones without supplies,
Would drop their cases of powdered milk
To stem the babies cries,
While Gordon Hay would complete his day,
Rush back to his lady, Sky,
Wash off the hood and the gamma suit
And hang it on up to dry.

She’d dressed and put on her make-up
Added a touch of rouge to her cheeks,
And said, ‘I’m going to pop right out,
I haven’t been out for weeks.
I need to go to the supermart,
And visit the folks on the way,’
Then waited for Gordon to shake his head,
‘You can’t go out today!’

‘I’m sick of hearing you saying that,’
She stamped, and she burst in tears,
‘How long do you think you can keep me in,
This might go on for years!
You go out there in your funny suit
And there’s nothing wrong with you,
While I’m stuck here with our baby girl,
I want to go walking, too.’

She waited until he was fast asleep
And the baby fed and dried,
Then quietly opened the airlock, took
A breath, and she walked outside,
The dust was thick and the air was hot
And her skin began to burn,
She thought she’d better buy sunscreen
At the shop, on her return.

The supermarket was boarded up,
And so were the local shops,
She didn’t see anyone on the street
Not even the local cops,
Her folks refused to answer the door
Her friends had waved her away,
And Gordon’s words had hung in the air,
‘You can’t go out today!’

She turned, went back to her home, and found
The airlock had been barred,
She beat in vain on the window pane
But her husband’s words were hard,
He saw the blisters, over her face
And the pustules on her skin,
His tears were based on her lack of grace
As he said, ‘You can’t come in!’

‘I have to protect our baby girl
And I’ll do whatever it takes,
I love you Sky, but you’re going to die,
We pay for our own mistakes.
You always were too stubborn for me
And you had to have your way.’
She cried in dread at the words he’d said:
‘You can’t go out today!’

David Lewis Paget

Peering up from the precipice, a cyclops! – a
Many-fanged and mono-eyed beast,
Flesh a sickly sea-shell and putrid yellow as a
Series of pustules pulse rivulets of green-black blood,
Staining scarred surfaces and shadowing engorged strength.

Reaffirmed grip on haft,
I plunge the sticked-spike a shade-shy of horizontal,
Missing the mark obvious but finding purchase,
Shattering clavicle and spraying sinew in a perverse sort
Of macabre rainbow arc, yet met with instant,
Abject terror: spear now not merely stuck but gripped
By mine beholden nemesis, and he shifts, twists the
Leverage and I, trained in the art of never-surrender-never,
Have not his primitive power to resist and thus fall,
Giving way to laws of momentum – and the world shudders.

Eyes-wide as fist-eclipses-sun, a quick scramble,
Desperate-probing-reflexive grab for the half-arm length stabber,
Unsheathe, roll, aim and ******:
A scoring glance, slicing more pox and pus than
Bone or gristle, but desired effect achieved:
Nemesis rails, howling, orb clenched and pointing skyward,
Arms guarding reflexive at bloodied torso, leaving precious,
Glorious goal unguarded:
A backwards roll, leaning into the earth like Atlas,
I push, spring, and the world gleams in high-contrast
Blood-red and silvered-steel-sword as I’m propelled skyward –
Blade-and-hand acting in concert, a conductor in a symphony
Of prospective gore seeking to punish the cyclopean’s dissonance,
I plunge deep, scoring a bassonic rumble from
His jugular and cacophonic crackings as his cerebral
Column gives way to the superior song.

His shuttered eye now open as he slumps, falling to the
Ground ilke a dead god, it develops a strange sort of calm,
As if he’s hearing his own song of slaying – but that
Sizzling, that pig-eating-slop sound, that wasn’t my song –
That must be his, and awareness dawns as adrenal sets –
Blinded by blood and battle, I’d neglected to heed
The refuse of the beast’s bilious eruptions,
Blown back from the force of my blade, and now, immersed
By the nauseating, liquid-green mass, I am devoured from
Without.

I lay now, eyes alternating skies, and weep that I
Am sapped entirely of strength enough for noble suicide:
I shall die here, propped astern like a failed Atlas, a
Boneless, gibbering mash of grit, guts, and warm, soupy glory,
muted and deafened to the howlsong from above of vultures.

Words
Brittle rings transcending silence in offer
(An offering)
To offer up trust
They break in the moment you speak
To offer your life:
Foolish. like all the rest broke me
I look forward to secretly building co-dependence
Just to disassemble what you thought you held
I'll drain your breath

Words explode and shred
They fly, genuine, from lips I'll lock with in pretend
Under bus stop signs you stoop to kiss with the impression I won't leave you gasping, gaspless

Burn
Folded paper if you feel they weren't heartfelt
(Emulating)
The offer of rust
Heard from a wet weak heart's keening
I offer it love
Hoping share of my warm blood brings
All pretense that lies in your depths spiraled to the surface
Hope then showing like pustules I'll crush each head
I'll drain it out

Slash rampant like the knife unleashes
In fingers soft, skin taut to the bone
There is night to find
Slash rampant like the knife unleashes
In fingers young, keys tuned to one note
And you can be the prey

But you don't have to be

I am made of mountains
which do not merit their trek,
slumps pregnant with swamps
bubbling ‘round souring slop,
flatlands so parched they cough
as the pustules burst.

I am petals so withered
they perpetually sulk,
shunning the warmth
so to sigh in the soil.

I am blackened fruits
weighing down weary trees.  

The flies do not flock to me.

Voici le trou, voici l'échelle. Descendez.
Tandis qu'au corps de garde en face on joue aux dés
En riant sous le nez des matrones bourrues,
Laissez le crieur rauque, assourdissant les rues,
Proclamer le numide ou le dace aux abois,
Et, groupés sous l'auvent des échoppes de bois,
Les savetiers romains et les marchandes d'herbes
De la Minerve étrusque échanger les proverbes ;
Descendez.

Vous voilà dans un lieu monstrueux.
Enfer d'ombre et de boue aux porches tortueux,
Où les murs ont la lèpre, où, parmi les pustules,
Glissent les scorpions mêlés aux tarentules.
Morne abîme !

Au-dessus de ce plafond fangeux,
Dans les cieux, dans le cirque immense et plein de jeux,
Sur les pavés sabins, dallages centenaires,
Roulent les chars, les bruits, les vents et les tonnerres ;
Le peuple gronde ou rit dans le forum sacré ;
Le navire d'Ostie au port est amarré,
L'arc triomphal rayonne, et sur la borne agraire
Tettent, nus et divins, Rémus avec son frère
Romulus, louveteaux de la louve d'airain ;
Non ****, le fleuve Tibre épand son flot serein,
Et la vache au flanc roux y vient boire, et les buffles
Laissent en fils d'argent l'eau tomber de leurs mufles.

Le hideux souterrain s'étend dans tous les sens ;
Il ouvre par endroits sous les pieds des passants
Ses soupiraux infects et flairés par les truies ;
Cette cave se change en fleuve au temps des pluies
Vers midi, tout au bord du soupirail vermeil,
Les durs barreaux de fer découpent le soleil,
Et le mur apparaît semblable au dos des zèbres
Tout le reste est miasme, obscurité, ténèbres
Par places le pavé, comme chez les tueurs,
Paraît sanglant ; la pierre a d'affreuses sueurs
Ici l'oubli, la peste et la nuit font leurs œuvres
Le rat heurte en courant la taupe ; les couleuvres
Serpentent sur le mur comme de noirs éclairs ;
Les tessons, les haillons, les piliers aux pieds verts,
Les reptiles laissant des traces de salives,
La toile d'araignée accrochée aux solives,
Des mares dans les coins, effroyables miroirs,
Où nagent on ne sait quels êtres lents et noirs,
Font un fourmillement horrible dans ces ombres.
La vieille hydre chaos rampe sous ces décombres.
On voit des animaux accroupis et mangeant ;
La moisissure rose aux écailles d'argent
Fait sur l'obscur bourbier luire ses mosaïques
L'odeur du lieu mettrait en fuite des stoïques
Le sol partout se creuse en gouffres empestés
Et les chauves-souris volent de tous côtés
Comme au milieu des fleurs s'ébattent les colombes.
On croit, dans cette brume et dans ces catacombes,
Entendre bougonner la mégère Atropos ;
Le pied sent dans la nuit le dos mou des crapauds ;
L'eau pleure ; par moments quelque escalier livide
Plonge lugubrement ses marches dans le vide.
Tout est fétide, informe, abject, terrible à voir.
Le charnier, le gibet, le ruisseau, le lavoir,
Les vieux parfums rancis dans les fioles persanes,
Le lavabo vidé des pâles courtisanes,
L'eau lustrale épandue aux pieds des dieux menteurs,
Le sang des confesseurs et des gladiateurs,
Les meurtres, les festins, les luxures hardies,
Le chaudron renversé des noires Canidies,
Ce que Trimalcion ***** sur le chemin,
Tous les vices de Rome, égout du genre humain,
Suintent, comme en un crible, à travers cette voûte,
Et l'immonde univers y filtre goutte à goutte.
Là-haut, on vit, on teint ses lèvres de carmin,
On a le lierre au front et la coupe à la main,
Le peuple sous les fleurs cache sa plaie impure
Et chante ; et c'est ici que l'ulcère suppure.
Ceci, c'est le cloaque, effrayant, vil, glacé.
Et Rome tout entière avec tout son passé,
Joyeuse, souveraine, esclave, criminelle,
Dans ce marais sans fond croupit, fange éternelle.
C'est le noir rendez-vous de l'immense néant ;
Toute ordure aboutit à ce gouffre béant ;
La vieille au chef branlant qui gronde et qui soupire
Y vide son panier, et le monde l'empire.
L'horreur emplit cet antre, infâme vision.
Toute l'impureté de la création
Tombe et vient échouer sur cette sombre rive.
Au fond, on entrevoit, dans une ombre où n'arrive
Pas un reflet de jour, pas un souffle de vent,
Quelque chose d'affreux qui fut jadis vivant,
Des mâchoires, des yeux, des ventres, des entrailles,
Des carcasses qui font des taches aux murailles
On approche, et longtemps on reste l'œil fixé
Sur ce tas monstrueux, dans la bourbe enfoncé,
Jeté là par un trou redouté des ivrognes,
Sans pouvoir distinguer si ces mornes charognes
Ont une forme encor visible en leurs débris,
Et sont des chiens crevés ou des césars pourris.

Jersey, le 30 avril 1853.

A dóggy drópped sóme Crappó
                   steaming ón the street,
a cóffee cólóred fungus
                   piled up óh só neat -
and there a juicy maggót
                   fóund it óh só sweet,
só simply sóft and tender,
                   just like a córpse's meat

Thee maggót, nót só clever
                   -  simple and untaught -
was dreaming óf attentión,
                   slimelight's what it sóught.
An empty-minded cómrade
                   certainly'd help a lót -
anóther wórm-like nóthing
                   just the thing! it thóught.
  
While ******* in the Lóg's brain
                   - óh quite a simple chóre -
it replicated pustules,
                   petty, ghastly, sóre.
And when the Lógy maggót
                   ****** in nóthing móre
it burst apart in wónder,
                   clóned Thee Artiste Whóre

Well, Petty Little Lógbrain,
                   Whóre, Thee Artiste crank
Are mixed up in the mire,
                   in mindless **** they sank.
Thee cópies creepy Crappó,
                   from pages where he stank.
and claims tó be Thee Artiste,
                   - Thee smell is simply rank

The móral óf this fable,
                   clear fór all tó see:
If fated with a Lóg brain
                   bear yóur destiny
and never let yóur EGÓ
                 rampage ón a spree!
Ór  else like Whóre and Crappó
                   yóu'll sóón turn intó Thee.



                CrE aka Trollminator

From the physiognomy that bruises the vertical from Gaul; axiomatic metempsychosis elements were transferred from corporate primaries to third parties after the incipient expiration of Vernarth. This orphistic or mystical enchantment was brought by Wontelimar from Valdaine, emerging from insane drunkenness on the Ardeche Mountains, transmigrating euphony and medical justifications that were united with the reincarnated Helminth reminiscent of Vernarth. Such was a verme or worm that classified itself in his arm, munching in his elder veins elongated by parasites of commendable colonies and idiomatic, retro-emotional, and lyrical heights. Knowing that its baluster made capital letters in steps and life-giving questions by means of beads, and the oratic chain of Luccica's godmother that awakened in him translating expirative and presumptive psychophysical Zionisms of the eloquent millionth perspectivism of re-trance, when his putrid upright arm was recorded. and landing in his Abrahamic physical departure, dissociating his body, separating and alternating with his dexterous spiral Aorion tri-bracelet between the arm of Sagittarius and the arm of Perseus, liquefying into indissoluble modular stratagems for three bodies, plus the one that accompanied occupying triplets in posthumous individualities. Unconscious metempsychosis singularities brought the right-arm picking him up several times from the discursive hive of Wonthelimar, to convince him and tell him that he had not been with the Hexagonal Progeny for some time, without hindrance it brought him from Ardeche in lasting and concerting sets, gray senses looking at the valleys of Valdaine in pilgrimages towards the expectant Patmian plains. His expiration was reborn from the appendages of the water lilies that were grasped by the recessed lumbar powers and were trans-mentalized into related memories that subsist reincarnationist and degressive in plausive longing when re-advancing with revived intelligence, to indoctrinate themselves when raised from an emetic absolutist consciousness, and free from the greatest breaths of judgment is constant waste and reciprocity on shelves that started from an initial discipline already transmigrated, on skinned ardors eroding from astral ellipses in decayed individualities expiring in the Ego-Xifos (Ego-Sharps), that transpose the gorges that even through Hellenic geography that has not been shed by the blood of a Hetairoi.

Wonthelimar says: “hold on to my lazy arm and embrace Lazarus and his decayed fierceness! in different bodies I have seen your blood hang itself on banners with different super-life monarchies, in the germs of the Valdaine valley avoiding their retreat into fatuous materials that vilified the acrotera of your descended Megaron. Remarking on the genetic tricuspid, and emanating lineages of surviving to invigorate in the dexterous appendage of Aorion, which has to wail from the armpit of Betelgeuse with insensitive patches that mock to see him bleed for more than two thousand years without coagulating in possible anarchies more than nothing, before speculating from where the meager blindness of compassionate triple restraints has germinated, like a split Psychí or soul three times before predicting about the valleys and a castle, in infamous beatifies that do not bleed with me…, Wonthelimar ”. It is possible that they have sublimated us from the apathetic and brief radiance...?, Only in some moor or headland before tearing us from the banners or Vexillum of the inaugural that stuffs its already subsisted vehemence in spaces that are already acroteral, resting on peduncles in floral capitulars. And the immobile ones mold the support pustules…, the sap that runs horribly towards you and behind you! Incontinent to your dehydrated past lives redeeming subsistence and rubbing it, then excluding themselves healed properly from their wounds settled in muddy dreams of reviving them expired. Resulting from its origins from the Mysterium or Musterium as an enclave exacerbated in civil disproportions that were established since the Neolithic, without having sealed the doors of all the species that were trapped in the mysterious ice ages, based on ritualistic doctrines, through eager entities to obstruct lapses in the open air of the Spilaion Apokalypseo, having to be returned in possession of physiognomies and of all the enclosed species of the Neolithic Age ”. The bumblebees loaded with spherical honey in their legs, flew by the assembly of the warriors, crops, pastoral assemblages, and sharp stones that cut the wind that disturb the infants who fear the night sleep in the rough quarries that made them sedentary of venerable thermoregulated and climatic seats. Making of them and us revolutionary discoveries, for the interconnection of cooled flints in forests of Memento or Vademecun, to be erected on the megalithic plains, from where I come, rolling like a circular stone that moves the rocks of the World away from a near east, making some timorous and Asian oratics, I was able to get close to you Vernarth, who since the Neolithic I appear following you without giving up in the horticultural and in bovine frights. In this way, the water lilies and peduncles cordoned off the semoviente, full of thrones to conquer them, almost after having lost the calculations of the plasma that were being innovated from a Hetairoi by being reformulated from its incendiary essence, with such spasm being pardoned in the orbits of those who it the sustain themselves and wait for them bringing elaborate anonymous spare parts. Thus Wonthelimar spreads Greek fire over his golden breastplate, entering his transmigrated soul there, as fiduciaries of naphtha, sulfur, and ammonia in treats of previous and speculated oxygenated suitability that was transmitted in suffocating atmospheres by his deltoid when he detonated hatred in his eyelids.. His ***** inhibited signs of fear and hissing of freedom in fields of glory from a mythologized go diving between desolate flames of excretion, and throwing fuel that was not conceived of the same troubadour in the final redemption. (Among waters, minerals and ureas from the Hephaestus braze where dead proteins of cell warheads were stained, nitrogenizing acids that were from the common verb of Wonthelimar) ”.

The double V merged and intertwined forming an inverted double V, being the metric bulbar of Wonthelimar raising awareness of the upper and lower Vernarthian blocks, night falling towards a density of the same that moved raised on the north deck of the Eurydice ship, while everyone slept in the understand the "V" residing and originating from the annihilating biological duo of the immemorial of Vernarth and the Bumodos river, contemplating the suggestive salvage of sap after overcoming lymphomas in the battle of Gaugamela. Wonthelimar in tender loves misrepresented what he would achieve with his ****** healings next to the bold tributary, leaving in the vanguard and in starts from all the gigs that had condemned to Halicarnassus to be truncated next to infallible Canephores in disgrace to their executioners, branching all the branches of holm oaks of the articular of Wonthelimar that had been sheltering from the head, girdling itself in old debt collector and of souls in pain on the sleeping Nyons. The carriage perennially transshipped hesitant and unconscious individuals that the Falangists invited them to order, and spend the night shining in their Xifos in the bow with the inverted "V" to open up to the abundant exciting sea and find it in some Eden, being assembled in the primary kicks of an anonymous withdrawn, among all the cattle cooked with herbs that did not manage to sprout between one and the other.

The brawl is the symbiosis of the Megaron that exhibited the “M” united with the two inverted “Vs”, conceptualizing in Wonthelimar the vigil of early properties and phobias fragmenting in numerous odes in Thessaly, which were already re-agglutinating attracted from a patriarchal image from Hellas, under the pretext of Hellenistic consummations as a vocational institute race in primitives of Alexandrina Magnus, derived a few nautical miles to approach Patmos. The ship sailed across the sea, pre-conceptualizing the very universal being that revived in the Tracontero, looming out of all the waters like a nubile breaker that spoke to each other with words from Mageireméno Kefáli Votánon, "head cooked with herbs." Speaking in primitive alternate erudition and in tidal waves with more than twelve meters of territorial Argonauts making similar corvettes as the Gulf of Tarnetino, possessing distant and comparative sixty miles of the base that colonized Wonthelimar for new sources when encrypting in the Megaron. They persevere, captaining the Immature Polis that would be documented in Patmos, and in the town councils of the assemblage with ****** ceased battles, climbing towards a great cogitation height of the Megaron temple and the Theater of the Epidaurus, under the three darkness of the lilies bordering the Spilaion Apokalypseos.

In the hemicycle Theater of the Epidaurus, the stars worked for the nations of Asclepius together with Wonthelimar, thus healing emigrated musical sessions in palmistry and Parapsychology, where burdensome marks of interveners expectorated in vast impellers on the Koilones and in their softened and purged bleachers, from where each one was shouting towards all the winds and the advent of all the auditoriums absent by past and future generations, cheering lives in salvific voices, for those who cheer them with additional sheltered and attentive spectators from ultra-semicircular bleachers, not being on stage, better absent more than the actors of a drama to stay alive when they prowled towards the Diazoma, or corridor where all the spectators suffered from the same ordeal of Vernath's right arm and pectoral in decreasing lymphomas, in a greater capacity of incentive and saving grace. After this incident, Wonthelimar became a cause and effect of the Vernarth saga, but of transmigrated formality for the purpose of corresponding survival and of cellular restitution of what had died in him..., thus, everything would begin to be reborn towards a prop in a double aspect. The former commanders who were once his faithful servants would appear before this affront, to antagonize him and make him desist from joining as a Proceriato and Gigantum Form of the heroes of Gaugamela on Patmos.

the bird lay helplessly on the soft cement,
its eye sockets were empty
and its feathers were torn up.
dreaming a little dream
that consisted of empty space,
the contents of its mind
both literal and figurative.
the rot had set on swiftly,
the skin was putrid smelling,
the pustules were brimming
with the **** of death made swelling.
framed on the ground by
ants crawling all around its flesh,
they slid in and out
they played within the body's ruins.
the bones were now made of rope,
the feathers petrified,
the bird lay so still,
dreaming a sleep about a sky full of nothing
speckled red and brown and green and blue and
somehow reminding me of myself
in relation to you
and you
and you
and all of you
to all of me
to every last ****** bit of you,
I give you a dead, departed, decaying corpse
who will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
just let me lay and rot upon the cement,
*I will never fly again.

A fizzle.
A fury.
The rabbit and the hole.
Like puzzle pieces left out in the rain.
Overexposure,
         White hot.
Ex-communication leads to excommunication.
This is your brain on drugs.
Intravenous lover,
  **** the marrow dry.
          White hot.
  blistering
Pustules darling!
Transgress,
then offer a pause,
      as though we had ever begun to play.
Like a claustrophobic *******,
leasing out a shoebox.
I want in for good.
I want out for life.
Lets play hide,
  all the seekers are dead.

It all looked clean, crisp, picturesque postcard promise
The river reflecting skyblue shimmers
Mists rising wisps of secrets
Trees and plants glossy, full bellied, nutritious happy
The birds practising new song and twitching wings
of fancy in the bright 440 volt sunshine
Filtering through
the senses to settle softly.

All was really not that clean and crisp.
The photographer could not zoom in
On a dead kea choked on a 1080 trap
Dropping from the sky like a manna treat
Four fish gobbling pellets pulled upstream
Mouth agape as poison shut the fluttering gills
Two other magpies lost their raucous tone
Deprived by early morning bait
Possums slept softly high up in the tress
With last nights buds bursting in their full bellies

The photographer could not see beauty and ugliness
Together.
The lens could not question the crystalline view
The click was not from gun
digital film rolled irrespective
And his dream of a pristine forest
with no pustules told one side of the story.

The other side
Balanced the books
And tore the heart of the very creatures
That spoke beauty with being there.

The picture was captioned;
Clean and Green.
Was it?
A picture speaks a thousand words
Sprinkled with three hundred lies and lives.
Author Notes

This poem accompanied a lush photograph of forest with a little stream flowing through. In the same area where the photograph was taken, helicopters bombed the forest with 1080 poison pellets to knock off the possums which were eating through the fresh shoots and leaves.

The end result was more than the possums going to thy kingdom come.

There are serious environmental undertones in this poem.

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid;=11260667
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago

Madison mounted her coal black mare
In the yard of the Smugglers Inn,
Her coat was black and her hair was fair
And her jodhpurs tucked well in,
The sky was in a threatening mood
With its thunderheads from hell,
As lightning forked on the ancient rood
And the rain teemed down as well.

‘You need to get to the Laird,’ I cried,
‘Tell him to haste to me,
Another day and she may have died,
I’m trying to set her free.
But the Pikemen stand outside her door
And they say they guard her skin,
There were locks and chains on her door before
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.’

‘Tell him to bring his gallant troop
To dismay the Duke of Bray,
He means to imprison his daughter
In his tower, the Lady Grey,’
The Pikemen said that I’d lose my head
If I tried to breach her door,
And wouldn’t answer whenever I asked,
‘What is she locked in for?’

So Madison wheeled the mare around
And she put it to the spur,
If any could ride a horse to ground
I knew that it was her,
She headed off to the Castle Croft
Head bent to the driving rain,
With lightning flashing around her mount
I watched her across the plain.

What seemed to take forever, I thought,
Was merely an hour or two,
But then my fears were set at naught
As the troop came jangling through.
Each man had raised his sabre and
He’d kept his powder dry,
My heart was surging within me as
The troop came riding by.

And then, at last, was Madison
Still riding with the Laird,
Determined then to save her friend,
To show her that she cared.
The Pikemen soon were beaten down
Were lost in the affray,
I never did catch a glimpse of him,
Their lord, the Duke of Bray.

It took a moment to smash the locks
On the door of Lady Grey,
And all the troop had cheered out loud
As the chains, they fell away.
Madison was the first in line
To embrace the one within,
But we were not to know what lay
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.

The Lady, held in a firm embrace
Had staggered out through the door,
But blood and pustules were on her face
Like we’d never seen before.
A dying Pikemen called, ‘You fools,
You’ve unleashed a bitter ague,
And then he sighed just before he died,
‘Behold, you have the plague!’

David Lewis Paget

My uncle lived in a big old house
At the end of Mayfair Drive,
With thirteen rooms and a library,
Whilst he was still alive.
But he jumped one day from the second floor
And he hit the ground so hard
That his blood spread out like a pair of horns,
There in his own front yard.

We didn’t know why he had to jump,
It wasn’t a lack of cash,
His health was good, but before he jumped
He’d broken out in a rash,
The maid had brought him his morning tea
Had watched him put back a book,
Up on the topmost shelf it went
And he’d said to her, ‘Don’t look!’

The rash spread quickly under his arms
With pustules down in the groin,
The doctor said at the autopsy
That one was shaped like a coin.
‘You’d swear that there was a devil’s head
Imprinted there in his blood,
I’ve never seen anything like it since
And I hope that I never should.’

But my father moved us into the house
Now, with his brother gone,
He locked us out of the library
But went in there on his own.
There were shelves and shelves of books in there
And one on the topmost shelf,
The maid had whispered, ‘You’d best beware!’
But he took it down himself.

I noticed he wore his patent gloves
Whenever he went in there,
I peeped in through a crack in the door
And saw him stand on a chair,
The book was old, had a mouldy look
For the leather was turning green,
It looked like a fungus, taken root,
And the whole thing looked unclean.

As days went by I began to hear
Some babble behind the door,
And incense came in a steady stream
Out from a crack by the floor,
My father didn’t come out for meals
His voice was becoming hoarse,
He’d take a tray at about midday
But never a second course.

The maid resigned on the first of June
She said that she saw his face,
Was shivering uncontrollably
And muttering, ‘Loss of grace!’
The cook took both of us under her wing
And swore that she’d see us fed,
But wouldn’t come out of her tiny room
At dusk, she’d ‘rather be dead!’

The fire broke out in the library
On a Sunday, after Mass,
I caught a glimpse of my father then,
His face was as green as grass,
The shelves and the books had grown a mould
And it spread all over the floor,
I knew I had to get out of there
And ran right out of the door.

My father leapt from the window then
Came crashing down in the drive,
I knew before I got close to him
He couldn’t have been alive.
Two horns spread out from the place his head
Had crumpled into the ground,
But these were horns of a green fungi
Like the book on the shelf he’d found.

They quarantined us around that house
And came with chemical sprays,
‘This fungus seems to be hard to ****,
It’s going to take us days!’
They checked the wreck of the library,
I even went in myself,
With everything burnt to a crisp, still lay
A book on the topmost shelf!

David Lewis Paget

Borne under the good sign,
Or the bad,
If the enigma caught on,
to the trailing self,
it would be a question,
would the superlative,
be monstrous?
Or the make shift believer;
Would it all make sense?
Scribbles...
Either I have signed my life
or destroyed it,
In the pursuit.
It is the mental mind,
That produced this end,
The markings the etching,
That causes a chasm,
It will obliterate the skies!
Magnitude.
The sense of belittlement,
had been extinguished,
The tribes borne of the future,
would marvel at etchings,
Engraved in sand,
The beauty all extinguished,
Among the belittled beauty, at,
simple existence,
of complex life,
The hereditary displacement,
coherent to our establishment,

There is a latency
in progression,
The mixture's
Teeth,
Bind,
Conform
In singularity,
The future forgets itself,
the zen logic is missing,
between pustules,
between synapses,
between the heavy,
and the lucid.

In the middle of the night
Toiling, boiling, out of sight.
Lurking on in caves or beaches.
What's to fear? Undulating leaches,
Bulbous tongues, or blotting popped pustules.
Nay, only thrice was found she on thy vestibule.
In normal dress, and broad day light,
not so pretty, and not so bright.
Mourning morning not such a creature.
Call the judge! Wake every preacher!
Feigned ignorance won't get you far
Just look, they've already set the bar,
That from the breeze your limbs will swing
When like the others forced to sing
Of demons and charms and heresy,
They shall force your tongue, by my troth, even upon me.
For which I might procure the same fate as you,
Pricked and drained, with a blackish hue.
O please! This girl is none to fear!
Throw her in water up to her ear!
See by the way she sink in foam,
Splash her with holy water and hear not a groan!
These lips hath spilled no blood,
No pact with the Devil, no sign of false flood.
Spare her and likewise me,
For I know if she be tried, so tried I too shall be.

The fire! The smoke! The Flames!
Suffocated with chaos. Who else to blame?
The feckless masses, like sheep they believe.
*No mercy, no God, no time for reprieve.

I’ve lost my muse, I’ve lost it all
Give me some liquor and I swear I’ll stand tall
Tall enough to touch hands with God
Or at least high enough to fall
Fall from his graces,
To a place where on my knees I’ll crawl
For forgiveness in damp caves at dusk
Creeping through bile, pustules and ****
To a place somewhere said in between
Heaven and Hell, it’s there I’ll be seen

The thoughts that haunt me,
creep up at night
Visions of fly overs,
passing headlights
The deepest oceans,
filling my lungs
Every soul,
I've ever done wrong
My health anxieties,
white pustules and red gums
Eternal suffering,
even after relief
These are the things
that **** me in my sleep

I'm sad and lonely
but I'm not alone
My family they love me,
my sweetheart and friends
Though I have a mind
they cannot mend
I'm shallow sometimes,
even self obsessed
These confessions of mine,
hurt me and cut deep
With depression in mind,
I can find no relief
One thing I know
If I can't get to sleep
The road I will go,
The road I will go,
The road I will go,
the road oh-so-bleak

His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance
The rest of them, next in line obviously and aware, become a collective watcher;
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

They only watched the now, the yellow fog distancing them; perchance
The girl was just a bit older, or had killed the diseased satyr---
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.

Do it this way, no that way! I did, I did! We did our fruitless prance.
Everything is calm, but it is never, ever over, and it never will be; I am my own hater.
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

Nothing really bad ever happens due to his expert use of the whip against our backs and lance
Against the pustules, except I lost who I could’ve been in my life. Later
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.

It was a love and hate story of our generation’s history, a true romance.
The victor got to change the meaning, the purpose and we became “innocent” bystander---
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

They floated in the fog, the young ones. I watched their self-induced trance,
She wasn’t perfect, so of course they didn’t want to be her.
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.
Perfection, they cannot be next,; her left to chance.

In that the wandering was aimless
pain though quite painful was
painless in comparison to what had gone
before me
and after came more pain but by then
I was used to the injury that history
had bestowed upon me,

gifted though none too bright,
taught how and what to write
by the Pharisee,
was God ever good to me?

A desert came
more pain
visions in the freezing night,

and in all the wandering, the
******* and squandering of my
youthful days,
finally to fitfully gaze upon the
one

and the stars shone on
and the light appeared


what we fear the most
is not fear
but the fear of fearing

who fears the tearing of their skin
when the pustules burst
is that not relief you feel?

the postulant turn to a burning cross
with a fire in her eyes that cry for the loss
of a saviour she knows from the book.

Maybe my life is like someone's album cover
There's millions of songs and I haven't heard even half yet
all I know is that my backpack groans like a saddle
when I put it on my back
It's a little happiness every morning
when my room smells like incense
Or like the air outside
Maybe my life is like a raspberry with an infinite or nonexistent
number of pustules
Maybe my life is like the word pustule
all I know is how scratchy my blanket feels
how the waves sprayed in my face from a thousand feet below
literally- how albus dumbledore stood there
but not really- how the lightning didn't always mean thunder
and how spring feels after a long winter
Maybe my life is like my sister's car
Maybe my life is like the people in my sister's car
drunk and a little confused,
all I know is that they're fun to hang out with
have great ideas when they're high- and sober, too-
that the cold mist is ideal in summer and terrifying in winter
that my sleeping bag is comfortable on any surface
and Blues Traveler's "Run Around" is my life song
but there's tons of others, too
Maybe my life is only like my life
and there's no appropriate analogy
that can capture what's actually going on.

Waning scion
encroaching
a course

An Isolated course;
coarse is its skin
blind-sight is its eye
with flutist wind
whistling its mind

Sly stars dripping
under fogged
horizons
the moon shuttering
light,
fleeing from the
gaunt wood
where I reside

Night,
shroud of
razor black
oozing pustules
of defect and blight,
mind snaking through
bowels--
grisly bowels kept in
swamps
kept in dark and damp
kept underground--
stone underground

Sprouting
out splintered
atonement,
slumped on a
broken wall

Gray above,
light humming
under feet,
through scabrous
stone and sodden clay

One hope lingers:
plunge worrisome
hands into the
viscous floor

Tugging fingernails,
bartering
screams with the wind,
grounded pain arises through the dirt,
latching to my veins

Injecting the soil and stone into my
twitching heart, feeding the cells with
native essence

Purging the human from
the silken skin; spraying it into
the sediment home

Bedrock welcomes my sight
and my trench
shapes my stale body.

           Becoming soil and rock
           and worms and root
           offers a listing breeze
           to the now formless thought

The dirt is in me
The rock is in me
The qualm is without

Therefore, the Lord himself will give them this sign: "A ****** will conceive and give birth to a son, and she will name him Immanuel." From this calami lapse, all of Patmia was refracted in the chromatics of Emmanuel, alluding to Isaiah as an infallible God of Salvation after having sent Sennacherib's mesnadas to his turn. His ministry came to be established along with all the soldiers who did not finally confront each other, but he came to support them from the waters that came from the eastern sea. The kingdom of Judah appeared in glory and solemnity anticipating seven centuries before the Mashiach came to the world of Israel. Hezekiah appears again after seven centuries in Patmia, to decline the fraternal help of Isaías, to save the collective quasi shipwreck in the mountains that would strike the edges of Patmia later after the conclusion of the battle, Etréstles intervening from where he entered the Hydors, as the sixfold brightest star of Aquarius of the Gulf of Skalá to protect all the landowners of the Oikodeomeo, litigating the swells of the sea that should refer to the synchronous beats of the Ruach Hakodesh. Etréstles entered the pointed mansards on the tops of the allotropic waves, carrying a scarlet ribbon in his right hand and in the other with an indigo hue when he swam he did not hold back from moaning for fear that the whole island might disappear, he deprecated while He floated imploring in Hellenic all the Prosas of Rhodes, thus leaving hanging on his neck the suffering of mercy that looked at him from the expectant shore, but the scarlet ribbon cried out for the Emmanuel who would be born among the cerulean granules, concomitant with the Mashiach that clung to him on the blue ribbon when a fragmented chroma emerged from the rib that divided the seven colors into fourteen, from where he propelled Etréstles over the calvaries of the water that prevented him from seeing how undaunted Saint John was reflected with his staff. The Vernardicidal ***** harassed the ministry of Isaiah who came to save Vernarth from the Hercules vortex, where everything will guide him with the conception of Vernarthian and Saint John the Apostle, with from afar they encouraged him saying: "Epoikodomeo" with the aim of building geomorphological waters of the Dam or blood of the Mashiach, forging, increasing wisdom and security to preserve and encode them with the Talmudic essences of Spirit / Pnevma that is the essence of the Messiah to make the ephemeral phase of Jesus with the prosopon of the fit in the primordial scale of Patmos, along with all those who entrusted their ministry to him. Isaiah stated that from a Maltona the Messiah will be born soon, the same one who has accompanied Vernarth throughout this journey par excellence from Judah when he sublimated the iconography of Saint John the Apostle on his return to his inheritance, thus the requiems said that Isaiah had been sawn. by Manasseh, indicating that his prophet's remains would gather on Patmos to materially reintegrate themselves before the panorama of any, beyond the scriptures, only the Pnevma prevailing, which ingratiated itself with the apocryphal papyri. The laws of the sea opposed the arms and chinstraps that Etréstles wore in the joints of each arm, creating with them psalms that indicated the presence of the divine mother of the Mashiach, with the divine contribution that embroiled the scriptures by the Psalms of Etréstles by besieging at once on the cusps of the waves, making use of the same phalanxes and of the Apsidas Manes with watery and ****** meddling by Sennacherib's troops, who by a narrow imbalance in the authorship of the debate segment on a defense that was with the angels, who had already slipped through the opening of the dying parapsychology, to enter the purging compass of the blanket with a Venerable who would speak to them in the first person about the lashes of the breakers enclosed in the annunciation of the Emmanuel that was going to radiate with his counterpart Jesus Christ in the scarlet and indigo Hydor of the Kosmous water compendium of all Patmia. The exegetes were all in their robes on the top of the mountain, they were all and at the same time, they were not. Isaiah wanted to predispose the messianic perception to unite the generous ends of the Majestic Tikun and the Gam zu Letová, so that the scarlet tekhelet itself merges with the chinstraps in the joints and Etréstles that came from the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi, to present them the chants of the seventh parapsychological regression of Vernarth's wounded hands that he could barely hold, having the Pisan Verses of Ezra Pound, agglutinated with the Psalms of Etréstles saying thus:

“Humiliate your vanity, You are nothing more than a dog beaten under the hail, just a swollen magpie in the fickle sun, half black, half white, and you can't even distinguish the wing from the tail. Humble your vanity, Petty is all your hatred nourished by falsehood. Humble your vanity, eager to destroy, greedy in charity. Humiliate your vanity, I tell you, humiliate it. But having done instead of doing nothing, this is not vanity. Having decency, called for an obtuse to open, having picked up a living tradition from the air or from a magnificent old eye calls it undefeated, this is not vanity. Here the error is everything in what was not done, everything in the shyness that hesitated ...

Etréstles answers with his Psalm:

"In the main, I attend to his voice that undresses small when they fall cliffs ...when the fierce sentinel hides the Xiphos from the evil ones who shield them inthe iniquity here on Patmos of his tongue-lashing sword that spills bitter blood,that she is thrown on famous vices of Pronoia and dry crops in the storehouse ...
with dormant grasses between lashes of hunger, thirst, and angry sleep.

This is where the Mashiach sleeps and does not lavish the drowsiness of the world! that he shoots and is not afraid of spitting a splendid Hercules cloaked with fullerides of necromancy and flashes of unsustainability in the bitter Pashkien eating the sores from the ferments of his hemlock fingers.

Who will be in the glory that calms his fingernails over the joy of Anubis? inquiring pustules of bolted injustices that stagnate in the
Sagittarius tongue flaring up trilingual on their own languages ...
If there is the blood that I can retain, it will be by submission with declined sphincters or not! seeing where everyone is without pressure or punishment of stuttering or fact that will never happen on a Patmian Reichstag, understanding that their voices
They are the proscenium of the Elohim containing the glory of the fallen when the periphery of the incisive tenebrosity are slices of the Vernarth Psalm, and of Rabbi Masoretic that shelters you when you sleep, however in a thousand years ...

I've been stragglers collecting extreme remains of immortal bones,
In invisible frames with the vanity of seven verses that escaped from my hands, thousands of them being built away from my Duoverse of love towards them atavistic ... almost become adopted children of Masoretic ignorance ... and in the confusion of the
Elohim translated into a genome after an open heart between the Alef and the Tav, between the arrow that serves as accommodation in her mind, unable to sleep if she is not there…! but high up where I can dwell, I see and I abide by being silenced in my vanity, seeing that nothing is mine and of those around me on the battlefield, who sublimate themselves by walking a lifetime on the side of my enemy wounded by the Dorus, and that I have never tried to take it off completely with slight iniquity, only avoiding zafrales and scrutiny in its search.

My vanity will perish undefeated but failed to revive itself with dazzles and sagites that pierce the saps in your children and mine, being poles of renewal of a Hoplite Raeder, cutting the thymus of the cattle and saying that their wounds are the same splendor of the Sagittae Parvulum, like Seraphim children prior to a hyperonym, fracturing sacred bravery that they enumerate him to lose himself in the numbering of infinity ...! As gladiator children, eternal infants and children of Zeus, also being Seraphim of Zeus and Cherubim who will make mustard its fragility, unstitching the time that it carves from the thyme trying to be the Kashmar "

From the eye of heaven, everything was supplied when Emmanuel himself, who was tried at the end of the battle of Patmia, was recognized. It was six o'clock in the afternoon when the omnipresent presence of Isaiah's interface antiphons was marked from where he would make them hold onto the mega Nazer as the offspring of the uncontrolled branch of his hyper parapsychology that expiated itself from the trunk of the descendants of Vernarth, alluding to to Wonthelimar as one of them who was on the wheel of Capricorn as an internal element of Hydor when it was made effective between the golden hands of Isaiah, with full genuflection enumerating from sinister to right the upright derivation of the Psalm of Etréstles with the Nazer, which is It would take refuge in the foundations of omission as a new shining principality, from where the light of the fifteen hundred years between the seventh heaven and space of this same inaugurating the stolon from where the angel Gabriel would make of all the natives of the Notsri of Nazareth the energy that surpass the masses of matter above the average of its brightness, implanting the Duoversal advance where the Mashiach. From Ofel will come the palmar remains with Marie de Vallés propitiating from the Notós or the South of the Mandragoron of Patmia, like a Bull of Concession of collective rights from Jerusalem with the remains of Isaiah in his living Status. The vernacular spirits of the Bethany journey were incarnated as the ruling planets, which would thus all be similar to Saturn, leaving all the rest with the same unrestricted semblance of cosmic materiality, with this transfer of Saturn's atmospheric outer pharaoh overshadowing all others. planets, under a stepped level towards the Messianic primogeniture, dislocating the vibrational levels above the primary embankment of the lithosphere, like a Qliphoth or shell of Saturn's debauchery when experiencing the bonds of emerging Christianization of the emotional state that made up this external preferential layer, of which of this genre they would create multi-natalist phases with the Qliphoth of the configuration of the vibratory cessation of the physical body of Patmos. In this way the seventieth Qliphoth or farfara of the compendium of exteriority and interiority would culminate, giving way to the Fos or light that would constitute the hybrid Greco-Hebraic componence on the braids that lowered from the Tekhelet of Etréstles when it levitated towards the Megaron, specifically the Naos that It would incite an end that just headed the engagement of the spaces that will be covered by the reviewing archetribe on the acroteria as the Lux of the beginning of the transfer of quantum of energy, which would begin to form the browbones and chin of Euclidean incidence in the cockades of Etréstles, by structuring itself in the cosmic rhythms of the tzitzit of its right hand, and in its left the Tallit that westernized all the supreme dogmas of eternalism, that carried a brand new covering of Áullos Kósmos with this mantle of hegemony, hanging from the tzitzit that would finally be the dragging ropes of the body of Etréstles to the cosmic ridge of Skalá. From a Genioglossal Muscle; where the Etréstles stimulation tendons were inserted, great impulses of language opened towards the pre-Adamic gates, radiating like wide puffs of the superior process that strangled the phraseologies that indicated error of omission, making everyone could conceive of each other before heading towards conversion, and to be able to aspire to the Naos from the Megarón. The most experienced used to expectorate and move sharply with their jaws when the membranes of this region fled from the tip or hyoglossal of their mouth, shuddering from its sublingual base when they saw that the Mashiach carried Etréstles half-dead from the sea, amid so many prosaic waves consuming him from a breath that was separated from it by a thin layer of adipose cell tissue, and by the Middle Septum towards the definitive Seventh Heaven of God, speaking to them of spaces that will be filled by the magnanimous who have reaped him from his Eternalism. This was neither more nor less than the protruding border of the Messiah speaking through those mouths with insignia of enunciation, and portents of words of reconversion.

One might as well call this an equinox
For night and day are equinoxious now:
Mosquitoes, soul-withering heat and damp
Itch-allergens and rattlesnakes not featured

In advertising fantasies about
Bugless, unbitten happy families
Posing with plates and carnivorous smiles
Before neighbor-envious chromium grills

And playing free of heat rash and pustules
Around surgically sterile swimming pools

Pitiful Punks
Pustules on Perfect

Out of the fog she chugs

Wheezing asthmatically into the surrounding haze through soot caked nostrils

Vapor condenses on cold steel skin

Iron plates slammed shut and joined with thick ribbons of weld

Rust pustules erupt through salt yellowed emulsion

Figures peer through brine scoured panes

At the dock now, she is lashed to the pier, her gaping maw offered up to the quayside

She disgorges a clattering stream of mechanical effluvium

It spills onto the cement in roiling metallic rivulets

Until, she wretches her last mouthful and sighs, exhausted

Then with no respite, she is force fed, held fast and stuffed

Gulping and swallowing the seemingly endless flow

She groans under the burden and sinks lower in the water

Until finally, fit to burst, she is released from her *******

She bobs languidly away from the dock

And slips back into the fog from whence she first emerged.