"questing" poems
Light train chugging, working to outrun
Over exerting, pulling along your freight
Sand is running out under the diminishing sun
Fastidiously you tug on your enormous weight
Segmented equal in seven hulking proportions
Weaving between sleeping rocky giants
Assertion in your drive gifted from the high heavens
Borne of light your cargo load of tenants
Silver blurred rays glinting back as reply
As you power your way through
Defying seconds, before the last rays should die
Against odds, delivering what is due
Questing to alleviate my inflicted darkness
Spear of brilliance slicing through my mind
Illuminating the farthest and tiniest of crevices
Nook and crannies that willed me blind
Careful manoeuvring to keep your balance
Through scenic views fraught with treachery
Furiously working to keep your cadence
Hopeful of unloading the load you carry
What lies dormant in that cargo of yours?
What sleeps easy within those boxcars?
What stokes the fire to diligently run your course?
What promises you bear, travelling near and far?
Bales of hope and crates of strength
Supplies of kindness and self-worth
Reside within your immense length
Intact and lay quiet within your formidable girth
Reliant on the light that fuels and feeds
Your axles seem tireless guiding forth those wheels
Thundering over land with the power of a thousand steeds
Armed to your teeth with alloys and steels
Expelling grit and dirt as you pummelled across
Grey-white fumes, shoot up to the sky
Flag flogged by wind, billow and toss
Blaring your whistle as you race on by
Propelling forward, horizon up ahead
There it is...in all its tenebrous glory
Darkened locomotive seething mad with dread
Brace for the clash and the loads the two carry
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
Nope, don't do it
show me mountains I can't climb
Don't, dare a darer
and tell me, it won't rhyme
Can't be a place on earth
I can't go, examine, or explore
Holding, or finding the keys
I'll open each, and every door
Willingly not an option
dropping thoughts or words, into my mind
Questing for perplexing
if it can't be prosed, a way, is what I'll find
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
The paper boats sail
upon the stream.
Curious like vagabonds
questing for dreams.
On they float
through bends & turns,
Over silt mountains
& valleys of fern.
Glide with butterflies,
Caper past toads.
Not a clue where
leads the watery road.
Caressing the earth,
Savoring the rain,
Drawn into the rapids,
Broken free again.
The tempest, the calm,
All the vistas unknown.
Horizons they cross.
To beyond, they've flown!
A paper boat I hold
Only one to spare
Place it in the water
A small white corsair.
She kneels beside me,
on a bed of grass.
Points at the boat
& throws me a glance.
Smiling, she asks,
"Leaving? Where to?"
"Let's find out", I say
"My boat is for two."
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
I’ll protect the innocent
even while I may proclaim
my deep regard for who they are
controversy may be exclaimed
guiltless stated for my friends
this word is used at its most broad
when all children of the divine
deserve their refuge from abuse
even while I seek to proclaim
my admiration for their grit
stepping outside confining realms
leading the way for this questing one
on the shoulders of the perverse
this is how the public may respond
declaring wisdom I don’t share
when I see threads of commonality
in my heart I know we are the same
seeking power in our own way
being true to ourselves
while expressing how we live
humanity searching for a voice
I’ll add mine to the chorus
admitting that I’ve fallen far
while ascending to the heights
spectrums ranged in pursuit
my honest nature at last found
though at first I wrongly thought
I was alone when I was not
the free spirits led the way
I wish my voice could exclaim
and still I hold back my breath
protecting innocent like myself.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180909.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
*Exquisite honey you were, found only in hives on mountain tops,
all five senses and sublime power of cognition sprang alive,
took you in deep and let you be there long enough to discern,
your dense sweetness sank in, on the wings of wonder I soared, a honeybee in rapture.*
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
I can feel you near me
Whenever you are close.
You're like an overdose on
E
My tank is on
F
I want to swim past your knees
And take one last deep breath before
Submerging myself
Into the salacious, incredulously insatious, Caribbean Sea-warm Oasis
At the apex of your thighs.
I will set sail ships in your eyes
Questing for you to magnetize me in the direction towards the destin of my fate.
The question is
Once I'm in
Can your Vaginal Strait
Navigate me
In the deep dark cavity of your hips
Or can your lips
Narrate
Irrigate me to the waterfalls of your heart
I want to split your valves apart and
Let
Love
Pour.
I want to anchor permanently on the sink-sands of your shores;
I want to be closer to you than I've ever been before...
I want you to feel me.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
I wrote this for a slam to explain who I am
It's PoetryByMAN
Yes I am a pseudonym
Mystery I provoke
Take it in let it soak
Word playing every stroke
Savor every ****
Next level set the tier
I'm here to make it clear
Though Twisted is the mirror
Rhymes you shouldn't fear
Competition vital
Here questing for the title
Who shall be my rival
In this game of survival
Hit with love
Vibrating like a hub
Ba doom Ba doom
Hit like a Sub...Woofer...
Heart full not hallow
LIKE ME!
If there was a button would you follow?
Messenger I am
Also I'm a fan
Diggity **** he thinks he's a rapper man
Simple..direct
Vocabulary wreck
All due respect..
Don't want to be correct
Commercial break watch me pop my snapple
Many skills acquired hope my talent is ample
Kung fu poet
Choose style I'll flow it
Talent the seed
Nurture grow it
From my bones
A melodic tone
Comfort comes from coming home
Shaman Buddha
Hybrid to school you
Sand a vibe
Runs right through you
Play my part
In this world of art
Butterfly to a new start
Blow nose with prose
Words without flow
Stand on stage
Put on a show
Hope you enjoyed PoetryByMAN
Spoken in 3rd I am
Blogs on tumblr..Facebook can't stand
Throw all in the air top rope poetry SLAM!!
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue
And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
Among the flashing waves are two white birds
Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in,
Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up,
Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
While the wet drops like little glints of light,
Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
Or skimming some white crest about to break,
The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
And play with ocean in a summer mood.
Hanging above the high, wide open door,
It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
The freedom of the earth's vast solitudes,
Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.
2.8k
about pictures of bears without any fur, and they look horrendously terrifying. Like ****** space gorillas you see in poorly done sci-fi movies. Do you think panda bears are still the cutest bear without any fur?
I wonder if dragons get lung cancer from all the smoking they do. I'd rather think about a hairless panda bear breathing fire--it's jaws sinking into the underbelly of a mortally wounded dragon and as it starts munching on the dragon pancreas, it accidentally sneezes causing it's lunch to incinerate to ashes.
That's probably why dragons are extinct. Hairless panda bears donned armor, riding horses; questing to eat dragon pancreas.
They also thought amor prevented lung cancer. It was the middle ages, people or animals didn't have modern technology to explain diseases, let alone where babies came from. Except for dragons, and look at how their species turned out. **** I'm throwing my phone in the toilet right now.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
I chased the first rays
of an autumn morning
but to my sorrow
when I arrived at
the urgent place
the sun had
already
risen
breathing a
crowning glory of a
seasons brilliant
splendor
alighting
the glowing amber
of golden woods
shining like gleaming
constellations of
dazzling morning
stars...
though I
desired to find
ascendent beauty
the ubiquitous glow of
transfigured leaves
immersed me in
a divine chrome...
as I traversed
the woods, my
solitary steps found
companionship
with a sullen
mistress singing
a sad rustle
of dry fallen leaves
and as the drone
of cars faded from the
receding road
I searched myself
for courage and
found resolve
I pondered truth
and discovered
the wisdom
of resolution...
yearning to
realize a
deeper faith
I hiked
further up
the wooded hill,
visiting the gay
playfields
of my youth
and received
an epiphany
of wholesome
closure
opening
new
timeless
doors...
still questing
for more light
a prophetic wren
whirred a pliant
secret into my ear
she bespoke
a symphony
of avian
improvisations
conversing in
a thousand
luminous tongues,
relating a sonorous
elegy teaming with
the brightest
joys of life
raising bold
proclamations
celebrating a
seasons radiance
imploring me
to join the chorus...
though the canopy
of the woods still
boasted boughs
of green
the
infant hues
of spring had
run its course
the glory of an
expiring season
strewn on the
forest floor
covering the
mouldering stags
inching back into
the compost of life
breeding blankets
of furry moss
feeding on the
primal organica
of seemingly
expired flora
here, in this
darkened moment
I realized
the transcendent
miracle
the loam of life
incubating
churning
in concert with
the turn of
seasons...
to my sorrow
I missed the first
rays of the morning
the first
peeks of light
a breaking day
gracefully bespeaks
upon a sleeping earth
awoken in new light
yet I am filled
I am transcendent
I am the first ray
of an eternal light
I am the first ray
of my earthen
gloaming...
on the morrow
the best of me
is in the marrow
of all who loved me
and all whom I loved
these rays of me
will forever rise
in an eternity
of dawnings
For Joey
Godspeed Beloved
Vaughan Williams:
Lark Ascending
Oakland
101313
jbm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Batteries destroys the mind
You achieve next to nothing with your plug in baby muse
But here you lay, yet again, questing for a Stone Ring that gives a +1 to all of your skills as a sorceress
When somewhere else in the world a kid just made it to the next round of american idol
and who knows, maybe next year you'll be jamming to his hit track on your ipod
while your sitting in the library busting your *** to get the grades to become somebody you dont even know if you want to be
But I'm sure Einstein would agree with me that being something makes more sense than being nothing
Even though when your nothing your something, unless your a giant whole ******* me, Asia, and Justin Beiber into you to fill the void
But at the end of the day, when you really think about it, it's not even about whether or not you did your best, you just need to be able to sleep that night, and accept the day thats passed...not that you have a choice
Because the PVR doesn't work on the LIFE Network
You can't skip back to the beginning of the track, if you could, why not scratch the CD and listenin to a different remix every time
But Jacob knows it's never too late, there's always tomorrow.
So turn off the screen close your eyes and think for a bit, or at least until that late night ice cap wears off.
Are You going to find your call of duty? or spend another day wishing your brain had built-in bluetooth.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest
Together?
Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?
If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.
Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.
I also have plots on
Which I need to work -
Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes
Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.
Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Creeping vines climb
crisscrossing the cracked clay
Crumbled brick shards collect
at the base of the tower
Essential oils permeate the air
Invisible liquid fire
Inflaming all feeling
skin bubbling and peeling
Grotesque **** oozes
from ragged ripped flesh
Itching is incessant
Swollen red eyelids
Tear drop elicits twitching
A scream of unfulfilled urges
Vines encircle the neck
countless green nooses
contaminate flesh
Breath becomes brutality
swollen esophagus
Red and green monster stalks
searching for someone
with skin thin enough
to climb underneath
into the innermost layer
Death
brings an end to the maddening agony
Body a bulging red ball already collects maggots
Creepy vines questing
never ending searching
not satisfied until they find
the next target
Cycle continues
no escape from the ivy.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
School urges us
ever to accumulate
yet what dawns in
maturity is selectivity
not bulk - how I soon
began to seek white
chickens and essence
of red wheelbarrow
glazed with rain.
(c) C J Heyworth July 2014
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
for Nave
Busyness makes one idiotic and forgetful. And we nearly sunk the night
didn’t we darling, leaning on the wrong swing.
(It is always the peach tree.) Katrina doing her Harpy on Fullblast thing
with such deftness and professionalism she leaves us no room to respond
to legs and offers of spread cheese. And poets cave in like lonely black holes
if they cannot response as fully as they have peaches in their coffers to do so,
or at least they think so and so do we so I escaped to shower, and tried to make
the water hot enough to round me straight again, but my skin still gets in the way.
I wanted to peel off everything and douse my soul straight in the hot and the lavender, questing
for a readiness beyond the pale, some state rare, and infinitely usuable.
It was only when, and this is true, when I decided to make a list of
why I love you that the water went in
and the lavender grew instantly between my toes. And Rosemarey Clooney
danced you in to me and you were a happy Papa at last, and we knew enough. And there
was finally room enough to
mambo home.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
The destination of a questing flame,
The concealed invincible core.
No longer able to hold back the emotions,
that once the flood has subsided, herald a new future .
Your concealed invincible core
fidelity arrives, bearing trust,
that once accepted, will not end.
Obliterating sadness, magnifying love.
Fidelity has arrived. Take his trust.
It will erase the confusion, you know what you feel.
Let it obliterate your sadness, magnify love, and pleasure.
The wheel of doubt and accusations, stops right here.
You can erase the confusion, you know what you feel.
Fostering love, when you need it more than everything.
The wheel of doubt and accusations, stops right here.
you are destined to rise up to the zenith.
Let me foster love, when you need it more than anything
Don't hold back your emotions.
You are destined to rise up to the zenith,
the questing flame of love, has arrived at your core.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
Freely accepted, constraints that bind
The senses can free the mind.
And so I knelt before her latitude.
Her choker became the horizon,
The light from her eyes a silent beatitude.
“What do you feel?” asked the voice of the wind.
I tried to answer, lips rapt and spellbound,
Eyes questing, but made no sound.
Enlarged by desire, encircled by pain,
I felt the fire and the rain.
I watched the walls of the room
Dissolve into clouds
As a crack in the sky beckoned,
Opening wide.
I was pulled upward into a swelling storm
And watched all around as I climbed
A mirror world form,
Like the universe rhymed.
Then calm. I found myself at a steely gate.
A sign read “The Labyrinth of Language.”
The path began straight
Then forked into uncountable branches.
Words took shape and tried to dance
But hung
Captive on my soundless tongue.
They have remained there ever since.
Free them, goddess,
Let these words find flight.
Take them from the shadow of my tongue.
Release them into your luminous night.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
memory comes knocking on wood
mocking my childhood wild neighbourhood
withstood flinching nostalgia after all this time
lynching at the alpha crime in my mind
for not wanting
to clinch, to cling,to cringe on the past, old cast.
Watch as it passed with a blast at last.
I wonder if it was some test but I detest test they stress me out.
No doubt I rather go questing for my destiny be the best me I can.
But I can't cause I am discontent, all spent no cents,
feels like I'm bent and dent without my consent
I'm sorry to vent, but does represents me in the best light?
Slight blight on society ignore my anxiety Mr Bigotry
tried to be bigger tree towering over me,
think you're some oak but it's hoax
soon you'll choke on your smoke as you take that last croak
while I leave you burning with my words
afterwards nothing but ashes and burnt branches.
Then what? I lashed out with an aged rage
But methinks this does not change anything.
and that's the sting.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
<>
“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman
§§§
*A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.
but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.
in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!
So, yes, Walt, the questing answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...*
§§§§§
12:03AM Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:51 AM UTC
Hanging her head into depths of an oubliette,
the toilet bowl grieves inside muddied ruin.
An early avocado and piles of bile simmer
inside porcelain wastelands. Her face, a dark fillet,
fat like a flea questing on skin. Fingers joust
her drawbridge mouth. Cavaliers cannot rescue.
Tiny talons scratch the back of her throat,
distant organs heaving during the battle
of the bulge. Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
She tastes it twice. Flecks of spit singe cheeks
like undersink chemicals. Her imperial
belly wails, a damsel distressed.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
. it's like...
listening to
the freddy krueger
soundtrack...
and then...
coming across
ashleys abundance
videos...
you seriously can't
make the **** up!
handshakes with your
shadow, all the way through,
in not making diary
inquisitions,
of dietary requirements.
look at me?
i know...
creepy as the ****
that isn't,
even
closely related to punk;
i had to relate to
alternative impromptus...
i was raised on original
*** Godzilla movies...
i was questing for
an alternative to ****
can i confiscate an teenage girl
with raspy voice?
yes? no?
fuck it... lets go!
tits for bagpipes!
god almighty,
this alternative to ****
late teen girls merely talking...
about their dietary schematics...
oh yeah... date no. 1...
me?
i already have my issues...
i'm a heavy drinker...
i'm not looking for a date,
i'm looking for a ******* dog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
Prophecies of the Ancient’s decree,
Dark Pariah shall face the dragon,
In the Universal arena, heart’s quail,
Worlds tremble as giant forces clash.
Cloying Darkness is stirring, awakening,
Shadows shifting within Darker shadows,
Snake-like tendrils slithering, pulsing,
A menace daring to reveal true purpose.
Brandishers of Light must stand and fight,
Resisting all temptation of offered power,
Battling against foul corruption: death,
Halting the slide into dank, filthy, pits.
Monsters stalking the innocent; feeding,
Drenched in blood of pain and suffering,
Spawn of Dreadnoughts bring carnage,
Will any stand against the slaughter?
The fabled sword twisted in torment,
Calling, calling; seeking a champion,
Searching out those who would dare,
Questing for the brave of the Light.
Light heeds the need, offers strength,
Dragon heart’s beat, Champions arise,
Drums of war, thunderous, deafening,
As the Clysm screams to be birthed.
©Paul M Chafer 2014
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve."
But what if God did? What if I showed you
the lost book in that cramped hand some call Moses',
right to left (you read Hebrew, right?), the Book of Steve?
Stefan, if you're Orthodox. Esteban
if you also worship the ****** of Guadalupe,
but never mind those dark madonnas. The Book of Steve:
it's much like the rest of the Pentateuch, you'll recognize
the style, except that it was before Genesis 1
when Steve became a living soul. A lively, friendly soul:
when those animals came questing, Steve was thrilled.
He scratched their ears as he named them, puled
their ticks, asked them what they thought they should be called.
So he was scratching and chatting, naming away,
when up came Adam (Yahweh had been practicing men).
*"Hey, dude." "Hey, Adam. You think this looks
like a crocodile?" "I dunno. More like a fox?"*
They had a few beers (Yahweh's work of the day),
named five kinds of ants: Steve got carpenter,
leaf-cutter, sugar; Adam took fire and soldier.
Probably they made love, probably a lot (the world
Was young then), but the Book of Steve is demure;
Moses, or someone, drew the curtain of discretion.
When the curtain comes up, the snake
Still has brief feet, but Adam is changing the names
To better ones, and Steve’s not there. It seems
There were complaints. Stave talked to much, always on
About feelings, food, the slant of the light; sometimes
he wanted to be on top; he took the remkote, and didn’t
give it back when Adam glare. And his chest wasn’t nearly
enough like a pillow. It ws all too much.
The end of the book is torn out; there are marks of fire.
No one knows who defiled the Book of Ssteve,
But in some stories it is said that Eden has other quadrants
And that Steve is in one of them.
Stevek and the snakes with feet, and other people
Who missed the next book: the roc preening its iridescent plumes,
The unicorn lipping apples, the manticore haveint a dustabth.
They say that somewhere among the leaves of western Eden
was found a helpmeet for Steve, who was not fruitful,
who did not multiply, who had no dominion over the earth.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC