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Sarah Spang Aug 2015
Sometimes beneath close eyelids
I quest to bring you back
As if you were driftwood floating
Downstream on your back.
I dip my hands beneath the veil
And dry away the death
And from my parting, weeping lips
I give you back your breath-
Just like the rising sunset burning
In the summer sky
Paints and saints the mountaintops
And casts their colors bright.



Unrhymed Notes:

Sometimes I dream I can bring you back
Just as simply as dipping my hands into the water
To retrieve a floating piece of driftwood;
Dry the death from your skin
And breath life back into you
The way the sunrise reanimates
The Dark Mountains
Each and every day.

I see your Ocean eyes open
Embrace you like I'm trying to
Fold you into my skin
Where I can keep you always
And feel your summer peach warm flesh
Tangible against my permafrost fingers.

If the dead could talk
Nothing profound would leave your lips
They'd only quirk into a Cheshire smile
And you'd tell me to let go
Relinquish
Move along and stop standing still
Life is for the Living
Death is for the dead
And dreams are for the foolish.


"You *******."
Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding  mothers.

Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.

Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.

Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.

These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.

They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.

And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.

Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.
(Summer 2014)


In the room where a fan waves at me
Screaming!
The night comes in tired and sweaty
Nothing but a dull moment
Dressed naked and inconsolable
And walking all over me
Grinning

If I could only measure
The thickness of time
Like dust rising every minute
From one's own flesh
Waiting to be lifted
Dead of the night
Ruled by zombies
Reanimates
Night after night

Here I am
Time has caught up
Departing dreams
Was once dense
Bounded chances letting go
Waiting for next return

Streams of hope
Lightly drifting apart
Or hollow dreams
Staring at me with an evil eye
Looking back through you
As you slowly thin out
Until something comes along....

Tonight
I tried holding you around my arms
But you have turned against me
As I leave the room
Reality comes back
There!
Click clack click clack tipity tap....
Mikaila Nov 2013
Dear Lord,
If you are here to pull my strings and topple me down,
And I truly have no hope against the immensity of your meddling hands,
You can just bet
That I will give you one fantastic fight.
Show me enough times that this life is for me to crumble
And I will make it my constant mission
To be nothing but a pain in your ***.
I will struggle, I will protest, I will rise again every ******* time
Until you cut me off at the knees
And then I'll crawl.
I've got nerve in spades
And don't you doubt it.
Apparently, after all, you put it there.
You yanked out my batteries and thought I'd drone down to a drained-out death
But you forgot to take my nerve back,
The little gritty sharp current that reanimates me,
That spark that means
I would use my last breath to rebel, defiant, against my demise.
You might be the Divine Winner
But I aim to misbehave.
I aim to be the hardest conquest you ever attempt.
Drag me to hell kicking and screaming,
Or heaven, if you prefer-
I'll fight you just the same,
To stay
Right
Here.
...Amen.
Laina May 2018
The room sleeps
As I lay awake
And as the sun rises
I want to reach out the window,
shove it back down and
Give myself a few more hours
With the calm rise and fall of your chest.

I don’t exist outside of here,
Only between the posts of your bed.
Fabrication
Needing constant validation
From your touch.
And if the morning never comes,
You’ll stay here
And I can pretend to be
What you need.

If time runs
Then I should be able to dam it up
Like a river
Stop it from flowing
Freeze it in place.

But time is greedy.
The moon is too weak
To stick around.

When light fills the room
And wakes it from delirium
The dreamer stirs
And I disappear.
Am I just a dream?

When I’m gone there is nothing.
Just time.

One word from your lips
And my body reanimates
Dances, breathes
then lies still again.
Finally awake.
But alive? Real?
The room only knows.
Enjoy little things in life
While you can
Before ended by Death's knife
Interrupting plan

I used to hide all day
Escaping problems that pursued
Leaving behind obstacles in my way
I am the one surroundings exclude

There is no shortcut to happiness
On this earth tread upon
We pass on a great big mess
To bury after you're gone

I will claw through tunnels
Until I find rightful place
Help you with your struggles
Cradled in my embrace

Until my wick rekindles yours
Reanimates you
Makes heart pound
Will crawl through soil and explore
Dig you out from the ground

The tomb intended for me instead
Buried you to save my soul
To end madness in my head
Dying
Thoughts swallowing whole

I walk this road of ruptured dreams
Softness fading from fingertips
Savoring warm remnants of bright sunbeams
Light out of my grasp slowly slips
I worry I will seize the moment right when it is too late to do so... jobs
Kyla Sargent Nov 2017
I've been living in a constant
and catastrophic mental state.
I'm trying to silence my memories.
I need to forget the emotions
That I'm forced to relive.
I've yet to eliminate
Their presence in all I do.
There isn't a single moment
That isn't embraced in nostalgia.
The lyrics in songs I'm unable to delete,
Reanimates it all.
I've used a million different words
To explain what I couldn't.
In the end, I am faced with the reality
That I can't just run.
I can't escape through objectivity and pencil lead,
This time.
All of my unspoken secrets remain,
Slowly clawing away at my sanity.
In remembering where I've been,
I'm killing myself from the inside, out.
I know,
You can't empathize or understand.
And…
I've always known this,
So, it's okay.

Nobody ever really wanted to.
Nobody ever really could.

However...

There exists a deep loneliness
that's rooted in my own deception.
I'm always fighting to be listened to.
Spent weeks painting pictures nobody saw.
I wish someone had just proved me wrong.
Which sounds odd, to anyone else.

I don't want to write
what's never gonna be read.
Why write out the details
of a story nobody wants?
I often wonder -
Even if I am finally opened and read -
Would their understanding
change my story's end?
Just, a little self reflection.
Saige A L Flores Apr 2012
The body of the deceased
on it's death bed it lays
the air reeks as it begins to decay
causing the evidence of ****** to fade,

No rest for the dearly departed
as long as the crime stays unreported,
maggots begin feeding on the flesh
the body rots, ceasing to be fresh,

Now the bone is stripped of skin
completely consumed of its exterior
revenge begins to spread within
it reanimates to devour it's killer's interior...
Sorry I've been watching too much CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Las Vegas. lol Except here the dead gets it's revenge :D
Now I awake at the eve of my daemonic existence
Which we had to abort
On my crown lies a crown of barbs
Unfortunately no light
Raising my forgiving sight for the last time
The only thing I see is my dark wright
Vomiting misconception at my filthy sins
United by serpentine despair
Unanimously designed by a rogue contempt
And yet instantaneously
For temerarious to bother with such vast wisdom
And yet veracious
Thus destined a dark decent
A blackened spiral
For a blank memory
I look as the darkness consumes my  every breathe
Already swallowed by the hatred smoked by fear
I feel the hell fire
Like tears rolling down my body
I am cut chest to toe
The shadows seep in
Vile filth exalting heavenly pleasures
I can not cleanse myself
For all of the scourges I locked away
My shadow is liberated
As it goes, as it always shall
The quasi heroic act of self mutilation
Reanimates their dark possession
Again morbid licentiousness
They found their host and reached parasitical intent
Blackened by serious lust
Tumultuous in the hearts of all who have fallen
All of their jaws hinging malevolently
For the cursing how to behave
No imminence in my decay
I deserve nothing by curdling laughter
I have no cause, no war
My skin blackened by the fires of doubt
Forget my neurotic existence
And the face of the man you fear
For the last time I scream
All of my attempts hallowed
By the fear of being isolated
Abandoned, my scars still leaking    
The blackened blood into the heavens
Each drop a life wasted
During this my light is extinguished
A smile appears on a split face

One final scream
And everything I know vanishes
Somewhere a heart beats a final time
I despise my world
I wasn't created for it
Alas...
Note to self, Avante Garde is amazing to listen to while making poetry.  Wish I wasn't so depressed. Oh well life goes on.
Hollow, naked, brave and empty
endeavor to fill your soul
with ingredients to sate
of promises to fulfill.
Monoliths to the sinner
bearing teeth with xenophobic glee.
Hunters track through the thunder
as lightning reanimates the dead
Hungry lobbying vultures
"bring back the good long gone"
while removing your heart
and preserving it as art.
Gaurav May 2018
That silly smile you give
With your deep red wine lips
The bubblegum chatter you oblige my days with
They craft out symphonies of mayhem incessently

The jet black ocean dreamers eyes
That blush out the moon in its prime
And once eyes meet
A smile trudges along and greet

Beneath the smooth black sheet of hair
Eyebrows sharpened and with a smiley wink
Th raging velvet satin black hair
That flow like ink out of ****'s imagination

The slender fingers you swing
Look like an aussie serpentine
The incessent wandering eyes
That twist and take you for a ride

The cheeks that radiate with hues of pink
Its like cherries perched on a rosy sheet
Your face is like a razor blade
Melts away the expression it drains

Your face reanimates and moves like the moon
As the sun goes goes only to reappear
You are eternally here
You sparkle along and shine like a precious gem


Your changing mood
Your face expresses like the phases of moon
It Keeps a little beuty
And sometimes a shimmer of mischief

Someday somewhere maybe you will see a snowflake
And someone somewhere might drown in those eyes
Everywhere you go.. You leave a little piece of yourself behind
You envy of davinci, the muse of humbert
Like a dagger with a crystal glaze
You will give cinderella a run for her fame
RebelJohnny Dec 2017
Dark blue infinity,
Oh, falling luminesce fading into the twilight,
how you dance across the silent sand!
The horizon shines as liquid sun cools rose gold along the ferrous peaks,
Endless strokes weave drifting clouds into fast sleep.

The awesome silence of finality
marries the shadowed mountains
cradling the firmament.
Sound abandons the valley as the dark hides the skyline;
Sight fails.

Callous fingers tighten across
Folding arms in the still air,
Let your eyes fall towards the ground,
Exhale the crisp invisible end,
Lungs rush towards bursting
with the weight of closure as
day, possibility, light are
Erased into sublime black.

Let us lower upturned faces,
Count moments as descending
Grains of sand mark the hourglass'
rest. Time embraces former possibility, their hands entwining,
joining the downcast face now
grasped by the gorgon sorrow's snare.

Rise and fall, do our dreams and hopes, creaking ribs, shifting fabric, against the petrified chest engulfed in apocalyptic surrender.

Oh, talisman of Perseus,
Cursed for resisting cruelty,
Fated to suffer despite devotion, grace, and righteous indignation,
Medusa, terrible bearer of this same curse,
What fools are we?

What monstrous resemblance does  the frozen fool now share with the ****** priestess' unfortunate victims still standing statuesque  amidst the ruins of her world?

Stone-cold eyes blink endlessly,
The figure's petrified form bears the weight of starlight and the moon's temple.

Witness as futures unfold! Gaze, like Delphi's Oracle once did as man, future, and marble pillars become a singular spectacle.

What possibility shot into the heavens, now out of reach? What mortal joy falls at each day's end joining Helios and the sun elsewhere?

Call it tragedy! Some claim her despair! Oh Dante, how wickedly you call this nightmare a comedy,
Witness as the body discovers it's dream long-gone,
whispered about by lorekeepers and bards,
The vanguards of worlds such as this one,

Jolting skyward, his jaw clenches, glazed eyes turning,
Tumbling as his form reanimates,
Walk now into that abyss.

Called myth, utopia, inferno or sometime's paradisio,
All these too are visions of man,
- Which we may
Pursue but none come to obtain -
ever fading into the absolute silence
lain now to rest amidst
the chill of the desert breeze.
mazzy Sep 2015
the pitch black night crawls over the dimly illuminated town
the fireflies come out to play with silver star dust
i creep out of the the restly silhouette of my house
i have no flash light, no fire, i let the moon lead me thru the echos of night
my shadow keeps me hidden well, cloaking me in silence
the damp ocean air reanimates me  
the town is sleepy but i'm awake  
3 in the morning has nothing on me
Nikki Pingrey Mar 2016
The warm summer rains fall from a tumultuous sky flecked with sickly shades of green.
Thunder rips through the heavens, shaking the stars.
Lightning illuminates the land and my heart cries out to you.
Droplets of water fill my eyes concealing the tears that fall freely to the ground, yielding a salty crop of memories.
I clinch my eyes shut against the storm and the tidal wave of yesterdays, yet I cannot escape the visions of you and I.
Each drop reanimates a moment we shared until I am lost in that world of blissful remembrance.
I lift my voice to the skies and curse the powers that be.
Screaming defiantly into the night, my body gives way to the pain.
I exist now, only as you remember me.
mickey finn Mar 2021
there is not enough soil
on this earth
under which
to bury You;

i will claw at the ground
until i find You,
i will exhume You
cradle You
until my rekindled warmth
reanimates You;

i will claw at the ground
and dig You out
of the grave
i buried You in
only to end up
dying in it myself.

i will.
hey all! i haven’t posted on here in just over a year (i moved to the hell that is instagram and it was one of the worst decisions i have ever made).

i don’t know who on here still posts material; it would be lovely to reconnect if i still know anybody.

but yes, i have been through much, and i have went viral and i have suffered greatly.

but please, enjoy this piece!
In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks with feminine conscience, compassionate flashes are ratified in each groove and I calculate footage, this previous present attracts the magnanimous representation of the lightning emission of its speech representing itself where the queen judges the king Consummatum Est, with little difference from culinary art and its very dense genre. Here is the carious aspect of the bluish faskéloma or exasperating of the paws that move the occasional ones in sub-vibrations softening in the shiny mark of the sessile columns in consistency of its weak receptive propagation and masculine science, lacking what prospers with moist regulars of flashes that are cooling from their imbibition. With thousandths of his enchanted parasitizing and prior ego I wonder afterwards not far from a Para-Celestial and sacrilegious lore of Lochnith; Who, what and where would have been able to support such or such, rising on the beams and girders that make a whole for an inaccurate Menthe, going to the arcane of the seventh external love with clear magenta lights, on rounded ultraviolet reliefs, here is where everything lulls from the adverb Eleusis, seething with a consonant flight that suffocates in spite of a Pseudo Vernarthian, where it will go without any exception disrupting the courses of hesitation, leaving no more the divine portent and going back to the loaded Cibatus or barley in northwests that flatten ultra winter, mowed down to its glacial bluish water discharge in unequal thickening of fast secrets with thirds of vox with bordering called in pair of trios, and symbolic of a reborn flashed subsoil of a lifetime swollen in its low course and ministerial occultation that isolates itself on Patmos. The skies were beaten where nothing germinates from dreams waiting for thousands of those like me with acute senses of the Anthesterion, or of March taking me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified yet not resigning from love or smelling in the singular uni-lunar desolate with venerable fulminations and inquinas of the branch of the bakchoi, which was whistled by an Aulós that was remade generic when restarting fasting from a day rebuked and repaid in the emaciated Cibatus. Such light grasses were polarizing prohijadas when recovering from resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous aromatic nuance, and from super life machined from the metallic oscillation of the fires and rites ruined in the aromatic arthrophagous of Lochnith, nauseating at night in flowing enigma and gramineous rictus, intermingling while he longed for the ritual and his graceful plumes in feasts that honored his Canephores transferring mead towards the bakchoi psychic adept revealing himself from the masculine to the feminine in aqueous positive bed and supra negative redemption, which was fading into sharp matter attended while the world was created that they would live with more than forty stratagems, seeing themselves praised before their eminent Truth. Myself…being its own tyranny…, which erects whoever classifies it sacramental, and notices the squalid lack of control of its barbarism flash when I still pursue the darkness of my purge that is falling even without finding where to do it, falling however from its end and of guilty thunderous glances..., what more public decree do I wish, for more rituals that you have close to you when feeling sharp minorities of its aftertaste although in double life and night your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures you from the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte , plus that a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and fusca haze. Meanwhile, quantities of Omphalos from the ego micro center are distancing themselves from mine, my faded lost throne hallucinates lost knowing that it is a probable sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in fraction of the cereal ritual, and of sanctified illumination with tableares that have to dwell all the times that they revive from the vivid purple red, and from the debtor clairvoyant mystery sky that is reviving in the revealed luminescence that throws it in ornate nickels and acidic rattles at midnight falling on a positive particle devoid of yours returning to mine, and preparing for the flashing praise that pigeonholes him from his crippled fallacious and previous theory suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnith capitulate capitulation suffers from glare towards her beloved, placing his phalanges on circular and angular waves on the virtual milky river of Eleusis caressing her face and glare from her. “I, Lochnith, was on the cliff with my Canephor Aerse, near his Athenian paternal landlord, I was going to say goodbye to myself and carelessness, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from my ego, knowing that Aerse would not choose me, much less to my abandoned superior.

In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Leucas, which perhaps without my local would offend me by reputation and snoop on cliffside suicides that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion for serials of life and cities of the incongruous dramatic space , where its tragedy and antithesis do not fit in the basket carried by my priestess Aerse. I am flying over the structures of the acropolis, not yielding as a deity who prophesies where there is no room for the world in which she and I can inhabit. Lochnith, jumped after her as she was falling down the frontispiece of the cape..., She watched him as he fell..., forbidding to skew him from his gestures and get close to her so as not to fall where the wind is more docile and free, intervening with pashkein inclination or entangling them of the vipers and rims of the heroic hair in a condition of evanescent reckless touch against her suitor, trapping her from the Omphalus that she had tied to her neck transferred from brilliant didactics before a puerile boxing of vicissitudes, and spring flower shops next to the flayed serpents of Persephone and Kashmar floating on the Lilies of Aerse. Prey to the escarpments and cliffs, she remained possessed among the sedimentary dolomites that emanated near her veins before plunging down the steep side in over cascading prayers for her, always knowing that he would love her on a singular base of enchantments while he looked smiling before fall yielded In the end, forty-one seconds she was thrown off the cliff..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Omphalus of her neck by a lofty plume ready for love, imagining herself in the midlands of a ruthless positive affection of the mysterious flashing Eleusino, and by the divided ***** that took them as they fell into a splendid world with serials and images of Aerse, tied to the prehensile sacrifice and the cold hand of Lochnith, together as they fell between their subconscious selves, becoming heaped and vivid as something plunged towards them fleetingly, knowing that he I was going to survive him.

Lochnith's gleam was northwest of Athens once lost in the scrupulousness of a pagan polis and cult that kept docked in the sands to find her on the cliffs of the acropolis, where they had lost each other after two thousand years since they Theodosius abolished by decree the rituals of Eleusis. With revulsion and unprecedented insight, Aerse remained a recluse with excessive eagerness to self-eliminate, possessing for both the due imagination that he had possessed of the devoid neckline of the omphallus causing the inclination of the avalanche and their bodies towards where they supposedly would land on the divine and Dionysian path which leads to the eschatological of Vernarth's Diokitis. Apparently they were leaving as a result of an immortal Vernarthian existential catastrophe or decline, at the same time of a rhythmic alkaloid hemlock with its Achene that carried them for any pretense by being triggered towards the meeting with Persephone without her or he knowing why to fester at Eleusinos as Lochnith and Aerse in a single concentric whole, and quantum beings of the octagonal by the straight or transversal line that slipped into the hypotenuse at the instant that they were conceived implicitly as they took him from relapses when he went towards Aerse, after winding up from his conclave Hypomorphic writing and Magna Mater Misterica. Under the established power of his ministerial, the redemption that went in adjoining the ins and outs was consigned to resurface from the subgenre, and from himself procreating exultation with the analogs of Vernarth that were prolonged in excremental purges and disagreements of the cult of what should be twisted in the ****** of the magnetic genre and of positive tendency that would be eternalized after the cessation of the active decrees by Theodosius. Eminently Aerse suffered on some semi-dead watery slabs next to Vernarth, she remained after the agreement to centralize what irradiated her humanly as semi-Itheoi from a reinforced gender that was cohesive in retrograde worship to achieve pre-flowering in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen together with Persephone in the finnis that was distanced ultra terrestrial towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, not being categorized as a mystery rather as an unknown of a super method of rummaging in the lanterns where no reflection of Aerse could to be found by Lochnith after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in watery nitrosities on the escarpment of the cliff. Physiology will influence Eleusis with systematic naturalness for the active hydrogenated elements, and of such unknown prebiotics or phyto-estrogens where remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity are manifested, as it is found to rise from the true hecatomb of July with a hundred halters arranged with foreign beings towards the oasis of transition. The little will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, taking him in transit to a more exciting late management by harassing the search for Aerse in a clear mystery already in the jaws of a clamoring night by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone! even being with the inventive fallacy of a addicted spirit in correlation to the rite and its lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look sleepless with the servile promise of divinity from a vision that fades from the winepress and the Boedromion party, moving from the born ****** position of a hierophant towards the mold that dies and that does not renew itself from Boedromia itself. The representation of Aerse was reflected with transfused majolica and Eleusinian threads when she was seen walking from the beginning floating remotely in the meadows of the knoll, from which the cyclical anagram of the lost cliff rises when it separates from its Adonis being able to expose them in mythological treachery and transcended from epic truth to be related to the treaty between Zeus, Hades and Demeter for the rescue of Persephone after being dented from the beginning of the arcana that sprouted from a distorted symptomatology. She aerse carried the flayed serpents even on her body as if she should look for them in an omnipotent volatile gray so that it would come out by itself and be unguarded by her gone eyes, witnessing secrets and resting in anarchy from where there is not and will not be. Archon or governor What a mesmerizing problem is improvised from second after third that provoke astonishment to see him in the course that he could not have of his cursed detection! Aerse was beginning as a curious Canephore, he came to meet his ephebes Lochnith after excessive self-inferred hypotheses by following him at her command detailing the Kykeon that paled her psychotropically from a discarded and mineral exhibition, of which she would be devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach with his Sunday appearance or concerning the numen manifested with the eternal powers in front of the hieratic presence of the man who looked at her paternally, with a crass profile like a Damian Hessian drawing them in, plotting in a colossal fascinating stealth. Here she wraps him up but does not approach him and falls, lost in love, such a Faustus dilemma, granting herself at the initiation of the portal of the twelve lunar months in Eleusis, with immutable years and origins where they will bounce to meet in childhood that made them known as Aerse and Lochnith . Here in the greatest trance of life, both would begin to overcome all the twists and turns of the gestated gloom that separated them due to the shaken annoyance and confusion still divergent in sediments of runoff and bark oscillations that emerged from the unevenness of the acropolis, until a meeting in the amazing light and divine libertarian of two tendernesses, and martyrdoms that purely push them back towards a new end of the muddy gleam in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by male consciousness and is ratified mercifully in each flash of the striated. They will meet again in similar attachments divided by the fluctuating one who unmasks the one who drives him away with his dominant ******, and ill-advised caudal space seducing the contiguous public and private astral bodies that have never been coarse or dissimilar in ablution or sacraments of gods the pagans, everywhere nor whatever its fragmented remains by the gullies and ravines of the Kêphisos. After the remnants in politics, the desolate serpents of Aerse flowed down the river, as a link section that declared itself from an initial that was an evident flash that enveloped them as a cardinal canon with bucolic politics in all the nearby regions. Athenians, after the vertiginous regressive parapsychology like an Eleusino flahsback or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, with the visualizations of Aerse and Lochnith when they follow each other through the learned induction of feedback that was arranged in the inclinations of both, refining their morphological bastimento for the purpose of instituting them as articulators of the evocation of the millennia. Prophecies were reported from the 8th century BC. with ends, and interprocesses of the eternal in the unknown mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of the amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith of the month of Boedromia, fleeing from a federated Polis that would be unified to a substantial dimension and of sacred Eleusinian space with brand new warmongering for the culminations of being incorporated into the Hexagonal Primogeniture integrated in this way in the indissoluble ephemeris of foundation and hegemony of the Megaron or Opisthodomos of Patmos. This is thanks to the beaten serpents that were nesting the reanimates of the question with subterfuges that make the widths of inter-pairs prevail, which are consolidated as a reality of session and space, agreeing on the defeated parapsychological memory or future in the economy of two resignation blocks of the repealed Sacred Space, in consensus of the beams of the Vernarth Military Command forging from the beating sacralized ***** that cultly intensified from its mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from the attracted Agoras that were repositioning themselves with the metaphysical agents that they will be restored in the polis with the scope of furrowing in a civic action induced towards someone who virtually recognizes him in the purge of the exclaimed strangers. More ardent passion was added to receive them even being wary of further mutations vibrated with the Faskéloma, or exasperating that moves the tint of the occasional vibrations, similar to the tendencies of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, with the disastrous passing of the aqueous levels of the Kêphisos, which it would mean the presumptive ordinal of unreal historical worlds. The parapsychology of space was absorbed with torched quadrilaterals that were hanging from the invoked meditation, they were lying on futile folders and anodyne Aerse molecules, which were still welcomed by the magical exposed extra-corporeal substances that were deduced as they were experiencing unprecedented transit preserved of the eccentric deconcentrated radio of the refurbished of the spectral chromatic. The precipitated mental field dared to invade boldly towards another unheard-of generator that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice coming near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from hypothetical planes that flow for their definitive moderated unions. The static refluxes bounced in simultaneity of bilocation of the Eleusinian exordia that were exorbitating each other with the rollers that were uncrossing the corporeal margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft, and the fibrous distinction that was teleporting the rescue rituals unforeseen astrological

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of the mortuary reality there will be no hesitation outside of our body and geodesy of our lost zafral or of lives in transit sub or supra quantum, obsessing in the eyes of erudition and unknowns, while our contraption self-obstructs with our electromagnetic sensory interactions paraphrasing in the convoluted distance and residues of related-metaphysical electros that are reconverted into the appearance of a premonition” The ligation of the arteries of Cephisus carried the emanations of Lochnith to love him in a healing act suspended with beings devoid of physicality, on the way to specters and healings of a perverse, to repair his extra-corporeal suffering confined to those who condescend to the androecium and gynoecium as a unit of mental physical motor gender, at the instant of the exacerbated and ectoplasmic world regulated by means of the Vernarth regression that was going lowering your blood pressure, increasing your red blood cells side effect rivers intertwined with Eurydice and Aerse in the opening Othon, directed at Vernarth's outcomes that came in the bow of the super-aqueous ship with some fabrics from the ship's stowage directing the speculative and autonomous advance that was already dispersing in the waves. Dead cells of the right Lynothorax,  A savvy military mancomunal became syncretic with Lochnith, he was determined to continue reinstalling us in his white blood cells that rose when it was already dawn on the shores of independent Skalá, and in the circled cohorts of Phalanxes and Psiloi that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbing to the physical dismay of the underlying necrosanct and telepathic prayer that took place at the dawn of parapsychology trances cysts of recovery that descended on them in pure novel regenerative membranes, persé of merciful acts that became thick in the flashes when freezing from the weightless rays of the ultraviolet, which was separating between Sóma and Gnómi or corporal opinion that was joining synthetic networks with indefinite emissaries and receptors, subsequent bodies of the Bachkoi chemist, already deficient for a compensatory universe and varieties that were taking shape in a disintegrated emotional quantum world. Each time the bodies were reinserting themselves into the full unknown and subjective material, the concrete material united in the network with each other as a single force was transforming into the greatest passion and sparkle among their own, reinstalling themselves in the Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion interacting with everything, so starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible with optional digits of coincidence or inseparable digitized, such a phenomenon of meekness of aligning times were massified with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light years ago. Aerse replies: “My admiration, the sparkle has a measure of astral body in reason of the vigor that underlies reiterated expiation and measurable virtuosity in its perfection of semblance p and corporal providence, inquired of being transformed far from disaffection rather than a continuous healing . The smallest and most coherent in the fabulous Griffins will join my clairvoyant and component with the ballast of his final game, not reflective of another who can measure or predict him for an undivided being. But I am already here, and I am your infinite…, I no longer know of other bad illusions of trying to separate myself from this life of what Eleusis is, perhaps a cosmic coarse that is and was in all time that passes speculatively, for this flash that is reflects whether it pales visible or not, I hope it will be compact on our intertwined attachments”
As living organisms, various life methods will be postulated as an initiative in the announced Big Bang, for the profit of those who are real close and real logotypes of resonant neuroscience as a daring that will influence the progeny, for ****** volumes, exonerations of bearers experiences and evolutionary lives of the emitter outside of an ignored Parthenon, since the gender of the world is also associated with random ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive-negative towards a Hellenic parallelism of roots in life dressed with lasting vernacular inheritances. Much of Lochnith's electro-dermal conglomerate was in full congruence with retrograde Eleusian parapsychology propagating from Vernarth's Invisible Eclectic Portal, which was nebulously teleported down the Kêphisos River with saprophytic living organisms acknowledging it in indigenous originality. of the species of reborn Vernarth, and super regulation of the euphemism and mysterious underworld below their protocols.

Revelations of the mental-material, made reluctance and support of the estrangement of inviolate perceptions, precognitions, telepathies and premonition, which debuted in this intrepid adventure intuiting in perpetuity with the sensory corridors and interferences of a reality of body in an explosive world incontestable. Lochnith, was already in possession of a hypnotic mental reincarnation formula in the form of neuroscience vessels close to scarecrows of expiration, allocating the subsequent locks of an enlightened decency of the ethereal sleepy baggage and the oracular review. The more we experience the laws that explain his prodigies, the more our perspective of media and complete fiction will increase in something that begins to be typical of the laurel of a true slowed-down ******-kinetic process. Within the curvature and the dim light that remained in the Lochtian days, normality returned to them after this long epitome in the parapsychological biosphere, and the intriguing contemplation and even mischievous tenuity of idea that can die suddenly, after self-incubate in the intangible coexisting passage and medication rupture of lived art with alien morbid beings. For a character archetype, it is only known that reaping is consuming capital from the disruption of a non-profit loss and its incontrovertible paranormal, which is paranormal and parapsychological from the plane of posterity of life, which will be an act of peaceful coexistence in playful spirits, compensating for seclusion in the vaults of an involutionary dramatic past, if its material or monad (spiritual) is not dissected in the cosmic train of perception of unfolding, and of the concept of purging energy that goes out of its way in its seventh heaven. The hypnosis of death and purgation to whoever requires it in the convoy of their conscience continues to be a tiny unruly space that transports us physically, reverting to minimums that are neutralized in alien foundlings. From an aedicule depository to an empty body that is neither independent nor from the lord who claims it (V.g. aedicule of José de Arimatea). The impersonal voices that officiated at the ritual of Eleusis were heard far beyond those who could hear them merely with memorable spaced therapies, recording themselves in interspersed layers of sounds and imprecise electroacoustics in the serial of an alarming complex frequency of the regenerative stumble in an organism of Continuous movement. Everything spreads in bends of abstraction that revives those who promote the perfection of marigolds like buttercups that they wear in the clothing of the Canephores like Aerse, but soulful and latent ephemeral of the ethereal alchemical entitative of ignored molecules. Lochnith says: “My submission heals, it no longer maintains being far from who represents it and where it comes from, I know that its remains in me do not reason, clarifying more my journey towards the crown and vilifications of a nascent humanity that mourns me, and that does not recognizes by rebelling in my desires to attract him"
the sky closes in vermilion digression and you inquire that they should answer for the silence of confusion in the parapsychological aqueducts of Athens with Patmos. The organization of the Sacred Space starts with the bizarre totemic quantum by sacred paths, Megarons, fictitious hunting places, double surrounding lunar ring, curves of virtual walls, Propylaea to embrace the Vernarthian enigma and finally the Telesterion that received Vernarth with a naked torso that perched in front of Aerse and Lochnith, looking at them towards the futuristic survival with five digits in a quarter of the waning of his right hand containing the small coat of Betelgeuse and the Pleiades in inklings of the umpteenth apocalyptic Megaron of Patmos. Scrupulosity as an Electro-Eleusian placebo effect, went alone, dismissing itself in the singular of a Templar niche and towards a Megaró-Omega Telesterion for catechized who endowed themselves with super-resident halos and litters of priesthoods that fled in terror from the Aerse-Lochnith fusion, prior to each rudeness and their contours swearing eternal exaltation and idealism, to be reconverted into individuals saved and votive to love each other with third parties, escaping from small frames that still did not hold up from the ecumenical mess.
Lochnith Eleusis Quantum
Both sides of the Arbela militia remained frosty, failing to tear the wrath of the throne from the depths of the charter and from the expropriation of the votive temple, in view of the strength of leaders who were reinserted and rewritten from the plaster of Parnassus, where the beatifices Mortals are seen competing without having references or additions in the washer that predominated by chance referring to athletes and gladiators who were not, but today they could be spiked in the crushing Syntagamatarchos table, captaining two units all with their abdomen semi open, re liquidating again the entrails by the Ghosts of Shiraz, who came from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel that carried water from the spring to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Profitis Ilias, from where until then they were commanded, with dispatches of their designs before a voluntary prodigy that emancipates a perplexed Meltem i that he was haphazardly swirling in the funerary fields, but descriptive of returning to the fields their souls, which abstained after ephemeris towards a knowledge resigned to abide by it, and to get rid of transcendental limitations commanded by his blowing, and not his body that was clouded before the conspicuous epistemological reason flashed and relaxed when comforting them for having to calibrate their bones when they returned to Mosul. The Colosso pedestals were breaking when it intimidated everyone to flee to their homes, in this way it calmed them down from the quicksilver of the world that was no longer their typical dwelling, from a dwelling of transit to a story that deals with the flys that are they hover, pretending to be the same, banishing themselves from the pain that rises up the cervical spine and that dismisses the ridiculous voices of Aeschylus with their acting choruses that they seemed dilapidated in cries impossible to personify. The ******* brave pieces of deployment began to drain from the secondary positions of the penultimate physicalities of suffering that one felt without being affected, rather it manifested itself in the contents of an essential muscular container, of the subsistence of the cosmos installed in what does not think nor decide on its retraction. Vernarth and Alexander the Great knelt in front of the larnax of the torments of mercy, like ***** language that lashes out rhetoric in rebellions of thousands of hoplites who expiated themselves from their hands, empty spiked race contained in the perjury of Zeus, enrolled in apocryphal images in tombs of those who were going to be faced with pseudo refractory that was recluses of the fleshless breath, but anarchic when trying to return to their places of origin of warlike Tikun.

The traits of annihilation were shed from buried reanimates that became slime in the reverie of a mythological God who never accompanied them and invited them from a cohabiting sun, which was only the fantasy of irresistible permutations. It should be noted that the subplot was in intangible interfaces that would never be stitched together as an annexed story, but the words of parapsychology were captained by themselves more than the sub plotline that transcended the apostrophe of death, and the Pronoia of the Peri Kousmos. The doors of Patmia were finally released and speculative vines re-flowered were Lotos and Astragalus, as courtesies of Operandi and impairment that replaced the ****** elderberry, with chalks that made the winter raging when Persephone rampaged what was merely monthly erratic of those who exiled her. The senses of Patmos were the property of his Institution, which was what it is and is not, for a holistic consequence of fast ideology but of minimal intuition, which lay in multiple reasons for tissues that were filled with crop fields, animals in Magna prairies that agreed to serve the man who loved him, in which the causes were two meters before the limen that sent her off the cliff in other causes of confusion, in a real creation of zoological Hellenic neuroscience, where all forms of mythology were made of submithology, always at the side of man but this time redeemed from the origin and cause, they only persevere to offend a certain space of ignorance where the like all prevaricated by large amounts subordinate to their lineage, in the kingdom of paradises from which only animals protect the doors that only Cerberos and Cherubim open, scrutinizing food for them and making use of them.

Patmos was remade of all the waterfalls that completed the rigors of the precept, and not the chaos that subordinates cognition to make night day or day night, pouring specimens that were and will be ignored but extremely useful for the preservation of the body of the unsupported objective and sumptuous, but of a systemic nature that does and sustains it. The Souls of Helenikká and Trouvere graced all the inhabitants towards a comprehensive evolution of the ***** of dreams, giving it the fruits of conservation where the lords of the future will have to bow to the laborious principle of the Mashiach, conciliating the arrest of the stars and not of what is reactive of an invasive action. Thus ended this subplot rhetoric of intuitive formality and metaphysical channeling character, leading them through plumbing that led from what was coming out from the Raedus Codex, from the wind tunnel, and what was coming in from here identical to its elevation towards the direct apotheosis of the Megaron that was splendid in four composition buttresses with more than two drops of laudanum, which will be insignificant ***** to save the cosmos from falls of vitality in the conclusion of Vernarth.

Saint John the Evangelist after several sleeping episodes of his spiritual experience, reappears in the sucker of modality and intentions that the drops of laudanum manifested to fill the pain of Vernarth's tragedy, and those that are manifested to him that they became resurrected entelechies of component solutions speculative, that were reborn from certain internal devastations, and that returned vague automata to the Achaemenids that emerged from the depths of this professorial subplot, to bring them with the simplicity of lexicons that were loving realities that would lie behind the veils of illusion, transgressing properties of a totalizing daphnomancy. Due to his parliament, Áullos Kósmos eliminated himself braided from the road when he expresses fatigue and regret, calming the reasons in the flight from himself. He starts from demoralization and hidden impotence of the Hoplite that would not come out of himself, because it is a frenzy of consternation that makes him start from the unshakable grief of his compassion, without reaching the surface of the ethical plane.
Battle of Patmia Part VI
Anna Wakefield Feb 2020
I feel nothing, and everything
An empty echo
Trapped, screaming but yawning.
I go unheard.

There is a spark,
a promise of reanimation
in endless pools of blue.

I can die and live
a thousand lifetimes
in an interlocked gaze…

But what happens
when the jolt
no longer
reanimates
the dead.
Like The Library, I wrote this not long before my ex husband left. At this point he had alienated me from my friends and family and I had developed Agoraphobia. I thought he was keeping me alive, keeping me safe - but he was systematically lobotomizing everything I was.
Briscoe Sep 2019
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
Timid smells of stirring streets cloud about me.
The coffee swirls and swells. Images
And hesitant senses wait in the breeze.
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
I hate toast. I eat ghosts of bread, dead wheat.
Channels tune into place as vision meets focus.
I eat. I attempt a thought and retreat to eat.

One Monday morning
After a midnight when malaise escalates
To trauma gone in the morning.
I simmer to life with the sun low,
As though the glow
Were still preparing to leap.
I put some bacon down to sizzle
I sit happy for a second, I sleep.
The deep slumber that disappears in moments
And half an hour.
The day reanimates with burning.
The bacon now a black thing.
I see waste.
I am late.
The next morning
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;"
"At four, and five and six o'clock."
-T.S. Eliot

— The End —