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ju Apr 2015
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day. Feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realized I could get rid of the sofa.

I thought it was ugly. She thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.

Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.

My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have. She smacked me when I was little) … but I stopped.

I never wanted to. I had known all along, somehow forgotten.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.

Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs. Feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her .

It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill. No cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.

My little boy had grown. He helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk. She wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.

If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.


Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realized it was time to move on.

I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.

Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.

Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.

If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.

Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Re-post.
The door was left wide open after i had left the room,
Returning months later to find it unfamiliar,
Redecorated in the stlye of who you wish to be,
And who you mimic.

No longer feeling safe within the walls i once trusted unequivocally,
It feels so strange to be sitting here, unable to find the things i left, the things i loved.

Hidden under new wallpaper are the words we wrote together,
I only wish to read them once more,
To relive just a fleeting second of a time where no sorrow could come.
But your new decorations block my view and i may only live in memories.

Had i stayed, would we have mainted our decor, i often seem to ask. A question i'll never see answered, the one loose thread, unraveling the rest of my thoughts.

I cannot stay here, too strange and unwelcoming, alienated where i once called home.
Yet i still don't wish to leave.
So all that i will ask of you, is to close the door behind me.
For i could never lock myself out.
I will only hope, that if i should return, i should find all that cared for, pride of place, in the room that i called home.

I wish i'd never left.
Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
Caitlyn Emilie May 2016
he put new stars in the sky and redecorated with new colors, made himself at home along the giant nebulas and the infinite constellations.

he dialed his voice to a whisper and told me sweet stories of how the sun loves the moon, while broad spectrum daydreams intertwined both our minds
we wished on shooting stars and shared cosmic kisses, and there was no need for gravity..I fell for him the second his lips spoke my name
love is beautiful, especially when you find your soulmate<3
j f Jan 2013
The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the
uneasy comfort of the bed. I
eye the flimsy container of trail mix
lying in wait, my lightly salted prey.
rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my
blanket cocoon,
I stumble towards nourishment.

I attack my snack,
and settle into the
beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights,
mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen,
tip bleeding into a beige throw
bought for a newly redecorated room.

Unnoticed, the stain spreads,
advancing on the threads of the throw.
I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow
and curse silently,
and wonder if it can be
hidden by rearrangement and ultimately
decide that a little folding will do the trick.

Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton,
primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.
Hussein Dekmak Sep 2018
I remodeled my home,
By ridding it of old furniture made of
Dark and malice thoughts,
And redecorated with thoughts of joy and inspiration.

I decorated the empty ceilings
With a full moon and some shining stars,
I took down the drapery that once covered the windows, and watched From my living room as the new dawn embraced the sunshine.

In my garden, I built a house for the melodious birds to warble their Songs, and constructed a temple for prayer from my tears and sorrows.
I planted an olive tree in memory of innocent souls, and decorated it with Some tulips, roses, and jasmine flowers for the anthem of love!

Hussein Dekmak
Edited 2
If you've never pulled some tinsel
Out of your cat's ****
Or cleaned up after "Fluffy"
Eats the poinsetta and throws up

Surely, you've redecorated
After "Fluffy" climbs the tree
You hear it smash into the floor
In the morning, about three

You've used wire to support it
Keep it straight, that is your goal
To "Fluffy" it's her present
It's her brand new scratching pole

When the tree has got no water
But, the cat just has to ***
You have to fill the bowl again
Beneath the dying tree

You kick ornaments around the room
And find out that they're glass
Because "Fluffy" had to play with them
So, you kick her in the ***

It's a Family Christmas Ritual
If you're the owner of a cat
You can't decorate and leave it
She won't have none of that

Christmas is the season
For cats to drive you mad
And give you Christmas memories
You wish you never had

So, if you've never seen the tinsel
That the cat ate just last night
You can see it just below her tail
If the light just hits it right

This is why I have a dog....
bekka walker Apr 2014
I meticulously pick the cracked and peeling finger nail polish from my fingers.
Staring down.
Focusing on anything but your eyes.
The beating of your heart is like a metronome, setting the rhythm of the room.
You've whispered me your secrets, fallen in love with my evasive glances, blotted out my smudges and redecorated them in your mind.
To you, I am a thrift store find, but a treasure nonetheless.
I put my head against your machine of a chest,
My lips mouth the empty words I wish I could make true.
My hungry soul is a picky starving child.
I greedily collect hearts in my hands and groan as they get heavy,  afraid to give them back.
Yours is the freshest.
It is I who is weathering your heart.
With my silence.
With my tears.
With my selfishly stolen kisses.
I want to tell you to run away, but my own fear of loneliness paralyzes my tongue.
"you're beautiful, you have cute feet, and I love you."
As you slip a delicate silver shackle around my neck.
The tiny silver heart dangles above my own.
I want to tell you to run away, but my own fear of loneliness paralyzes my tongue.
Ellen Piper Jun 2012
Isn't it about time we redecorated in here? the new orphan asks,
Ripping down old wallpaper until she can't
Rip
Any 
More

It keeps on growing back,
Like the smell of smoke.
Mike McC Dec 2011
I couldn't remember anything about particle physics or lucid dreams when I was the sky. I could only be, I could only swirl across the great paradox of everything and nothing. I could only watch the things that happened within me. It was like a beautiful symphony, one that needed me but operated without me, one that defined me without taking a single chisel to my being.

So what was it like to be the sun? You changed me daily. You let my core revolve around you and you helped me spin. You let me see new places, you clouded me and cleared me, you cut through me and reached in deep and redecorated my insides with barely a word. But when you cracked, when you went supernova on this little quiet galaxy, you burned right through me and exposed my insides to the elements. My outer glow was gone, my inner self was singed, and what I thought I was, I wasn't. It was like watching a plane crash. It was like I was a passenger who learned he was a pilot but couldn't stop the fall.

So what was it like to be the tiny crack that tore the engine off?

I know I'll never know what you were thinking, but I know I'll always wonder. I know I'll wake up and it will all have been a crazy dream, but I know I'll never shake this feeling that we're all not quite here. We're all shedding skins. We've all died in our sleep and we've all opened our eyes on the other side. We're all living on another new day, thousands of years from the last one. We'll never know the difference every time that the world ends. Here we are again. Where are we again?

Wherever you are today, whoever you are today, remember that we start again each morning and you're the one dreaming this up, so make it a good one, yeah? Do it for me, because I still remember the day you were the sun and the day I was the sky, and you owe me one, love, for letting you go. Whoever I am, whoever you are, let's get going before we all start all over again. Alright?

Alright.

Okay?

Okay.

[Aug. 9, 2011]
daniela Apr 2015
question is and always will be:
am i dead when my heart stops beating
or am i dead when everybody forgets about me?
do i matter because people tell me i do,
or do i matter because i say i do?
i think therefore i am, i over-think therefore i wish i wasn’t.
because existence is a tricky thing;
you don’t want to die but you’re too scared live.
and maybe it’s futile, and maybe it’s pointless
maybe i am struggling with
my gifts and curses, poems and verses,
looking for a meaning that just isn’t there.
and maybe it’s ironic,
how we waste our lives wanting to die
but just because you have
doesn’t mean you don’t ache for what you haven’t
and sometimes being grateful is hard
when you’re supposed to
and you know, this world, it’s rough all over
and everybody gets cut up at little.
nobody wants to grow old but nobody wants to die young.
i want to make a mark, but i know it’ll be forgotten.
and i don’t want my marks to be blemishes
and i don’t want my marks to be scars
and i don’t want my marks to be footprints on the beach
and maybe there’s no meaning,
and maybe there doesn’t need to be.
all i know is that most people don’t think that
the vastness of the universe is something
to tell bedtime stories to,
but i’d tuck myself in with the stars even after
they reminded me again how small i am in comparison.
so either i’m too stubborn or too smart to talk to god,
paint me anyway it fits
paint me any way the lighting hits
i am open for interpretation.
because you’re semi sweet and i’m completely bitter
you’ve got an altar i don’t know how to worship,
you’ve got faith in all kinds of things.
and i’m cynical, i’m altered,  
i’m ****** up in the best and worst ways.
i write poems just to keep my hands busy,
i write poems just to keep myself from writing eulogies.
and i know, what a ******’ contradiction
the dreamer who doesn’t believe in anything.
i am the only one inside my head,
so would it be classified as a tragedy
if my dreams bled out with me?
nobody knows me like i know myself
and if i die then a library full of words crammed
inside dies with me, and dying young
is only a shame if you had something to live for.
maybe i am the end and beginning of my own legacy.
i don’t know about our ghosts and past lives
lurking behind our eyes, i don’t know
if you’ve got somebody else’s smirk on your lips
or if i’m loving you out of a second-hand heart.
but i think, but i like to think
that while my bones may be borrowed,
matter not destroyed or created
just redecorated, that my soul’s not recycled.
but i’m not looking for a dictionary definition
sometimes we’ve got to stop and cut the ignition
before we crash like waves,
i’d rather going somewhere slow than going nowhere fast.
and it’s not like i’m a visionary,
it’s not like i’m even really much of a poet;
i’m just a ******* kid with a thesaurus
and too **** much to say.
and i’m trying to tell you a lot of things,
but i don’t know how to phrase anything.
so maybe we’re old souls
and maybe we’re brand new,
maybe i’m borrowed and maybe you’re blue.
and maybe it’s all random and maybe it’s all planned out,
and maybe fate is for suckers
and dreamers drowning naïvety
and maybe fate is all we have.
maybe we’re looking at the world through
totally different lenses
but maybe somehow we’re seeing
the same things.
hey i was in a poetry slam today and i was a finalist which was like what?? but either way i'm uploading the poems i read, life is cool and scary and worth it. (although this is the version of this poem WITH profanity in it)
Bell works Dec 2014
At the touch of a button,
flick of the finger,
swip of the screen,
I can know more than the generations before me could.

I'm exposed to people I could never hope to meet,
their thoughts and feelings condensed to numbers and words on a screen,
introduced to so many thing that i've never seen before.

I'm so overwhelmed by how the world is turning,
suddenly conscious of my own failings:
the homophobic uncle, the sexist teacher, the racist childhood television show.

The shame creeps in and there is no stopping it,
what I built myself up on has eroded as the new world is redecorated in glass and chrome.

I have friends I don't respect anymore, and films I refuse to watch.
Natural disasters and catastrophes are reduced to hashtags, people you've never met can tell you that you're too tall, too short, too fat, too thin.

The digital revolution has already begun, and there is no turning back.
I am exposed, developed, and forever changed for better and for worst.
It's a fact I find hard to accept, so I blame my service provider.
Lori Mack Sep 2018
Shedding

I'm shedding you see.
Soon you will not recognize me.
There are many changes,
I used to flee.
But now I am free.
Redecorated the old me.
I'm shedding you see.
Wait til you see the new me.

Lori Mack
5/19/18
Growth I've gone through.
Hailey Piper Jul 2018
I’ve not yet found home within myself,
astray in a place so dark and hollow.
Redecorated my insides,
still my heart does not follow.
My veins are filled with poison
and my teeth are turning yellow.
flesh plastered in scars,
the only company I have are my demons and sorrow.
The lights need mending,
and the engine has to go.
My soul requires burnishing,
maybe I’ll feel at home tomorrow.
Lucy Michelle Nov 2015
When my mother dropped me off at the airport
She said, I hope that you find your home
This one is tired and bent at the edges
And it doesn't suit you well
I walked and flew and slept all across the universe
But then I remembered... I know where my home is
My home is walked into the paint-stained carpets of dorm hallways where we taught international students how to curse in English
My home is under the napkins in greasy spoon diner tables where my godfather winked across at me
It's somewhere between the white and the blue in the waves of the ocean
Inside one or both of my headphone earbuds
Under the bark of a eucalyptus tree
Inside the box of waxy crayons on my lap during road trips
Caught like a stone in the treads of the tire of the wood-sided Jeep my father gave me
Buried under a tree in the backyard, with the goldfish and the pet mice
In between the keys of my piano and the keys to my first dorm, first house
In the sunlight through the window panes of my room in San Fransisco
And hanging off the roof with the geckos in Indonesia
It's feeling scared in the school library and at senior prom and in empty alleyways
It's the empty park nine thousand miles away from my mother
Where I whispered to the birds that I wanted to go home
Because I knew no one else would listen.
It's in the scissors that gave me blisters
When I redecorated our house by hand
And the tears I hid from my brother
While I turned up the thermostat to warm his icy soul.
A lot of it is stuck on the roof of a hospital room
Staring up wishing to disappear
Some of it is in my father's bones
And his misty eyes when they started to show
Home is in my best friend's bed
We didn't have our health but at least we had each other
It's my favorite space between the top bunk and the bottom bunk
Where secrets hang like candle smoke
It's the words of a book I haven't written
And the pages of one I don't want read
It's here, it's now, it's etched on my skin
It's me, it's him, it's somewhere far ahead
I don't know what it looks like but I know it will be there.
ScarletLetters Apr 2015
Part I: My Temple

The house has been burgled,
The furniture rearranged,
The bookcase is burning,
The contents in flames.

The ground is not stable,
The stairs are not steady,
It’s time to go they said,
But I am not ready.

It is safe inside,
Warm and detached,
The fire is raging,
But I can’t move I’m attached.

They took what was mine,
They stole who I was,
We tried to find reasons,
But just because…

The weight of my world
Rises up with the smoke,
The rooms hold the lies,
That secrets provoke.

It’s fading away,
Consumed by the flame,
It’s lost itself
But who can I blame?

The house is eaten,
The fire licks it clean,
I tell myself I will wake up,
That this is just a bad dream.

I didn’t think they’d notice,
My house burning down,
But little did I know,
It was the talk of the town.

I stand at the door,
All that’s left is the frame,
The inside is wreckage,
The exterior is the same.

Its heart is slowing down,
Brittle bones are breaking
Skeletal and fractured
It falls apart, shaking.

Part II: The Wilderness

Out here
On the road,
I’m completely
Lost
Signs telling me where to go,
But I trust myself most
The alarm rings of disillusionment and denial
That wakes up my neighbours,
Yet I don’t notice.

I turn down pleasure pathways,
Each one connected to another,
They stimulate desire.
The road backwards is blocked,
I concentrate on what's ahead
My only way is forwards,
So I can begin to run.

Part III: Rebirth

My house is being rebuilt and ever so slowly the bricks are stacked,
The windows are replaced and the cement is set.

But some damage is permanent.
There’s cracks,
And there’s scars.
Electricity rewired
Forcing life where there is none,
Repairing the circuit,
Pumping blood through the veins,
So I can live in the house again
Temporarily affecting the artificial happiness.

The flower grow and makeup the trees
I paint on the outside a sunshine yellow,
I open the curtains to enjoy the view
I restack the shelves with new books
With fresh bindings and different stories.

Yet it can’t help but remind me of the past,
All that has been and has gone,
At last it is almost done.

Part IV: Divine Intervention

A year has circled,
Memories in every alley and lane,
I’m back to the days when it all began,
My past normal is my present insane.

I ran further than I realised,
I wanted to leave my town,
I buried myself in sadness
Further and further down.

Many don’t want to visit,
They’re afraid of all that has been,
Afraid that my house is unstable,
They can’t see what I’ve seen.

But I came back to look clearly,
To live out my days in my home,
My family visit me,
I am back from being alone.

It all feels more homely,
The garden colourfully thrives,
I have redecorated it completely,
Only goodness survives.

My temple could be inherited,
Maybe by a child or two,
But I won’t let them fall,
I know exactly what to do.

So the decay of the house will always be with me,
Despite ashes swept away,
But now that I am back again,
I am here always to stay.
lkdl May 2015
I get out,
And it's dark,
I can hear her whispering.
The darkness sheds,
And my heart seems to fade,
With each step I make,
Her shadow follows me,
I can't escape.
Where's my light?
I come home,
And she's redecorated the house again.
The rooms look the same but are rearranged,
Or do they look different but still in the same space?
I can feel her sink in and embed herself in my skin,
And I try to take a shower,
And I try to scrub as hard as I can to wash her away,
And I can feel my body cry and scream,
Telling her to leave,
As if depression could leave when you asked for it to leave,
But she just stays.
She stays.

And with my final words,
I tell her,
"Depression, please go away."
Kelly Apr 2015
To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 6:37PM
Hi. It's been awhile,
just, uh, checking in...

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 6:41PM
I still think of you--of us, our friendship.
I'm sorry we drifted apart; I'm
sorry for being carried off by other waves
and leaving you ashore

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 6:57PM
Tear-stained pillows,
a layer of clothes covering the carpet...
I guess you can say I've redecorated
since the last time we hung out? Haha

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 7:09PM
How do you do it?
How can you possibly
reach inside my chest and
squeeze my ******* heart
so tight it nearly bursts
just by making eye contact??

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 7:11PM
*******!!!!!!!!

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 7:20PM
I miss you so much
I don't even know what to
do anymore

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 7:21PM
Please come back into my life
please be my friend again
please please please

To: You; From: Me
4/10/15, 7:30PM**
Hi.
Lewis Bosworth Jun 2018
The alleyways of Ann’s arbor – a
reminiscence of myriad trips from
Lisboa to Cascais with stops at
the green lawns of the palace of
a desceased Portuguese nobleman.

Nine trips to the same country –
a welcome yearly journey to a
welcoming country – Portugal –
my gift to him, for his gift of
love to me, obrigado, T.

A bell tower decorating the campus
sky – under the stately protection of
a graduate universe – was home to
languages sought and tended to
reverently in their own building.

Across the diagonal heart of the
sunstruck pagan centerpiece –
libraries and hothouses cast their
shadows on the pedestal of the
flagpole, in its trite austerity.

The halls of the new residence
greeted a swarm of newly coined
experiments – immune from the
15 credits of drills visited on the
typical first-year initiates.

The typical pie chart had three
pieces – logic & language, frosh
seminar and foreign language –
a fourth piece could be elected,
and was, from a vast menu.

It was I, the almost doctoral kid,
who swept up the remnants of
French vocab and grammar for
the required classes needed to
be proficient by college rules.

I, who lamented his freedom, yet
came to classes – more than one –
fettered by guilt, if not burdened
with book-writing and admin tasks
which violated the Ph.D. goal.

That first class was a thrill per
conjugation and realia – nothing
was too much for the college –
and my recollection is of
a no-holds-barred classroom.

Only once before had I broken
a rule that then wasn’t even of
consequence – the post-grades-
turned-in frivolous date with
an ex-student, a male.

Language classes were not graded
in the college – so there was little
to dissuade the profs from an
up-front, public display of college
camaraderie – call it tutorials.

She was the perfect fit – a well-
educated daughter of a diplomatic
family – with manners, looks and
wit – and no apparent frosh
baggage to taint our time.

I think back, those fifty years ago,
of her as an exceptional friend, a
lovely, soft and caring woman –
a female who actually cared what
I thought, and liked my friends.

The recently redecorated college
halls greeted us with grace on this,
the fiftieth anniversary of inception –
I recognized my former colleagues
and students, wrinkles and all.

We said our names to each other –
as if they were fake news or as
if we wanted verification of the
physical existence of the elder
person standing face-to-face.

Then I made a necessary walk –
my walker and I – to the couch
in the lounge area, where I could
not resist asking about him – her
erstwhile boyfriend of the 60s.

Names, dates – more or less –
came to both of us – she knew
more than I about many men
who shared our lives – It was
my turn, then hers to recount.

Our college coterie was not
immune to the unacceptable –
there was Jay’s addiction, George B.’s
penchant for boys, my lunchtime
martinis, and bizarre Anita.

My forty-seven years were a
predictable journey – what else
do non-***** French teachers
do? – she a surprise package,
at least to me, a cause for envy.

These two lives joined only by
memories – the symmetry of
years together, and the unknowns
of years apart – except the names:
Chuck, Tom R., Mark, and Tom W.

The agenda called us back to our
raison d’ être – the need to go to
the next session, event, meal, etc.
We met at Stephen’s limnal space
crossing, and I went to hear music.

There were so many college “sardines”
seated at round tables at the festive,
closing dinner, that our meeting up
was almost accidental – she and I
both trying not to waste a moment.

In the days that followed our abrupt
goodbye, I spent trying to relive this
unique couple that she and I were –
student/teacher? Only briefly –
lay minister/clergyperson?  Yes.

But denominationally different and
worlds apart in miles, would a couple
of onetime friends – forget titles –  
now share their lives in a modest way
or drift apart forever?

We are technocrats, so the business
of staying together rests on electronic
mail – or phone numbers scribbled
on a napkin – hence I shudder at the
loss of a treasure such as she.

I cannot know the outcome – the
marriage of minds is complex,
especially for two aging ones –
but I am a hoper who takes his
clues from above.

A favorite author writes of “ghost
spots” –  staring out from my world
to her world – “Remember the way?”
I look her in the face and say:
“Call me by your name.”  Please.

© Lewis Bosworth 12/2017
Mp's and peers will have to be relocated,
the houses of Parliament are to be
redecorated

I'm calling on Crusoe
to get this second rate show
onto his island for an extended
run.

The country's gone to the dogs
too many wheels and
not enough cogs.
because during a world crisis we British have to decide what colour curtains we should hang.
Odd Odyssey Poet Oct 2023
The dark marksman it was,
blew an arrow into the chest of the world
Piercing it, marking it with the numbers
it had perceived added up to it's worth.

6 ties into tying so many to their sin,
but it had been redecorated as, "us practicing free-will"
6 of their artifacts that attracted the eyes of so
many; many of which who prayed to He is one and many
6 of the sons to dance circles around a bleeding world,
the blood of innocence, used to block out the sun.

It wasn't a dream,
but still I could have dreamt of it's unstoppable omen
In the likeness of it's raven's eye
-all was black as the night such a bird only sees
Birds made of black filled the sky of day,
turning it into night. Looking closely;
it wasn't birds, but the fallen angels no longer flightless.

Bathed in the likeness of a hopeful day,
I learnt it was a river of blood drowning the
souls of every child lost in a darkness of no end
I could not see their faces, but I could taste that
all were afraid. As the appetite of destruction, filled
the belly of a beast,- but it roamed the world still hungry
As you could never see it above your head; as it's worshipers
plucked one of their eyes out, to witness their godlike master.

And if you never learnt how to pray in
the beginning; you'd never know what words
to cry out when you're feeling lost & desperate in the end.

But I doubt enough would even listen,
no, no, the message varied to be just an opinion
As the words became twisted by the tongues
of people who were lukewarm and unsalted Christians.
-a tongue twister; the words of false prophets
the words keen to your ears, and hands that take your profits.


               None could see, that we needed to be
                        saved from such a world, saved by the Lord.

BTW Jul 2021
5 in the morning
4 July 2021

She’s still in bed, sleeping hard night,
On her computer, straining her sight.
Shopping internet for a port side mirror.
Sleeping peaceful, I won’t stir her.

I have music blaring, saucy and bright.
Tango, salsa, waltzing light.
Love my mornings, sunrise in sight.

Redecorated my room, like la fishing boat.
Picture bathroom wall, anxious to float.
Years held its wooden side, bright colors short and wide.
Cod and salmon, no place to hide.

Would love to see him, dripping raincoat and hat,
Net in hand, firm, like a baseball bat.
Wonder how long each day he sat.
Would love to see him, just like that.

Whisker and glasses on his chin and nose,
Overalls, boots, plaid shirt clothed.
Found this gem in the garden store,
Long way from that Maritime shore.

Decorating missed a spot or two,
Lights still hanging, love it, will do.
Threw out the brushes, rollers too.
Toilet leaked, but now it’s fixed,
Ready for that old man’s trick.

Shelves ready to fill with my junk,
Tools back in the garage, big thump.
Looking for a light over the tub.
Broke the one was most night’s hub.
Soap, warm water, there I lazed,
Loved those nights, and simple days.
“Rub a dub rub”, poem says.

This morning, awake and vigored,
No hangover from last night’s liquor.
Guitar strumming on my mobile phone.
5 in the morning, dancing at home.
Rowing my boat like a sailor, alone.

— The End —