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Stephan Jun 2016

Many, many years ago
When the earth was new
There lived a lovely butterfly
Her wings of brightest blue
Everyday was happy
As she fluttered all around
Visiting each precious bloom
Each garden they were found

Till one day by courier
A message she received
The news was far from happy
The words caused her to grieve
Her mate was lost in battle
It broke her fragile heart
Never more would there be joy
Her world was torn apart

To show her grief she slowly
Removed her precious wings
Discarded everything she loved
The memories they bring
Then wrapped about her body
In a way to show her grief
A drab cocoon of teardrops
Then sat in disbelief

She could not eat, could not sleep
Her sadness did abound
So worried was her family
They often came around
Not to be a burden
She packed her simple things
Rolled them in a bundle
As well, her precious wings

She took off on a journey
As every day was kept
A map of where she traveled
By every tear she wept
The sadness so consuming
Her head she held so low
Downcast eyes the path she took
A heart that’s beating slow

Crossing creeks and valleys
What ever she did meet
Touching each and every stone
Beneath her tiny feet
Around the world she traveled
Her journeys filled in length
For many days and many months
Running short of strength

About to end the story
Her broken heart near death
She prayed for time to hurry
Her last and final breath
For love had left her being
Wandering alone
That day her mate did breathe no more
The message she was shown

When seemingly from nowhere
A beauty sharp and sweet
A stone now lay upon the ground
Below these tired feet
Though different was this relic
Such beauty not concealed
The loveliness this stone possessed
Her sorrow slowly healed

It lay as a reminder
That ugliness might play
But found within this sorrow
Some beauty was displayed
And then her eyes did open
The perfect shade of brown
When then she noticed wonders
Were waiting to be found

Like diamonds in the river
A perfect flower’s bloom
So happy had she now become
She cast off her cocoon
Shook the dust from on her wings
The brightest color blue
Put them on and offered thanks
This chance at life anew

She danced the dance of butterflies
And spread her story wide
To family and friends alike
The truth she did confide
In loss there will be sorrow
But life is just a time
Remember but the good you had
And you will be just fine

In everything is beauty
All that you will see
Whether in the rising sun
Or stones beneath your feet
Always find the goodness
It lies before you eyes
I promise you’ll find happiness
When you realize

So dance with me this morning
Spread your fancy wings
Follow me this summer’s eve
And see the joy it brings
If ever you feel sorrow
Don’t forget the chance
Gives thanks to all the good you have
And let your spirit dance
Sorry, I know it's long.
Rahul Luthra Jan 2014
Wrath, greed, gluttony, lust, envy, sloth and pride
Commit any one and in Hell you shall reside
The Seven Deadly Sins are something everyone fears
I'd lose it to if I woke up and found myself looking at Satan's leer
The venial sins are the committed guilt whose punishments are relatively minor
You do not completely lose touch with the One Up Higher
A more severe punishment is received if one commits a mortal sin
The guilty are condemned in Hell after death and are lashed on their shin
A proud look can ruin your face
A lash of a chain or get struck from a mace
A lying tongue can get it cut off
You'd choke blood out every time you cough
Hands that shed innocent blood will be cut too
No hands! How do you expect yourself to use the loo?
A heart that devises a wicked plot
Will get back stabbed by his right hand man and receive a head shot!
Feet that are swift to run into mischief
Will be stuck in quicksand which will make your body stiff
A deceitful witness that uttereth lies
Will get eaten by the wolf when no one believes his cries
Him that soweth discord between brethren
Will soon be outcast by the witty hen
Lust is described as an intense desire
But what seems like a huge pit of money is actually a huge pit of fire
Gluttony is over - consumption of anything to the point of waste
The cobra pit awaits those selfish people who fill in when in haste
Greed is applied to rapacious desire and pursuit of material possession
Being bound and laid face down on the ground is the only way you'll learn your lesson
Failing to develop spirituality is the key to becoming guilty of sloth
The punishment is to run at top speed and never slow down, not even to wipe away your froth
Wrath is love of justice perverted to revenge and spite
A mission to avenge may be your last fight
Envy is characterized by an insatiable desire
Gaining pleasure from seeing others brought low; the correct punishment is having your eyes sewn shut by wire
Pride is love of self, perverted to hatred and contempt for one's neighbor
Penitents are burdened with stone slabs hung on their necks forever
Lucifer's desire to compete with God is an example of pride
He fell from Heaven and transformed into Satan and now in Hell he does reside
Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy is a sinful epic
It explains everything about sins and is the most notable relic
nicholas ripley Mar 2010
I’m walking up hilltop, two men pass, one says,
'**** the French, they never have the bottle for a fight’.

To have got here they passed the old Cathedral.
Did they glimpse it as a relic - exploded by incendiary,
ostracised in dubiety, seen fit to feature
only in the focus and snap of foreign tourists?

It is two days before Ramadan. Tonight Tornados
will tear between the Euphrates and Tigris
to illuminate Babylon... live on CNN.

At the top of the hill I pause,
staring at stained glass fragments
still suspended in the apex of frames
and view snacking office workers,
seated upon the benches that have replaced the pews.
(C) Nicholas Ripley December 1998
I fret torpidly in my lair;
Your scent is around, but I've seen nobody.
'Tis sordid about me, with rolls of dutiful smoke—
and unleashed winds growling about unseen.
Beside me here stands a perfect mirror, a perfect glass,
But nothing seems imperative, nor talkative, nor patient;
Everything is just silent—what a robust fear—foolish impediment.
Ah, if only can I fast **** this petulant temperament—
do you think I shall feel better, or magnified?
I feel that myself is like a wind:
Thin, fragile, and constantly diving and swelling upwards.
Even my narrative is about to betray me;
Vehemently indeed—should this happen,
I might be able no more to write any poetry—
As my chest above there hysterically bellowed, I shall be pushed upwards—
Upwards, upwards, I am curling upwards—like we all naturally are,
Over the earth, along the oceans, and their sample images of Paradise;
Every single day, at noon, and against this midnight sky.
 
My darling has left, and thus I have but Him in my shabby hands;
With skin marred and scratched and dried by the rude winter;
Ah, say, but who says that winter is clever and polite?
Like my love perhaps is, she is but a relic—or even statue, of blunt disgrace—
She is neither merry nor cordial; she never is aromatic, and flaws us with its brutal haze.
 
I am alone, alone, alone, and totally alone—
O my love, my love, my love, where can I peruse
your felicity just once more?
I have but loved thee all along;
I love thee as magnificently and preciously
as I loved thee one year back and yesterday.
You are my purplish, reddish, greenish, but incompatible moon,
You are comparable still, to the joyous soul of this stained poem;
by whom my love has thrived, by whom I can always replenish.
I shall rise you again within my dreams;
I shall face myself within your sour vapour—but never let you fade.
I shall let you halt my paint, and brush dirt upon it;
I shall let you scatter your grossness over me, and acquire even your sins;
But as long as you are there, over me, I am not scared but keen;
I shall not be mesmerised, nor even heart be broken and pained.
May my heart break, so long as it has its consolation floating by.
 
Ah, and who, beside this breakable moon—can claim my erupt forth;
To comfort my sleep and give solace to my shrieking doors;
And throw unheeded calm into my quiet walkways;
While looking me in the eyes as we step sideways.
Who can ambush my chest along this hairy path;
With a charm far stronger than yon behind the grass;
Who can heal me, and who can heal me not,
Ah, have I but still the courage to make this right?
I shall look for you again amongst the city roars and rumblings;
I shall look for you again in the mornings—and amongst the bleakness of evenings.
 
Look, my love, how the rainbows have a turquoise face today;
So beautifully crafted and charted like the skies of yesterday;
I should fall asleep now, but still—I don't want to be lulled alone without you;
Even though you are faraway, I can still feel your breath and air.
Your absence, as I hope then, shall fast perish;
For I want to grow old not by the countenance of miseries.
I want to be injected into your space now—as maelstroms of sleeps greet me again,
And as the clouds of heaven start to feed on me;
I shall feel light again, and thereby not turn grey;
I shall feel that you have welcomed me back;
I shall feel your breath tingling by the sides of cheeks;
I shall feel my hairs anew—as they raise against the corners of my neck.
 
And there we shall play together against the sky;
Against its pedal who anew blooms in wan suspicion;
Ah, my love, I shall entangle you then—in my varied, and multiplied visions;
I shall tell you the funniest of one thousand lies.
I shall give you only the finest of kisses, and jokes;
I shall startle you by my poem and my beautiful black locks.
Ah, thee, to you whom I have written this poem, and shall always do;
To you whom I have loved, and have to this day admired;
To you for whom a forest of grace and salutations has been dreamed;
To you for whom my heartbeat grows, and fastens and slows,
To you for whom I woke up today, and open my eyes tomorrow;
 
To you whom I have loved in the name of Him;
To you for whom I lit the glitters of the sky;
To you for whom my heart was startled and passed justly by;
To you for whom my palms sweated and eyes started to cry;
 
To you for whom griefs disperse into brighter saturations;
To you for whom life continues, and gives birth to more immediate sparkles;
To you for whom I have celebrated my soul; and made one true promise;
To you by whom I have halved my heart, and without whom shall never 'come the same anew;
 
To you for whom all favours are spelled, and words dedicated;
To you for whose grins I shall wait again forever;
To you whose eyes are darker than the midnight river;
To you by whom my belief shall stay strong, and consciously devoted;
 
Ah, you, my love, so this remorse shall fall over me and back again,
With creases I curse, and remarks that my ruined chest censures;
Abhorred by the moon, and its very own celestial abode—
Which shakes and stretches along the crimson universe,
I have thrown my life into your horizontal, and longitudinal spectrums—
In both superficial and artificial ways, you have haunted me.
Ah, but still—cannot I erase your name from the fruit of every essentiality;
You are the sweet tyranny of my soul, and the leaves of my very gay sensibility;
You are the throne of my love; you are the specified satire—
though but funny and not—you are my destiny.
 
Like a vinyl birch tree that howls when stabbed, I have become your prey;
I shall wait for you at dawn and give my whole self to you at dusk.
I shall wait for you to claim my destined—and prescribed heart;
I shall wait for you to finish your abominable task,
As long as you can emerge for me—and listen to my poems and follow what I say.
 
And like a scar that stays for long in one's fair skin;
You are stubborn though things not go well;
Ah, let's now confess that your heart needs me;
But still—you are too proud, and far too docile, to admit your sin.
The question now is: how should we ever eradicate love?
Love is a prison, I know, and it is the most unforgiving jail;
It is merciless and painted by colours of abomination;
And nothing in it is plentiful—like Him in the shivering sky;
It is where tears crowd and gather—as I have perused;
It is where insolence and crudeness unite—even when not provoked.
 
Ah, my love, but have I fallen into this snare of love—whether or not I want it;
And your gaze is still the sole sweetness I hope to meet;
Never is my love sweeter—or petite, than a grain of wheat;
You are the foreverness for whom I shall sweat;
 
And in the loss of you lies my venomous assassination;
And I am wary now—and afraid of facing this everlasting trepidation;
Your shadows shall never go away, and for this I can be wronged;
For when I am dying—shall my mouth be falling asleep and recite your song.
 
My art has torn; it has been filthily murdered.
Its fervour was lost in, as you saw, just one wave of scenic mortality—
But still, the true essence might still be there, as it was once fertilised—
As by you, my Imagist, my Wilde, I was terrifically astonished by you.
You are my painting, my picture, and even the shared portrait of my self.
You share my veins, as how I supposedly hold some share of your blood.
Ah, and I remember now, how your warm blood did once touch my wrists—
So engagingly, so thrillingly, so brilliantly.
My heart, my head, my mind—all were brutally consumed by thee.
 
I want to die by thee, but you pierced my heart—
and in brief, made my spine grow dead tears;
Everything grew worse and I was manifested into your bitter triangle;
I was your lonesome moon who got forgotten soon;
Ah, it seems that yon French lady is better than I am—
With her curly hair and tittering oceanic eyes,
She was the filter of your noons, the storms
And devilish desires of your nights.
She was as gusty and spooky as the windblown thorn;
poisonous were her words, but still, you carried yourself to her.
I fretted and screamed and my blood gurgled—
but I guess I was fortunate still;
for I had the chance to keep myself pure and chaste
while you unstoppably sinned and defiled yourself.
So you were disgraced.
 
And you were enduringly consumed by your own fires;
The fires to which you confined yourself;
Not the calming, sooting, leafy bonfires we use in winter;
but ones you will also greet in the earth after.
Ah, thee, I felt but disgust towards your molested heart and deeds;
You grew for yourself, instead good ones—sick, avoidable seeds.
At that time, I swore to never ever share any more of my blood with you;
I would looked for one more honest, playful; one decorated with more virtues.
 
But still—as I said before,
I have again decided to sit and pray for you.
While my love for the other is not true;
It has faded and you are irreplaceable still;
You are congested, invalid, and not new;
But should you come back again to me;
I shall receive you with open hands
And one seal of heartfelt goodwill.
Ah, my love, look at the smiling heavens above—
As night deepens and snowfalls come low,
I shall think and think again about our postponed love—
Which, perhaps—though happens not amongst the jumble of this juvenile night,
Shall come again when dusk is cleared, and the first bud of spring leaps into sight.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Strange Currents
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O Khusrow, the river of love
creates strange currents:
the one who would surface invariably drowns,
while the one who surrenders, survives.

There are a number of translations of this poem, and they all involve some degree of interpretation. I can't claim that my interpretation is "correct" and sometimes poets are intentionally ambiguous. I based my translation on this explanation by Madhu Singh: “Ubhra-Floats: He who floats actually sinks (is lost) & and he who drowns actually reaches the other side (gets salvation).” In other words, one must stop struggling and surrender to the river of love. And this makes more sense to me than some of the other translations do.

###

Becoming One
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I have become you, as you have become me;
I am your body, you my Essence.
Now no one can ever say
that you are someone else,
or that I am anything less than your Presence!

###

I Am a Pagan
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I am a pagan disciple of love: I need no creeds.
My every vein has become taut, like a tuned wire.
I do not need the Brahman's girdle.
Leave my bedside, ignorant physician!
The only cure for love is the sight of the patient's beloved:
there is no other medicine he needs!
If our boat lacks a pilot, let there be none:
we have god in our midst: we do not fear the sea!
The people say Khusrow worships idols:
True! True! But he does not need other people's approval;
he does not need the world's.

*****-e-ishqam musalmani mara darkaar neest
Har rag-e mun taar gashta hajat-e zunnaar neest;
Az sar-e baaleen-e mun bar khez ay naadaan tabeeb
Dard mand-e ishq ra daroo bajuz deedaar neest;
Nakhuda dar kashti-e maagar nabashad go mubaash
Makhuda daareem mara nakhuda darkaar neest;
Khalq mi goyad ki Khusrau but parasti mi kunad
Aarey aarey mi kunam ba khalq mara kaar neest.

###

Amir Khusrow’s elegy for his mother
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wherever you shook the dust from your feet
is my relic of paradise!

###

Paradise
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

If there is an earthly paradise,
It is here! It is here! It is here!

Amir Khusrow (or Khusro) was born in 1253 A.D. in Patiyala, India, His paternal ancestors belonged to the nomadic tribe of Hazaras. Khusrow called himself an Indian Turk (Turk-e-Hind). He was a Sufi mystic, musician, poet, composer and scholar who wrote in Persian (Farsi) and Hindavi (Hindi-Urdu). Khusrow has been called the “Voice of India” and the “Father of Urdu literature.” He introduced the ghazal to India and made significant contributions to its development. He also wrote in other musical and verse forms, including qawwali, masnavi, qata, rubai, do-baiti and tarkib-band.? Keywords/Tags: Amir Khusrow, Khusro, India, Urdu, Hindi, Farsi, Sufi, ghazal, love
kaija eighty Feb 2010
the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees
not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression
and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.

this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe
appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us.
kee no wahh she spits with conviction,
her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction
that keeps its ugly head low to the ground
in the backwater communities of
rural ontario and manitoba
and saskatchewan
and beyond.

purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck
and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat.
now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield
leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline
and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to
filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush
and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel
identical to the lining of my ****

so ask me how many children have been
stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs
and i'll stop making references to my ******
Deep below the surface
of a sea storm-tossed, frenetic
lies buried an ancient sailing ship
once bold but now pathetic.

Her rigging long since torn away,
her masts and canvas rotten,
naked bones alone remain
of sailors long forgotten.

She bore these brave adventurers
toward a brand new land.
She and they alike were cursed
never to reach a strand.

But if ye look more closely
at her shattered, mouldered deck,
ye'd find the priceless treasure here
hidden in every wreck.
This poem apppears with permission of the author
I love Carina's "Ancient Relict" so much that I couldn't leave it alone.  In my effort to clarify it, have I ruined it? BTW, her notes are as beautiful as her poem.  Don't miss them!  Feel free to keelhaul me if you think I've violated some taboo.  And, my hat is off to all of you brave souls who, like Carina, succeed at writing poetry in a foreign language!
Ijaazat Jul 2020
Blue eyes, ever so mysterious
Sealed lips,  always hiding a secret,
Red hair,  a dash of love when you run away from truth.


Joy shining in your eyes, laugh lines ever present,
Laughs escaping your lips as if it costs you nothing,
Hair playing with the wind like children with no worries



Eyes downcast,  shying away or guilty?
Lips smiling from here, frowning from there,
Hair,  half done up,  half swaying in the wind.



So tell me darling,  what are you? An open book or a relic written in God's own language?
brandon nagley Sep 2015
i.

(Pradip Chattopadhyay)
A man of many stories, letting out thy soul, love, and worries;
As thou giveth us tale's of faraway Land's.

ii.

(Angelina lopez)
Thou hast had it rough since thou hath joined, we art here to helpeth thee be happy and support thy voice, continue in love.

iii.

(Gary L)
Man like me of cell's, man of freedom's Bell's, a dear friend;
A brother to the end, and a speaker of truth in all fashion's.

iv.

(Mysterious ♈ Aries)
Nothing to compare to thee, thou art different than most;
To thee I raiseth a toast dear poetic, to thine openness and pen.

v.

(amiee)
Writing deeply of thine life, of all thing's wrong and right;
As a scholar of inspiration, a poetess of this nation, striking rich.

vi.

(Rainey Birthwright)
Rhymester of old fashioned polite, stylish bold and bright;
As the star's thou writeth upon,,dusk til' dawn.

vii.

(Pax)
From the land of the Philippine's, a tropical place so green;
Thy writing like coconut water clean, as mango juice supreme.

viii.

(Bill murray)
Comic to this site, speaking strange thought's from thine mind;
Though finely crafted is thine character and stance, Old shine.

ix.

(Packin' Heat)
Writing of kisses, reality, wishes, heartfelt aura's;
Untamed, flaming writing of amour' and flora.

x.

(Katie)
A wonder of oldened growth, gold Glow's from thy throat;
Word's relic, ancient, keep them like seen ghost's.

xi.

(Poetic T)
Poetic darkness, poetic scream's, I heareth and feeleth thy pain's;
Like rain thine jotting is intense, no money shalt buy thy sense.

xii.

(SPT)
Compassionate caring being, writing of displeasure, and pleasurable thing's; as thou art a Free willed spirit living beyond.

xiii.

(Cecil Miller)
A man who hateth plagiarism, with narrative's of truth;
A poet on the loose, not tied in some noose, unchained spirit.

xiv.

(Tommy Jackson)
From the land down south, writing for thine amour', and thy guitar, keepeth on with the rock and roll and love in thy house.

xv.

(beth stclair)
I've written for thee before, but thou art one of mine top inspirational being's, a novelist of heavenly thing's, dear friend.

xvi.

(Vicki)
I've written for thee to, thy tongue canst sure speaketh and groove; making melodies of thy living's, and daily giving's.

xvii.

(Impeccable Space Poetess)
A poetess indeed, spreading delightful poetry seed's;
As I prayeth thine hard time's shalt get better, this is thy letter.

xviii.

(Sourodeep)
Romantic of midnight deep, awaketh us from ourn sleep;
As thy word's we keep tucked under our cotton Pillow's.

xix.

(Arfah Afaqi Zia)
Writing word's of love of past and new, a supporter, one so true, I thanketh thee for all thou doth do, continue in light poet.

**.

(David Ehrgott)
Writing master of thy own argot, thou art honest to the government's scheme's and plot's, awaking all who hast forgot.

xxi.

(His Bad Girl ***)
Telling verse's of amour', opening to all thine yearning door;
Telling of amare on thine own shore's, continue to seeketh love.

xxii.

(Randolph L Wilson)
Speaking of sweet glory of Georgia and the south, of the peaches succulent to one's mouth, new thou art to h.p. welcome friend.

xxiii.

(Earl Jane Nagley)
Mine lover, mine queen, mine reality, mine dream, forever we shalt be, as thou art more than worthy, I thanketh thee for thy support, wonderful writer of Yahweh, to me thou art mine muse, mine angel of the celestial church, giver to mine birth, empress to mine search, ruby of mine shine, chalice to mine wine, hand of eternal time, O' how great thou art, O' how magnificent thou art!!!!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©H.p poets dedication
xxiv.

(Natalia mushara)
Thou hath hadst hardship to, continue on, keep going through;
Overcometh the bad and the rude, be thou, be thou oh poetess.

xxv.

(its gonna make sense)
Woman of the unknown, bringing on the 6th sense;
As in suspense thou leaveth us to readeth more.

xxvi.

(Elizabeth Squires)
Old fashioned designer;
Of poetry in its original form.

xxvii.

(Paige Pots)
Woman of the cross, continueth to preach Christ's word;
Scream it, bleed it, to those whom haven't heard.
Derelict, decrepit,
Just a waste of space
A relic from a different age
One who'd run the race

An eyesore
Gives the place a name
Represents a time long past
It's no longer in the game

A stiff wind would take it down
It's not worth a single dime
Take it down, demolish it
It's enemy is time

A single pane of glass is left
Cracked from side to side
In fact it's cracked the whole way through
As tall as it is wide

The others are all boarded
Keeping out nothing at all
The only thing the wood does
Is act as canvas to them all

Graffiti covers every space
That is left standing here
It used to be a factory once
That made a local well known beer

BUT ON THE OTHER SIDE....

Inside the building squatters sit
Derelicts, wastes of space
The building is their home for now
Away from the rat race

Eyesores, hidden in plain sight
Humanity at it's worst
That is the image given them
Because of addictions thirst

A stiff wind would take them down
So thin and frail are they
Protected by a building that
A storm could blow away

One side thinks it awful
The other, thinks it's good
An eyesore and a fragile shell
Of old bricks and glass and wood

But...for one plain window
Separating worlds apart
A crack runs through the window
It is the buildings heart.
Mike Arms Jan 2014
I sink sleeping
in the worst place
All the cameras
have instant action

The gunshots
are a weary book
what can't boil
is a dead hour

You bind coincidental
cramps with piety
killed before the tower
at the Exclusive
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i.

Off to Fuga island
Next to the pamalican;
Then to Bucas grande
In the turquoise shallow end's.

ii.

Next, the Mactan
Wherein the grain's art caramel tan;
Then to the land of Coran
And Cebu, where the shore meet's the dawn.

iii.

Hiding safely, on Bohol isle
There art tarsier, and thing's of wild;
Diogo islet next, an uninhabitable place
Me and mine Reyna shalt explore it, with tribal paint on face.

iv.

Off, to the great Santa Cruz
Ourn feet, in the pink corraline sand;
Zamboanga City, the southern region
Of this Filipino relic strand..

v.

Whilst next the Sangat
The western part of this expedition;
Whilst doing all this sight-seeing
It shalt be with mine Jane nagley, in earth's natural kitchen.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
A tarsier is a small furry critter in Bohol island... Also these are all Filipino islands if you guessed right lol all beautiful
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
.some sort of variation: the written and therefore... read... past and present making case... not so... easily... digested... and / or... marketed... when... encapsulated in a video... format... the written and the... much later... read... almost a colour... a pristine relief to masquerade... some sort of purple in a deepening plum of cherry... and giving it a name: burgundy... then again: that's also inquiring to ***** the "matter" with some plum... since when burgundy arrives... it's no maroon... hell no: concerning... fuchsia... burgundy and maroon are not... colour-statements... less... fluorescence... less... all that... otherwise... bothersome... haze and "jazz"...

i tried to sit through: mozart's magic flute...
being broadcast...
locktown: down down down...
          and somehow not out...
what's the half-terrible song
by falco...

   best known when cited by:
bloodhound gang....

i tried sitting through...
this... when genius meets "genius"...
this... one-time when german
took up... concerns for...
their expression of humour...
  the opera: singspiel... opéra comique...
the gods were somehow...
laughing: then... but fickle as they are...
i don't buy into either the joke
or... that... there's a somehow...
or this being... the classical:
           best kept: ortiface...
               rock me amadeus:
                 - 1782: marries constance...
     - 1784: mozart becomes a freemason
      - 1791: mozart composes the magic flute...

when did mozart compose the marriage of
figaro?                1786...
   the hidden depth of elevating
laughter...
        it's the magic flute... though...
but then... all this...
    verb-with-a-past-participle...
    to speak with a "future-past" presence
of a continuum:
              
  i tried sitting through mozart's magic
flute...
           but knowing the history...
this... wasn't... an ode to... the freemasons?
the magic flute is supposedly
magical than... first come first served...

papageno and the glockenspiel...
don quixote and the arrived at...
conquistador windmills...
                  
   i tried to sit through it...
i had to nip off to the bathroom
to play a game of "chess"
and *******...
because... as one has to...
check one's blood pressure...
check one's blood sugar level...
one just has to... *******...
whether there's a lover to be minded...
or... the taboo of *******...
or: inverted choc burning
the yeast buns via the oven
of ****!
                     this solo project:
this dodo project:
was always going to be...
an... irritating foundation stone
of: this is all modern...
the critique too...
hardly anticipating the norms
to be... antiquated and victorian...

          perhaps i couldn't sit through...
mozart's magic flute...
because... i just couldn't...
sit through... that sort of german best kept
secret: humour...
            
opera and the staging of humour...
i can somehow understand the...
solipsistic... autistic focus for stand-up...
comedy...
        singspiel... whenever that was
important...
           stand-up monologue humour
contra: the swizz cabaret...
        some variation of uncle voltaire...
and opera is her...
              loot...
   and all those... teasing at opera:
within the confines of: the suffix:
the opera-and-the-tics!
              
                kommen (sie) die stunde,
     die tag... die jetzt...
          eine jahreszeit...
                       besser gekleidet...

even when not living up to...
lye-v...
              canned laughter...
it's so vell Under's'tOOd...
          the jokes comes with a zeppelin...
and truance...
irritating sound...
the sound of a shattering of mirrors...
an irritating sound...
the sound of... biting fingernails...
an irritating sound...
    eating a ripe fruit like
it does resound...
performing oral *** on a ******...

            company on a tube...
relic of a journey...
  steppenwolf...
                 hessian bride... my most...
lacklustre improv. of retaining...
privy...
           commentary for...
thoese yet to be woken by...
           the... awaiting lost appetite for...
soap opera...
   clinging toward a kept...
routine... like brushing one's teeth...
which... opera per se...
isn't even... remotely... part of;

high-brow injustices of...
                          how will that make
you: yuppy-up...
leverage... a plateau... once more...
for me?
vaishax May 2015
Bound by the worldly verity
I look up to you with woe
You comfort me at times
When friends have turned foe

My love affair with you
Isn't like the rest
Cos a night with you
Puts all else to test

Your love is pensive
Unpretentious and rich
Takes me to paradise
No questions, no hitch

And when I lose myself
You lure me again
To a dose too many
With that ignorance you feign.

I wake up in relic
In awe and in lust
I know not this world, but you
In alcohol I trust!!
http://vaishax.blogspot.in/
anneka Jan 2014
I. You were thunder and I was lightning. For some reason a part of me always knew this, but never voiced it out. Your arm was around my shoulders and you were warm, radiating heat like the sun. And in some ways, you were my sun. It seemed that somehow I always managed to trip and stumble my way into your orbit, losing count of the number of times I fell into your warmth, into you. When you asked if I was frightened after you huddled close to me I lied and said yes, only to keep you by my side for just a bit longer, just a bit closer. That night we looked into each other's eyes and laughed through our tears, and in that moment I knew as long as I was with you, it was more than enough.

II. My fingers interlocked with yours. It was pitch black and I was terrified, the wind in my face and the moonlight dimly streaming through the trees. We had danced among the leaves and whispered secrets, but you had gone off first; darted in blind excitement towards the crowd in the main square. I screamed for you, an anxious, desperate and impulsive thing, goaded on by the looming shadows and still silence that echoed around the area. If I had blinked I would have missed it, your sudden appearance at my side with my hand in yours. You smiled, and somehow the night didn't seem so dark anymore.

III. It had been a year since, and none of us mentioned that day, the day that left us in ruins. You had smashed my heart against my rib cage the way poets slam poetry, and the tidal waves had washed us over with tears that the ocean couldn't hold. But you came for me, and in that moment I had forgotten; your face a vague image in my memory. Still, you came for me, relentless like the typhoons in august and the storms in december. You pushed and pulled and wormed your way back into my heart, your song a lullaby to my ears and your gaze, a blanket to my fears. I let you in again, I pushed you out again. You tried, You stopped, You tried again. We were quiet about it, but what we left unsaid spoke volumes.

IV. We are here now. It was beginning to fade before this, to become a passing memory. But I should have known better, and as always you knew before me. You had nothing more than a tired smile, but I saw myself in your eyes again, saw us again. The thunder and the lightning, the grass under our feet, the rain in our hair and our laughter that mingled and became one sound. Your warmth and my heart. In that moment I knew you could not and had not forgotten; it was a loud relic and an even louder memory. It was you. It was me. It was us, screaming from the bottom of our lungs into the air and fields like we did years ago, except now it was in our hearts and in our eyes; I love you. I love you. I love you.

(A.H.Z)
Collette Abatta Oct 2011
Their winter shadows, shrouded
Frozen freak statues
Part milk; a ****** virtual vision void

Snow Queen--bone fiend
My mother is beautiful
Her skin like blue wax
And grey ash
She sings a deep sleep
Singing though an aching forest

It's a riddle, you know
O, with my mind blanking out
So cold...sunlight dims
My bare limbs...I white out

....air so still...
Am
I
dead?
A museum relic laid open, pinned down

Eternity is a real thing
And Mother is a snow fiend.

The powdered white dream of me--
Somewhere, there is a tree crying
It's overgrown with crystal
(and frozen things shatter)

True time surges in:
A storm mauling everything
True time purges it--
All chaos, all icy knives
And wind-driven mist
Demon kissed paradise

My body is salted with pain
My body bathed in acid rain
Naked
Trembling
Cold stone
All alone

I am the woman of the iron lake
I awake, raw under a bitter sky
The moon is a still life tonight
Caught in an iron tree
Like a pearl of jealousy
1995-ish
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i

Her Bayanihan entity, maketh me Muni-muni in the dusk
Her Humaling for me is relishing, alleluia for her, wanderlust;
I wilt court her mine soon, so she shalt knoweth all is bona fide
I'll taketh her hand in courtship, pushing all the past hurt aside.

ii

I wilt Siping with her in the sugar, in the bowl she dip's her hand
I'll dip mine finger's as well deep inside, inside her mind of tan;
I'll draweth her name on cardboard, and use black marker to,
Like bairn's in yard's, with relic yarn, I'll connect to mine muse.

iii

And thus to be fused, from ourn electrical sensual Spark's
Naked in the world's view, just as actor's, playing the stage part;
Though tis no script, this page is written by ourn amorous desire
Indigenous bodie's, to light the torches, love HOTT, all sweet fire.

iv

Mango to be viscid, between me and her's succulent tang
Her arm's wrapped around mine neck, not letting go, she hang's;
She is Makisig in perfect perfection, wearing a domino mask
Ballroom style, she driveth me wild, her love tis free, not a task.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©あある じぇえん
Bayanihan- means a spirit of communal unity and cooperation in Filipino....
Muni-muni- means to think deeply or ponder in Filipino
Humaling- means extreme fondness.,..
Siping means - to lie down beside someone.
Makisig means well dressed way I used it, can also mean dashing and georgious in Filipino.... Enjoy!!!!!
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
--this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free, it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic
handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to.

It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.
Elm trees, low hills, a thin church steeple
--that gray-blue wisp--or is it? In the foreground
a water meadow with some tiny cows,
two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows;
two minuscule white geese in the blue water,
back-to-back, feeding, and a slanting stick.
Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow,
fresh-squiggled from the tube.
The air is fresh and cold; cold early spring
clear as gray glass; a half inch of blue sky
below the steel-gray storm clouds.
(They were the artist's specialty.)
A specklike bird is flying to the left.
Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird?

Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it!
It's behind--I can almost remember the farmer's name.
His barn backed on that meadow. There it is,
titanium white, one dab. The hint of steeple,
filaments of brush-hairs, barely there,
must be the Presbyterian church.
Would that be Miss Gillespie's house?
Those particular geese and cows
are naturally before my time.

A sketch done in an hour, "in one breath,"
once taken from a trunk and handed over.
Would you like this? I'll Probably never
have room to hang these things again.
Your Uncle George, no, mine, my Uncle George,
he'd be your great-uncle, left them all with Mother
when he went back to England.
You know, he was quite famous, an R.A....

I never knew him. We both knew this place,
apparently, this literal small backwater,
looked at it long enough to memorize it,
our years apart. How strange. And it's still loved,
or its memory is (it must have changed a lot).
Our visions coincided--"visions" is
too serious a word--our looks, two looks:
art "copying from life" and life itself,
life and the memory of it so compressed
they've turned into each other. Which is which?
Life and the memory of it cramped,
dim, on a piece of Bristol board,
dim, but how live, how touching in detail
--the little that we get for free,
the little of our earthly trust. Not much.
About the size of our abidance
along with theirs: the munching cows,
the iris, crisp and shivering, the water
still standing from spring freshets,
the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese.
EgoFeeder May 2013
Now I must arise into my excursion of monotony
to the house in which I had my first failed lobotomy
Spreading discrepancy with every turn of phrase;
admitting to all I had let happen in an ignorant daze

The path that I took was plagued with a hysterical hate;
Projecting morbid hallucinations in which my fear did correlate
Contrasting it's laughter and scolding into a chaotic static;
Converting my already dwindling humanity into an ancient relic

A once cowardly excuse of wasted life and shameful empathy;
had then unfolded into a twisted state of triumphant antipathy
I was within minutes of arriving at her front door step;
and my anxious contemplation had faded into an overwhelming id-tep

Shifting my last strand of innocence into an irreversible condition;
within a few moments i'd gained preference to this nefarious rendition
I felt as if I was becoming one with all uncertain depravity;
and the shrouded ******* that I pursued in the insanity

Enveloped by the sheer warmth and hideous anticipation;
Each pace I took closer added to the satisfaction of mal-intention
As the dwelling became visible atop the climbing horizon;
I could do naught but envision myself as the famous Charon

Preparing a mortal to be ferried across the river of death
Enlisting her into damnation - The honorable thief of breath
Dismembering the threads of life - diminishing  the ties of destiny;
Assigning myself as the baneful mortician of this worlds' incongruity!

As I approached the entrance I Realized the sun was bringing the morn;
Our god of life taking a front row seat to the sadistic scorn
Or, perhaps a sign to my victim to awaken and escape;
If that's the case i'll send her with haste into a restless dream-scape

What a rite this shall be - To cease all carnal sin with my own two hands!
Carving out every fragment of ageless sense from her untouched glands
With the lone witness to the dismemberment of her frail limbs;
My dagger!  And, the final conclusion of our deeds so grim!

And, Alas There I stood Suffocating on memory over the sleeping beauty;
hesitantly wondering how much sincerity lay within my duty
Could I have been coaxed into performing the work of a reaper?
If I substain from his commands - Could we brew a connection much deeper?

What an untimely moment to be having second thoughts;
She opened her eyes to witness the tears of her sympathetic Iscariot
The terrors she belched ripped the barrier of my relinquished sanity;
Taking hold of my mobility - slicing her from ear to ear with iniquity

Her cries of help began to gurgle in the back of her throat;
Spewing a slander of asphyxiation like a meaningless footnote
I couldn't bare to see her suffer in such an atrocious way;
So, I swiftly slit her neck and left her to decay

What has that audacious persuasion turned me into?
How did I commit something that I could never do?
When did I put on this scarlet blouse?
Who dragged me inside of this familiar house?
Rhiannon Clare Jan 2015
First, garlic.

Dig your nails into its flaking paper,
pink and beige like magnolia petals parched
in the gutter.
Peel back the skin and crush
the weighted bud
with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife.
It has been waiting for this.
The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board,
looks up at you like an old friend.
It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there

it will not be washed away, instead
it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring
letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister,
every light switch in the house.

The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan,
your grandmother's; it was never non-stick.
The stuck parts were always the best bit,
and so it goes,
the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots,
engineered over forty years.
Some were accidents. All were happy.
Yours were ambition-led experiments.
The thumbs in the brown recipe book
were never your thumbs,
the dried-out sedimentary edges
were never your mishaps
but still it is a bible of sorts,
providing answers but never asking questions.

Later after dinner when everything is cleared away
and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all
bring your fingertips to your nose
and inhale
the remaining relic of your meal,
a letter to yourself,
the end notes enduring but faint
now, lastly
lastly
garlic.
The Dedpoet Jun 2016
So you are
A phosphorescent relic,
A relic that spins together
Nights and mornings alone-
Spinning in the mind like
Perfect spiral in a landscape that
Overflows with your magnetic sphere.

And the orbit
Comes and goes,
From my eyes to a tear,
From a tear to the sky with blue
Waves of current that wallows
Where you were.

Hear me,
Fallen star of my night,
The whirlpool of your hair
In solar winds,
Deafening winds,
Heavy winds,
When your blue sun brings a storm
Whirling in magnetic memories
Hypnotic and joyous.

Speak, speak Pulsar,
When the earth recites your name,
Pulsar, cry for me,
With your esteemed Aura like a lost
Nebula
At the crest of the world,
Searching without finding.

     This is the hour,
Because your dead star
Still burns and makes light,
And it still shines
And someone,
Someone like me must see it.

      Pulsation in my ethereal being,
I believed in dark stars
But don't believe in reading those
I see,
Pulsar you were hope in the light,
And now a radioactive desire
Of my past.

Oh but we tore the night apart,
We constellated passions
And danced upon the penumbra
In the galactic sea.

     Begin again,
We can sail away on the moon,
Turn the world into a playground,
Begin again Pulsar
Within an orchestral sky.

    However you were gone,
A blue giant in a tiny galaxy,
And I was only a firefly,
No, not a firefly,
An ember of a fire that burned
Out a million miles away.
Ressurection of your light,
Wage the gravity towards me,
       And I say Pulsar,
I remember when we were in the same sky.

    You are the infinite memory,
Your lies smell of Heaven and nothing
Else,
And you are a reflection on the horizon
Of the sea,
The glimmer of my yesterday.

      The sky will open
     And the sea shimmers,
       The moon moans,
     Pulsar, sweet memory ,
Magnetosphere of my pain.
I remember my lost love.
At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first ****

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,

the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;

deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town.  A rooster gloats

over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,

over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,

making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:

glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,

each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"

Each screaming
"Get up!  Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled

"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,

cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that ****** beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,

and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

and what he sung
no matter.  He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

with his dead wives
with open, ****** eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.


St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;

of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."

Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, ******* raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
a little **** is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,

explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits.  Poor Peter, heart-sick,

still cannot guess
those ****-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran

there would always be
a bronze **** on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see

that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince

all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding

from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?

gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,

the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The ***** are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.
Argentum Feb 2015
oh look
a smiley face--
I didn't expect
such blatant cheerfulness
in so gloomy a place

where did it come from?
is it a relic of better times,
of a time when there was
less grief
and people smiled
because they were happy to
be here?
Or did someone
who ached for
something better
idly leave their mark?
if the latter
I would like to
shake this rebel's hand
and ask them
how to survive the madness.

what happened to us
the seemingly solid life we led
melted and blurred
like crayons left
in the heat
I grasp at anything I can
but nothing is solid enough
to pull myself up with
I shall fall off the precipice shortly
so I'm glad
not everyone has been
dragged down yet.
Marla Feb 2019
Humanity and it's legacy
Forever immortalized
In the cosmos
By a metallic structure
That couldn't hold a single person.

The sounds of our home,
As tremulous as they may be,
Are left to echo quietly
Through the grooves
Of our planet's most sacred relic:
A shiny artifact made of that
Which glitters softly in
The eternal night.

Whether or not it shall ever
Be looked upon again
Remains to be seen,
But one thing is for certain:
Though we may die
And every planetary body
That we know may follow,
Our solar system will forever
Live on
Through the modest craft
That shall never perish,
Even in the darkest of nights.

From our sacred ground,
We launched it into the stars
To endure a boundless eternity.
Venturing into the unknown
To preserve humanity's light
Until the end of
Time.
I

I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels,
Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator
Laying my ghost in metal,
The scales of this twin world tread on the double,
My half ghost in armour hold hard in death's corridor,
To my man-iron sidle.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels,
Bright as her spinning-wheels, the colic season
Worked on a world of petals;
She threads off the sap and needles, blood and bubble
Casts to the pine roots, raising man like a mountain
Out of the naked entrail.

Beginning with doom in the ghost, and the springing marvels,
Image of images, my metal phantom
Forcing forth through the harebell,
My man of leaves and the bronze root, mortal, unmortal,
I, in my fusion of rose and male motion,
Create this twin miracle.

This is the fortune of manhood: the natural peril,
A steeplejack tower, bonerailed and masterless,
No death more natural;
Thus the shadowless man or ox, and the pictured devil,
In seizure of silence commit the dead nuisance.
The natural parallel.

My images stalk the trees and the slant sap's tunnel,
No tread more perilous, the green steps and spire
Mount on man's footfall,
I with the wooden insect in the tree of nettles,
In the glass bed of grapes with snail and flower,
Hearing the weather fall.

Intricate manhood of ending, the invalid rivals,
Voyaging clockwise off the symboled harbour,
Finding the water final,
On the consumptives' terrace taking their two farewells,
Sail on the level, the departing adventure,
To the sea-blown arrival.

II

They climb the country pinnacle,
Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture,
Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral;
They see the squirrel stumble,
The haring snail go giddily round the flower,
A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral.

As they dive, the dust settles,
The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily,
The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel
Turn the long sea arterial
Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy
Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall.

(Death instrumental,
Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey,
Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and ******,
The neck of the nostril,
Under the mask and the ether, they making ******
The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral;

Bring out the black patrol,
Your monstrous officers and the decaying army,
The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles,
A ****-on-a-dunghill
Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity,
Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil.)

As they drown, the chime travels,
Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift
Rings out the Dead Sea scale;
And, clapped in water till the triton dangles,
Strung by the flaxen whale-****, from the hangman's raft,
Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial.

(Turn the sea-spindle lateral,
The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning
Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table,
Let the wax disk babble
Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping.
These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still.)

III

They suffer the undead water where the turtle nibbles,
Come unto sea-stuck towers, at the fibre scaling,
The flight of the carnal skull
And the cell-stepped thimble;
Suffer, my topsy-turvies, that a double angel
Sprout from the stony lockers like a tree on Aran.

Be by your one ghost pierced, his pointed ferrule,
Brass and the bodiless image, on a stick of folly
Star-set at Jacob's angle,
Smoke hill and hophead's valley,
And the five-fathomed Hamlet on his father's coral
Thrusting the tom-thumb vision up the iron mile.

Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble,
Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored
The stoved bones' voyage downward
In the shipwreck of muscle;
Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle,
Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels.

And in the pincers of the boiling circle,
The sea and instrument, nicked in the locks of time,
My great blood's iron single
In the pouring town,
I, in a wind on fire, from green Adam's cradle,
No man more magical, clawed out the crocodile.

Man was the scales, the death birds on enamel,
Tail, Nile, and snout, a saddler of the rushes,
Time in the hourless houses
Shaking the sea-hatched skull,
And, as for oils and ointments on the flying grail,
All-hollowed man wept for his white apparel.

Man was Cadaver's masker, the harnessing mantle,
Windily master of man was the rotten fathom,
My ghost in his metal neptune
Forged in man's mineral.
This was the god of beginning in the intricate seawhirl,
And my images roared and rose on heaven's hill.
mûre Oct 2012
I see a Woman eating her muffin
looking at Man who is looking
looking into the depths of his paper cup
and the wrinkles and rivers on the back of his hand
thinking When did I get those?
Coffee Cup looking at the blue bin in the corner
Coffee Cup thinking Well, I guess this is how it goes

The secret force that wrenches eyes upward
from the secret morning monologues
happens like electricity happens
and Man sees Woman's eyes and frowns
and can't tell whether they are blue
or brown.

Crumbs are on her lap.
Man doesn't notice but Woman thinks he does
Moving imperceptibly and not wasting a calorie
she flutters her hands over the warm loaves of her thighs.
Man notices an ephemeral strain Simon and Garfunkle and
becomes aware of a softening within his sternum and
electrons slowing, softing, into a May spring aesthetic
Woman rubs her finger which does not have a ring
and Coffee Cup wonders if it will still
have sentience within the bin or if the world
with all its broken beauty and mornings and warm hands
will suddenly just stop everything?

I look at my keys. The sort that express, not
the sort that open doors and drawers
but even these, time to time, will
fall beneath the wooden floors.

Man pulls his long coat off the back of his chair
without ceremony rises and turns to go
leaves his cup on the table for a coffee girl to attend to
and exits as the rain turns to snow.

Woman sits. And sits.
Woman might order another pumpkin muffin.
Her knees are chilled, watching her pinkly from the edge
of a pencil skirt like children's faces from a blanket.
A moment later she makes that same comparison
and laughs internally without gesture or sound.

And Woman looks around.

Woman smiles. Not because of Man or muffin
or the secret life of a Coffee Cup
but because she is Woman
struck lively by the sudden meta
fleeting passage of The Bigger
and her eyes, definitively brown
spark like bumper car antennae
and struck by magic, the same magic electricity
for an irreversible instant meet mine.

And for one fourteenth of a moment
Woman knows Me with all her life.
I shiver and she lobs me the red bean bag
and I hold the image in my mind like
a relic of the living divine.

The Bigger, the morning
the secret was mine.
Ajani Jan 2013
Feelings of I don't know and who didn't see.
Thoughts of this that and the other but for sure not me.
Creepers all around come to exploit my mind.
Im asking and begging for a break, a simple break some time.
Please..do not pity, that is not my cry.
Im just scared to be forgotten when i die inside.
I pray, I pray, I pray.
You prey..yes PREY anytime you may.
FEEL the things you don't know and cannot see
Think of only yourself surely not me.
Creep through time to exploit gold minds.
Never take a break, your on clock all the time.
No pity you give, not even a tear in your eye.
Forever in my barren heart...you may reside.
People plugged in everywhere
To ipods, games and phones
Like non-existent robots
The world is full of drones
We're now made up of circuit boards
We've lost all of our bones
Be different, and unplug yourself
Grow a pair of stones

Your life is electronic
on a tablet or a chip
You run your life remotely
you give people email lip
you wouldn't dare go jogging
you might fall and break a hip
Be different, and unplug yourself
And give technology the slip

A record made of vinyl
now it's just some bits and bytes
It's a relic in an antique store
Along with other sights
Like cameras using flashbulbs
when taking shots at night
Be different and unplug yourself
Show digital your might

It doesn't matter where you go
A text, you have to send
If you're going to the shopping mall
Or just walking 'round the bend
You've more holsters on your belt loop
Than gunfighters would depend
To hold onto their weapons
Before they met their end

Turn off the boxes, read a book
Do something that's old school
Don't follow all the others
Acting like a dumb pack mule
Don't rely on electronics
Just use it as a tool
Unplug yourself from everything
Be a leader not a fool

People plugged in everywhere
To ipods, games and phones
Like non-existent robots
The world is full of drones
We're now made up of circuit boards
We've lost all of our bones
Be different, and unplug yourself
Grow a pair of stones
Mary Gay Kearns Mar 2018
You're  here today in your spot
Where the footpaths cross
And a little to the left
Under those tall trees
On a patch of flat earth.

Across the grass to the right
The old Plane, magnificent
In structure spreads branches
Like a globe of lightest green
Catching the glittering  sun.

Your easel, an old brown relic
With leather carrying handle
Held together by a strap
Carries your canvas and paints
Whilst you wear a tweed cap.

And what I like, standing back
To watch, is the quiet consistency
Of observation; two living forms
Joining in the imagination
To create beauty and truth.

Love Mary
For Ian , my friend who,paints .
Love Maryx
Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
zebra Oct 2017
oh better not say that
mind of hell
tongue of heaven
better not think depraved
veiled demon, licking ******* for car payments
God watches

what will people think

am i good person
birthday face
shut eyed stiff
not dangerous, like a gun in the face

did i say the right thing,
cypher of morality
the knot of good, a slow strangle
a frightened worm
wont risk tears

eeek
here come the scissors

technology brains wired like weaponized monkeys
eater of crumbs
heatless heart ransomed for the ******* rent

can i evaporate
like a dead cat in a black box
better then tripping all over my self

strings attached with hooks
on shunted limbs
a relic of modernism,
office life

talking scapegoats hissing
always haunted by what's missing

guts spilling through clutched fingers
apologizing to a faceless crowd of sea shells
and bagged heads

minds like the small screens
sitting all day

frenetic fingers and burning eyes
exhaling only

there's a part of me thats been crying since birth

be careful
what you do
in the land of the free and the brave
Solaces Jun 2015
On the other side of this galaxy a light calls to me..  I travel on Star light wings to the shining light surrounded by a wicked darkness..  I find a planet much like mine there.   It is engulfed in a dark cloud of unnatural ash and smoke.. But there is a splinter of light that shines through the ash filled sky..   I fly toward the light and feel its heavenly warmth..   I see and feel the presence of a being down on the surface whom is battling the armies of hades and hell..  A planet full of demons and devils are trying to dim this warriors light..  He is the last of his kind..  He is cutting through them with two magnificent  blades made from sun light and moon light..  But he is growing weary and can barely stand..  He then drops down to one knee and puts both swords on the ground..  He prays,  "  And my final hour, I have loved you, I have remembered you, I have forgiven you.. I have slayed as much darkness as I can..  This will be the end of all of us..  But not without me making the darkness bleed.. With your light and love I ask that you please send to me the angel of the stars.. So that they may take me high above where I become a painting made up of star light for all eternity.. I ask this in prayer amen."   And so I pass through the ash filled sky and roar the roar of the Dragon..  The armies of demons and devils stop in awe at what they see before them.. I stand behind this last man here on this planet.. I then unleash a beam of light into the sky and burn away all the ash above..  The sunlight returns and begins to burn the demons and devils away..   With light wings I fly around the dark side of this planet and shine away all that is wicked away..  I then meet up with the last man before I depart..  I give to him a relic given to me by my fellow mage Osiris.. The relic of the star tear.. This is your prayer..  Become the angel of the stars..
The angel has arrived..
Travis Frank Sep 2016
Just past the Rastafarian berry tree
Where bully beef boys tattooed their love’s names
On the tree’s outstretched arms,
A forgotten remnant lay
In relic and rot, its air choked with damp mildew and dust.

Not wishing to join Garvey’s gang
Or bow before Selassie’s seat,
I left Jah’s clenched jig hanging,
Allowed the inkers to indent incessantly,
Going solo into the house of rubble.

What a treasure!
From smudged, stale mascara,
The aged beauty’s heavy, dim eyes
Cast dim shadows on her rough, ***** neck
On which I now trod barefoot.

Her necklace of knackered newspapers
Hollered hoarsely through the overlying cardboard boxes,
Lowly lisping, ”Sovereign shed my lady once was
And shall forever more remain. Look not at her wilted skin –
Consider only this immortal necklace and live forever therein.”
As he scanned the far horizon of the mangrove beach
He imagined her silhouette by the sea of Norwich
A home he had left long to be so remotely far
On this alien shore with her face a distant star!

The sea winds kissed his skin in a bid to make amend
For his walks in the blazing sun weariness of dayend
He felt a peace in his ruffled mind craving for a rest
Amid the waves’ serenade dreaming a lulling nest!

What if he made his home on this ****** desolate beach
Walked the sands thought-romancing the woman of Norwich
Swam wild in the saline sea then lie in the mangrove’s shade
With no statistics to worry about only love’s buzz in his head!

Not going back to the asphalt path he would build here a hut
Laze dream lying in the shadows of wild and green coconut
In the starry evenings when the sea would hold her bewitched
He would walk the trails of scent left by the woman of Norwich!

This man went with the mission of building on the sea a port
But the mangrove gave him a reason to make there a love resort
No relic survives now the waves having carried beyond reach
All except the lingering scent of his love for the woman of Norwich!
Andrew Frazer, Lieutenant Governor of Bengal (1903-1908). He fell in love with the stretch of beach on the western edge of the Sunderbans and built there a bungalow. Nothing remains to remind of him except the name of this place – Frazerganj, now a popular beach resort. Henry’s Island is not far away.
Paleblueyes Apr 2014
My entire childhood contained in a Disney princess gift bag
Torn and overflowing
A relic from one of my replacements

I don't know their names  
Her do-overs

New children cancel out
Old mistakes

She sends me photos, report cards, awards  
Proof that I existed
In a time before I crumbled
Before she trampled me

I wonder if she terrifies them

There is a Mother construct in my mind
Born of tender moments witnessed
Of hallmark cards
Imperfect but striving

Maybe she loves them
Some way she couldn't love me
A constant reminder of the man she threw away
A life that brings shame
Locking away the proof
The photos
The same place she kept her heart

We've both moved on, now
But I don't mourn her
The loveless ruthless mother

I mourn the construct I imagined
That I never knew her tenderness
Never heard those words
My mother adopted 3 new children after my life and our relationship exploded. A couple years ago she sent me this bag containing everything a child ever hands their mother. I only just went through it recently.
Inkveined Jul 2017
I should hate you
I should want to destroy you
Like you destroyed me
I should want to **** you
One day at a time
Like you killed me
I should want to
Forget every moment
Every millisecond
Since our lives intertwined
But I don't hate you
But I don't want to destroy you
But I don't want to **** you
But I don't want to forget
I want to keep the scars
So that I can trace them
So that
Whenever it's tempting
To throw myself
At someone else's feet
Begging for affection
For love
I'll close my eyes
And quietly remember
Every time that I felt worthless
Every time that I felt ashamed
Just for being me
All because
I wasn't good enough
All because
Someone else was better
All because
You cared more about your future
Than about our present
And I will make sure
That you are the only one
Who gets to say
I slammed the door in her face
Shoved her aside
Kicked her away
And she let me.
In other words, old news-ancient. And it wasn't worth it. -from my archives-
MissNeona Sep 2014
Race fast, safe car.
A Toyota's a Toyota
Racecar
stolen one lots

Was it a car or a cat I saw?
Was it a bar or a bat I saw?
A man, a plan, a canal: Panama.
A dog, a plan, a canal: Pagoda
A car, a man, a maraca.
Oh, cameras are macho.
So many dynamos!

Desserts, I stressed
No lemons, no melon.
No sir! Away! A papaya war is on.

Dr. Awkward!
No Madam, I'm Adam
Sir, I’m Iris.
Sir, I demand, I am a maid named Iris.
Ned, I am a maiden.
Bob Bob Bob

"Not New York" Roy went on.
Not so, Boston
A **** nixes *** in Tulsa.
Avid Diva
Party boobytrap.
Solo gigolos.
As I ***, sir, I see Pisa!
Amore, Roma.
Yawn a more Roman way.

Amy, must I jujitsu my ma?

Some men interpret nine memos.
"Do nine men interpret?" "Nine men," I nod.
*** aware era waxes
a **** tuba
test tube **** set
He did, eh?
I did, did I?
doom mood
rise to vote, sir
Art, name no tub time. Emit but one mantra.
Cigar? Toss it in a can. It is so tragic.
******, I’m mad!
Lager, sir, is regal.

mom
Ma is a madam, as I am.
dad
Pa's a sap.
hannah
Anna
Neil, an alien.
Oh no! Don **!
A lad named E. Mandala
Kay, a red ****, peeped under a yak.
La, Mr. O'Neill, lie normal.
Otto made Ned a motto.
Poor Dan is in a droop.

deified
reviver
radar
stats
redivider
testset
solos


Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard
Live not on Evil
Cain: a maniac
Live on evasions? No, I save no evil.
Eve, mad Adam, Eve!
Dennis, Eve saw Eden if as a fine dew, as Eve sinned.
Devil never even lived.
Do, O God, no evil deed! Live on! Do good!
Live, O Devil, revel ever! Live! Do evil!
Evil, a sin, is alive.
Evil did I dwell, lewd I did live.
Ma is as selfless as I am.
Name not one man.
O, stone, be not so.
Rot a renegade, wed a generator.

stack cats
taco cat
Senile felines.
So, cat tacos!
step on no pets
ten animals I slam into a net

Egad! An adage!
A relic, Odin. I'm a mini, docile Ra.
A peg at lovely Tsar - a style voltage, pa.
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Bombard a drab mob.
Borrow or Rob?
No, it never propagates if I set a gap or prevention
We few,
We panic in a pew,
We sew,
Ye boil! I obey!

In words, drown I.Revered now, I live on. O did I do no evil, I wonder, ever?
Is it I? It is I!
I'm am a fool; aloof am I.
Now I won.
“***… ***…” I murmur.

— The End —