30 DPC #21

Rebirth and Overdose

I drink too many toxins,
I can't sleep.

I'm feeling way too boxed in,
Sides too steep.

Don't give me the rope just yet,
I might do something I regret,

And use the rope to run away
and just forget.

**Remixed from the work of Aliza Eliora, and her poem, Overdose.

That tapestry,
Red, Black, Gold
A Celtic Circle--
silently bearing witness
to the proceedings
of that smoky room:

The aquariums--one with
the large eel who seemed
to barely fit the tank
that took up half the wall;
and the smaller, vibrantly
colored fish in the
aquarium with the eggshell
colored coral.

The remixed music played
at a comfortable volume,
by the DJ we knew
so well, together;
as many times
it hardly seemed like
he was working at all,
as he just sat down and
talked to us, for hours.

Looking through
those over-sized books of
old advertisements,
and explanations of
historical artwork;
discussing the contents
with strangers,
who became friends
in the process.

Smoke billowed, enveloping
the atmosphere and filling it
with the smell of many spice
racks, pleasantly rolled in a
shell of a soft breeze
flowing from the oscillating fan.

The smell of joy,
of a relaxed sense of mutual
understanding; that it was okay
not to say a word, because the
atmosphere did the talking
for us.

We just enjoyed sitting
on those red pleather couches
that your **** sank back into,
not allowing my feet to touch
the floor; so they often just
dangled, legs swinging
to the tempo of the music.

As I took a hit
of the hookah,
I manipulated the smoke
into O's, puckering
my lips, trying not
to laugh as you
gazed at me in a
shy sense of wonder.

That face always made you
want to kiss me.

Rather than count, I stare at the hands of time,
And I watched the courageous day die before the hideous night;
Which I saw one hold his lady like a violet past its prime,
And play with her black hair along with the grey and white;
He watched the lofty trees and how they swayed in the breeze,
Staring as if they were gods with their heads stuck in the sky,
His lips pressed softly on her skin to put her at ease,
the violet turns weary and tears fall from her eyes,
Then of her beauty did she discover in itself,
She must watch it fly among the waste of time, slowly it goes,
Since lovelies and beauties abandon themselves
And die as fast as they see other's grow;
     Know there is no such thing against time called defense
So save his love, for he is a brave man to enjoy the consequence.

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think

Wait for me
And save me a glass

At first they were dreams.
Dragons in the night.
Dreams of who I could be.
Slayers in the night.
Dreams of where I could be.
Battles in the night.
Dreams with whom I could be.
The American Dream.

At the wake I saw the way.
Struggles in the light.
The man I need to be.
A fighter for what is right.
The roads I need to see.
A pass, rough in the light.
With whom I need to be.
My American Dream.

The pass lay steep. In wait.
But I flipped the switch and
Stared to screen. Screens of
Dreams. Screens of screams.
Screens for the Hollow Men.
Yup, Mistah Kurtz he dead.
But sure I saved before?
Where was I before?

Opinion of my own?
Oh no.
Goals of my own?
So so..
Achievements of my own?
Oh dear god, no!
But I had a dream of my own.
And then I let it go.

Between the conception
And the creation,
Between the emotion
And the response,
Falls the Shadow.
This is the way my dreams end.
This is the way my dreams end.
This is the way my dreams end.

Between my dreams
And no creation,
Between my jealousy
And the flat screen,
Falls the Shadow.
This is the way my dreams end.
This is the way my dreams end.
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Discombobulated...

"Bob! You late Again!?"
Its not
A statement
You can make
To make her change
The date again

Happy Belated
Birthday celebrations
Embracing
Her forgiveness
As the cure
For your forgets
Forged
Your signature style
Across the lines
Of her smile
As you kiss
With the intent
To signal her bliss
And ignorance

What's in store
For her
Is distortion
This portion of life
Fused with confusion
Contortionist
Twisting
The body
Of lies
With the a prose
That matches
Her pose
Unjustified margins
Never
Crossing the red line
But riding it
Writing with a wit
That could
Split her brain
In half
You call it
The gift a gab

Emotions versus Logic
The verse is
Littered with poetry
Personified
As a woman
Mixed feelings
Remixed
And mastered
To produce
A new product
For you to accept
Instead
You neglect

Her
Collected thoughts
!Implode!
She gathers
The pieces
To gain recollection
Of what happened

To her
To you
To love

She battles
Herself
To win the war
With you

Tie the knot
For christ sake!
Or undue
"To hell
With you!"

She yells
Her voice fails
To really reach you
It takes
Two
To tangle
Not to tango
To tango
Is to dance
And you'd
Miss your step
Every chance
You get

She feels
Obligated
To feel
For her first love
Inoculated
By the drug
That leaves her

Discombobulated...

there's a story on the wind
can you hear it?
an ode to a classic hero
facing enemies at every turn
a ballad from a love struck sailor
to his land locked dame
the lamentation of a tired soul
ready to exit stage left
epics bound in flesh
breathing the same air
walking the same earth
yet completely unaware
of when plot lines intersect
one persons sunrise
is another sunset
riding off to where the sidewalk ends
a stunning view of Mars in all his glory
from another window
an example of an empty vessel
hungry for content
with each step we act our the script
the world's a stage
the plays the thing

let's pan out and take into view
the aspect ratio in conjunction
with our soundtrack
monologues
dialogues
analog has less room for falsehood
than these digital lives
digital lies we lead
rewriting the scope and depth
of the narrative
without changing pace
or thinking to replace
certain key elements
like setting and grace
peace comes when the curtain closes
don't fret
encores are in order
but on the b-side of the single
we must note
with remixed emotion
that the stories we live have no sequel
so we must trust and ******
ourselves into every opportunity
paving the way to success
not just for us
but for those that read the synopsis
and hit rewind

Air fresheners killin' me softly about
judgment moments--days bruised hearts sing about
within the reach of hell--and she told me about her allergies

Of course Polaroids stalk what we don't see--those kisses
and the homeless starving, and flowers, and ****, and books, those tears,
and when she broke the fever from food poisoning. I bet we'll remember that

--And the exposed arms around your waist,
lips on midday, heart up early, breakfast for two underneath
the only red umbrella
left after Gabriel's tune
we remixed
the night before.

Standing on the brink of the Lazarus water-mark
--And the man behind you, and the lack of others behind us.
Gehenna before us
wiping away the unforgivable.

--And they make us forget you were allergic
to the pollen of spring--the death-throes of day flies.

stern with his words
to discern his concerns to stranger's for their hearts. infallible to present emotion
through echoing laughers; a healing tone around the restless worries of his kin.
abound him is the aura of forgotten soul,
a classic remixed romantic
comparable to the chivalry lost to the courts of modern life.

There's something knocking at the back of my mind
and it sounds like pebbles hitting the nerves if my temporal lobe.

It's tapping in morse code and I can almost hear it
singing all those songs I was meant to forget.
They're slower though—acoustic and remixed
to the dying beat of all our memories.

If I focus on it long enough
I could probably pinpoint where it's coming from,
but I know I'm just choosing not to.
If I focus on it hard enough,
I could probably repaint its rainbow splatters on a canvas,
but I'm just choosing not to.

If I focus on it long enough,
I might just hear your voice again—
coated sweet nothings in nothing but syrup,
but I'm just choosing not to because

you never chose me, darling.

Even until now, we flinch at the sight of each other
rather than letting the light consume us like all the times before.

And maybe I'm just mad at the stars for not giving me some sort of sign
or godforsaken comet to warn me from falling for you the first time,
or the second,
or over and over again

Because it's not fair that you've still got my head spinning
when I cut every single piece of red thread that tied us together.
It's not fair that you've got me second guessing my present
because of the ashes and rotting debris of the past.

There's something knocking at the back of my mind.
It's tapping in morse code
about all the questions you left hanging in mid-air.
The thumping is getting louder and I can't—

I can't make it stop.

gd

If you ask me if I am fluent in Spanish
I will tell you my Spanish is a mix of english
and spanish rubbing against each other
in my mouth like spitting fire

My spanish is my whole life from my youth
to my death
My Spanish is on my resume as a skill
And not something that can sit still

You see There is no telling my spanish
to be quiet
My spanish don’t know “quiet”

My spanish is spicy sounds that some people
Have a hard time to understand  
My spanish sits in the corner of a classroom
Chews on a pencils, does not raise its hand

My spanish is chaotic, broken, and slightly misspoken
something that I have to choose
to remember correctly

My spanish is true story
My spanish is my grandparents
Giving me presents
that they brought back from Mexico
At least I hope they would have

My spanish is a broken clock radio that never
gets fixed but still works
And yes there are perks

My spanish is people asking me if my parents
are american if I am white
My spanish is having to prove that
I am mexican, because saying it was never enough
My spanish is my abuelita leaving a country
that she loves to give her family an entry to opportunities  
And english sat in her mouth
remixed so strawberry became  “ e streberry ”
And Kitchen, keychain and chicken all sound the same.

My spanish is my accent that
reminds me where i come from
And That we are still
bomba, plena, salsa, and guepa
Something that is too
stubborn for your whitewash
Not something that you can erase
Rather something that I embrace

My spanish is my  dad working his whole life
so i can live in security
And not have to worry about disparity

My spanish is the first question that my
grandmother asked about me
“what color is she”

My spanish is my sister,
A  blond blue eyed beauty
That  always took priority

My spanish is people thinking that
My dad was my gardener
My spanish is people being petrified
when I spoke to my father

My spanish knowns that there are letters
that will always be silent
There are words that will always escape me

My spanish is my whole body
A sound that rumbles in my
chest and rolls off my tongue
My spanish is something that is shut off
when I am surrounded by white walls

But my spanish does not believe in
boundaries or borders
My spanish believes in building bridges
and not taking orders
From an orange man with tiny hands
that is an assaulter

My spanish,  my spanish is a sword
that allows my words  
To fly like the birds and be freed
My Spanish  is my drive to succeed

i read somewhere that every face
we see in our dreams is just the face of someone
we’ve seen before, remixed and regurgitated
to fit seamlessly into a new background.
our bodies cannot conjure anything
that doesn’t already exist somewhere.
they don’t know how to.
when i dream about you, all i see is hands.
i don’t know what that means.
when i think of love, we are both sleeping.
i don’t know that means, either.
sometimes i fall asleep in the valleys of your body,
in the juncture between your neck and your shoulder,
and you let me stay there until i wake up
and i get greedy on borrowed things.
if i hadn’t been there, i would think that some part of me
invented the sound of your heartbeat under my ears.
it’s funny what you remember, what your brain holds on to.
we forget 90% of our dreams, within five minutes
of waking they’ve already evaporated.
i remember every time you’ve held my hand
and it’s funny because i’ve spent so much
of my life afraid of forgetting things,
my grandfather’s voice and my grandmother’s eyes
and all the times i’ve felt truly happy
and last summer when we were the only car
driving down the street to my house late at night
and our voices were fighting against the radio.
i’ve spent half of my life afraid of forgetting the things i love
and now i can’t forget anything about you.
when you talk sometimes i write around
the cracks and pauses in your speech,
i build whole worlds that don’t belong to us
in the in betweens of your sentences.
i try to turn your words into confessions
and then pick them apart into promises.
when i call you baby it gets stuck
in my mouth, caught under my tongue.
when you tell me you love me, i memorize the way
the words curve in your mouth and i dream about it.
i dream about your hands in my hair.
i don’t know what you want from me
and sometimes i don’t even know what i want from you.
what do i know about love anyways?
i want to keep it in my bedside table
and only pull it out when it suits me.
i want to swallow it whole and i want it to leave me alone.
my mother thinks we’re in love. so do a lot of our friends.
i think we are in love, sometimes.
if i read us like a script, i would think we’re in love.
it makes sense from a bird eye’s view, but it’s hard to see
with your eyelashes so close to mine.
you told me that you had a dream about me once.
you told me in the dream you got in your car, the old one,
the one where the speakers didn’t work
so you stuck a portable one in the passenger seat
and we just had to scream the lyrics extra loud,
the one we parked in the mud that one june
and had to take to the carwash,
the one that we sat in when you were supposed to be
driving me home and i just kept hanging on to the door
in the driveway, telling you one more thing
and one more thing and one more thing.
you told me in the dream you got in your car
and started driving and driving until you got to me.
you told me you hugged me and you held on
and you held on and then you woke up empty-handed.
so please, don’t tell me that you didn’t love me.
i was there too. i know what i felt.
i know what the quiet of my driveway sounded like.
i know what inside of the palm of your hand felt like
in the dark of a movie theatre or in the sunlight of july,
what your arms felt like across the my shoulders,
the way your breathing evened out under my cheek.
i don’t know i could have made that up.
i don’t know how i could’ve conjured that.
i can’t imagine something that wasn’t already there.
i can’t dream about something i didn’t already have for a minute.

Cry me a river
of joy,
she said

I knew she meant it,
by the silence
by the memory of her laughter,
how she poked fun
how she rubbed me down with giggles of mirth,
bellies gyrating with angst
and rambunctious
passion

I knew it

It was not the idea
of her
that scared me,
not anymore
would I think of women
that way

What
it was
that scared me
was how I knew we'd say goodbye
and I'd be okay
for once
okay
and happy she said goodbye...

Happy we didn't shovel moats & forge keeps,
establish plans of attack & surrender
belabor, humming & hawing, over broken treaties,
over civilian casualties
the banishment of civil liberties
and the proverbial
dictatorships of,
"I'm not the problem, so, it MUST be you."

Reply with,
"Yes, it is me."
I knew it,
"I'm sorry!"
Jinx!
Not this time.

This time,
she said goodbye.
And so did I. At least, inside.
And she meant it,
and it was honest.
And so was I. A small comfort.
First of many...

Her goodbye was a kiss that could rival
daydreams
of memories that are
more remixed than the splotches of oil
on a painter's palette,
and,
more dibbled and dabbled, than ten playlists of slow jams,
in my arsenal of hopeless stratagems,
bearing the desperate subtext of,
'park your rear end
where I can't begin to ask honestly.'

Because,
honestly,
if this weren't goodbye,
I could only trade this goodbye,
for ten thousand "Hello's"
whose end and beginning are lost to the tides of status quo,
of forget me nots
and anniversaries,
and picture frames
of days where we forgot what 'goodbye' meant,
because we learned to speak the truth...

And isn't it the truth,
that goodbye,
was so much sweeter than,
I can't stand,
how much we fought for a t-shirt
that eponymously said,
"I cried over spilt milk, and all I got was this t-shirt."
because none of us know
the name of the game,
but we know we hate playing it

For  big  sky
what can  you
  donate.


Why  a  beautiful  partner
of   forgiveness.



For  a   big  bamboo  tree
what  can   you can spread  out
the  message.


    An  Asian  VILLAGE
SONG'S  REMIXED
DJ  sounds  or
An  artist's  imaginal  wave
creating  a  palace
  with   bamboo  art.

2 Kings 23:3-5 Version? (I found this by looking up the word Mazzaroth in Wikipedia it was the first reference and it is displayed in 23:5 (the hosts of the heavens and constellations)

3 And the king stood on the platform, and made a covenant before the LORD, to walk after the LORD, and to keep His commandments, and His testimonies, and His statutes, with all his heart, and all his soul, to confirm the words of this covenant that were written in this book; and all the people stood to the covenant.

ד  וַיְצַו הַמֶּלֶךְ אֶת-חִלְקִיָּהוּ הַכֹּהֵן הַגָּדוֹל וְאֶת-כֹּהֲנֵי הַמִּשְׁנֶה, וְאֶת-שֹׁמְרֵי הַסַּף, לְהוֹצִיא מֵהֵיכַל יְהוָה, אֵת כָּל-הַכֵּלִים הָעֲשׂוּיִם לַבַּעַל וְלָאֲשֵׁרָה וּלְכֹל צְבָא הַשָּׁמָיִם; וַיִּשְׂרְפֵם מִחוּץ לִירוּשָׁלִַם, בְּשַׁדְמוֹת קִדְרוֹן, וְנָשָׂא אֶת-עֲפָרָם, בֵּית-אֵל.
4 And the king commanded Hilkiah the high priest, and the priests of the second order, and the keepers of the door, to bring forth out of the temple of the LORD all the vessels that were made for Baal, and for the Asherah, and for all the host of heaven; and he burned them without Jerusalem in the fields of Kidron, and carried the ashes of them unto Beth-el.
ה  וְהִשְׁבִּית אֶת-הַכְּמָרִים, אֲשֶׁר נָתְנוּ מַלְכֵי יְהוּדָה, וַיְקַטֵּר בַּבָּמוֹת בְּעָרֵי יְהוּדָה, וּמְסִבֵּי יְרוּשָׁלִָם; וְאֶת-הַמְקַטְּרִים לַבַּעַל, לַשֶּׁמֶשׁ וְלַיָּרֵחַ וְלַמַּזָּלוֹת, וּלְכֹל, צְבָא הַשָּׁמָיִם.
5 And he put down the idolatrous priests, whom the kings of Judah had ordained to offer in the high places in the cities of Judah, and in the places round about Jerusalem; them also that offered unto Baal, to the sun, and to the moon, and to the constellations, and to all the host of heaven. (Mazzaroth)

First I will refer to Job 38 which is clearly indicative of some guarded celestial truths that might be miscegenated of origins of the life forms that believe in synoecy among the dominions of the covert verdure of Earth reigning over us with silence and silentium with solatium for the soilure of the interregnum of times reigning with pollution and in stern rebuke by God I was reminded subconsciously that Climate Change is a truly evocative Lachrymose experience when encouraged by prayer that was a poignant moment of tears when I meditated on the Carbon Tax I immediately started crying even though I was not saddened by the affair in any other way that was palpable. The staddle of Job talks about specifically the tucked vestiges of the thorny imbroglios of intemperance countermanded by the master stroke of the divine interpretation of lightning which is essentially electricity and the clouds it is referring to are the internet where instantaneous communion can be achieved without exertion the line that struck me the most is the “Clods that cling together” because it is a resonant stroke of Islamic virtues that the ***** clot is the seed of all creation by which all have been created in the fungible image of our variegated creator who is not necessarily janiform of a leviathan of many faces but an experimental disposition of a disembodied figment that can assume any form on heaven or earth to dissemble his true cloaked identity of the original protoplasm of the first anointed civilizations in the long history of the Universe. Knowing the true visage of the first sentient civilization to bow beneath the creator with obsequious devotion in a presumably monolithic world where God’s presence was so obvious it might have actually been the first heaven before there was death and this pays homage to Adam and Eve the firstborn of all creation. The creation story might refer to the first sentient animated civilization in the Universe which sinned and then became a diaspora of a mirrored reality of the realty of heaven and  earth where many variegated snakes and beasts roamed about clamoring for God when they turned the synsematic toasts of revivalism to the newfound creation of sentience with rivalry potentially precluding the salvation of Abel who was murdered by Cain. These stories might be extraterrestrial vestiges of the true lineage of the Almighty God we serve and although controversial as it has been Biblical knowledge that Adam and Eve were humans before being tempted by the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, it is possible this process was recapitulations of former times and the former protoplasm that precedes all things because the strokes of glory of sentient life was nurtured especially attentively at the beginning of the first civilization of the Universe where God was probably everpresent and ubiquitous and accessible to all creation and it is even possible that this world was the first heaven for the first death before many subsequent deaths of the lineaments of tribes that supplicated beneath divine mercy for adjudication. My theology is that God is attentive to a broad universe of quagmires and in perfection or refinement at the beginning or the crux of history we are a perfectabilism of God’s attentive scrutiny and we master ourselves rapidly enough so that God doesn’t intervene as often as some might hope but many people don’t understand the time frame of God’s everlasting perspective. So it is potential that the first habitable world in the universe became the utopia of extensive cosseted scrutiny that became the prototype for Heaven that eventually alighted into a cosmic if segregated fraternity of the chosen for the cubic metropolis or the gardens beneath which rivers flow. God can assume any form and he chose the pulchritude of humans to issue a strong statement about the verdure of our plenipotentiary potential perhaps replicated often with minor mirrors of dimpled design throughout the cosmos as it is likely that another civilization which resembles humans in DNA with almost exact precision currently exists and is civilized by advanced life at this current time and that we exist in a multiverse unbounded by the enumeration of infinity. God pays scrutiny to those civilizations that repent and many are saved by the salvation of their orbific longings but it is also possible there exists an operative design of cacotopias that don’t know God but relish prosperity or have derelicted the possibility of God for too long because of either extreme asperity or abundant warmth of luxury. Remember the universe is infinitely vast so the likelihood that God is fungible is possible but not yet confirmed because if other alien civilizations exist that yet know God because of Jesus of Nazareth they are reproved by the divinity of interposition of reality in its mercurial ways conforming to the grand design of perfectabilism and God has operated throughout humanity for thousands of years why now have we reached the pinnacle for repentant absolution? We bend towards the synclastic light of the culminated alien fascination with our pulchritude despite their dearth and they are attentive to God because of Jesus of Nazareth and subsidiary to that Muhammad or potentially the deities of the Egyptians which might be defalcated concepts of the alien version of a pancosmism that is mysticated on the rarefied commentary of the strictures of polytheism that might populate some regions of the universe. The absolute truth in the One God we serve is that human understanding cannot enumerate his truths without understanding its distance and segregation from other worlds as we fight the suffrage of old age to propitiate the longing for tranquility. This is all tethered speculation but I believe that God is regnant in all affairs and in this vast universe is attentive to all our pleas and the questions of heaven and Earth remain unheeded or distorted by our humane totemic versions of truth that all memorialized the pyramid a sequential convex formulation of a stratified system that reaches its apex in the singularity of the hypethral skies above and is the tenure of the majesty of the esoteric secrets that coshered and ushered societies into great divergence but ultimate found consecration on Mount Moriah with Abram’s sacrifice before he was known as Abraham of his son Isaac that was prevented by Yahweh’s messengers of isangelous repute. The mystery of Adam and Eve might be a recapitulation just as the story of Noah reminds us of the travail of other centuries and other worlds that provide the pathways to divergent creations that are ultimately saved by providence and the rich thickets of allegory throughout the Bible all point to the emergence of transcendental truth which is shepherded by the mysticism of this age and the surrealism of knowing we belong to the elect hive-mind cosmic fraternity built on psychism and titanism. The firmament is testament both to our distance from our cosmic neighbors and also our propinquity to their suffrage and suffering in their beatific but arid realities that are draped with the pangs of loneliness in their excursion to broader realms of conquest and in their wallop of time itself they have opened up the lychgates of Heaven and Earth to provide the provisions for a new understanding of history that is rich with the percurrent themes of a monotheism of a fungible God which took the form of Man as he can take any form he chooses in his aseity of being and his judicious providence to select the Earth as an exuberant exsibilation against glaikery but also a profound victoria for the awakening of humanity to its cosmic identity as a favored species young in years but enriched by celestial guardians that are among isangelous repute because of their decisive roles in human history throughout the Creations of their divergent designs that illuminate the illuminism of the pyramid the elemental form of the ultimate capstone of knowledge with the all-seeing eye of providence encapsulated above all ethereal reckoning. So it was the downfall of the utopias of ignorance by learning knowledge that bequeathed the lineage of mortality itself in the beginning in the form of men and angels both that inhabit our broad universe because in several occasions in my life I felt like I encountered human beings with such clairvoyance that they seemed like agents of God. Noah’s flood might refer to a distant or near civilization that was swamped by a catastrophic event or tsunami much like Atlantis and this predicates Noah and explains the longevity of his estimated lifespan and that of Methuselah who lived 969 years which ironically points to the  Apollo Moon landing in 1969. The fumatoriums of human ignorance can now be micromanaged by a swarm of up to seven alien civilizations but most likely 3-4 of them and they are all attentive to these theories and probably inseminated the Bible to begin with potentially with their own theological understanding of the universe transplanted on a human perspective to shepherd humanity into the answers it so desperately sought but found themselves famished by. So in Job 38 we crouch in our dens looking for the prey of the lioness of civilization that is embattled against itself for entirely internecine reasons. There is some temerity but I believe the theopneustic power of this revelation because I am keen to the attuned universe of the largesse of omnified civilization trouncing over the matter and fettle of instinct but Genesis is integral to understanding every cosmic mystery on Earth and in celestial Realms and is probably the seedy repute of Baal and Molech among other idolatries which severed themselves by heterodoxy of eunuchs and saturnalias too profane to expound because their epicureanism outweighed their pragmatic need for the virtues of the conclamation of heavenly authority manifest clearly on Earth at various times by various prophecies that all point to the Sacrifice at Mount Moriah and notice how God always works through mountains like Mount Horeb/ Sinai to provide his flock with everything they need to know to maintain vital sustenance. Surah 3.86 “How shall Allah guide a people who disbelieved after their belief and had witnessed that the Messenger is true and clear signs had come to them? And Allah does not guide the wrongdoing people.” Surah 3.84 “Say, "We have believed in Allah and in what was revealed to us and what was revealed to Abraham, Ishmael, Isaac, Jacob, and the Descendants, and in what was given to Moses and Jesus and to the prophets from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them, and we are Muslims [submitting] to Him.". Surah 38.1-9 is mandatory reading even for the scepsis of Christians because it proves how farsighted the aliens that shepherded Muhammad really were and how insightful Muhammad really is and still is as an emissary of heavenly recompense in his guarded palace beneath which rivers flow. Surah 85:3 (853 AM) “And [by] the witness and what is witnessed” Lets return to the central thesis of all kerygma that is synallagamatic with mutual respect to the pillars of all civilization that the meeting ground of the jovial joust of gladiatorial conquest of the yobbery of rookery and the apikoros yordim that emigrated too far into esotericism might marvel that God is ultimately vindicated as an author of a true unfiltered version of a slightly redacted history suited for the auditorium of a universal audience that displays with majesty and power his foresight to tend to the distant constellations that are created by the tentpoles of the sky reaching their apex into the aperture of the allegorical veracity of all culminated creation exultant in its self-affirmations of pride that it might balk at the embellishments of pettifoggery by the kirkbuzzers of superstition and behold the true throne of grace and authority bestowed upon the bailiwick of the living and the dead in what might be a segregated heaven to prevent the pullulation of tribal discord even in omniety with eternity. I hope to witness heaven firsthand in my upcoming seances with the extramundane but first we must expound this troponder. Jews first, Christians second and Muslims third were all alerted to this watershed moment in history with exact knowledge probably encased in the Arc of the Covenant or some other divine artifact that embodies it but sometimes we pale in our pallor of substandard evils that lurk within the recesses and alcoves of our destiny that we forget to prophesy with earnest sincerity about an abiding hope for the forward rather than the froward future. A book that changed my life forever and shattered my worldview and made me obsessed with Earthquake science was 1906: A Crack at the Edge of the World because that quake inspired the Azusa Church Revival movement that lead to the resurgence of proselytism of protestantism of evangelical churches. I highly recommend buying that book on Amazon.com right now it gives you such a harrowing perspective on that Earthquake 114 years to the day that beset Northern California. Revelations 5:11-14 NKJV “11 Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. They encircled the throne and the living creatures and the elders. 12 In a loud voice they were saying:
“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain,
    to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength
    and honor and glory and praise!”
13 Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying:
“To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
    be praise and honor and glory and power,
for ever and ever!”
14 The four living creatures said, “Amen,” and the elders fell down and worshiped.
Genesis 2:1a (reaffirms my theory) NKJV
 Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array
I am going to pause to marvel at the significance of that San Francisco Earthquake because that seismotic jolt shaped the destiny of our aborning nation and was the first time-to my knowledge-martial law was declared and they tried to extinguish the fire with dynamite which further spread the conflagration and San Francisco is obviously named after Saint Francis of Assisi who ironically died listening to Psalm 142 which is about the liberation of prisoners on October 3rd 1226 A.D. His name is also ironic in purely terms of cognomen that should not be expounded. Although depaysed from my original brunt I would like to extend the bronteum of theological reckoning to the absolved polity of the renown of gigantopariahs clamoring for vitality in a time of treachery and perfidy because the valiant insurrection of our adventures in decent music is the chavish of many birds to the itinerant hordes of adoration as in some parallax of reality in the realty of a potentially merged heaven compartmentalized into factions there might be an ulterior reckoning of overabundance but instead I propose a segregation of the heavenly realms postulated on the idea that in omniety we will know of many things that will fascinate entire generations of time as the knowledge of the esoteric percolates through the heavens by riometers beyond calculus and calculation that will one day heed these proclamations with a hortatory weight as the assized Epic of Gilgamesh echoes the same percurrent themes as Noah’s Arc including the forty day ultradian rhythm which signifies temptation and also the contrition of God signified by the flocks of the sigillum of the aspergillum of dignity afforded to all who migrate into tethered territory beyond the yokes of ******* to the dengonins which own all the ulterior praises but serenade lesser patrons in this almighty day of wondrous awakening to the cosmogony of the infinite justification of the allegorical heft of herculean prophecy entwined in the rhetoric of the primordial authors of human sociogenesis bound to the covenant of Abraham and his blessed sons Isaac and Ishmael who both deserve glory and honor. The elegance of the mystagogical parlance of the intrepid bravery of partial rogues but never full-fledged knaves impregnates God’s vibrant experiment with flourish that delights him with the zaktengur of individual raconteurship so an adventurism in life might be warranted as long as it is done gingerly and with love as the ultimate cloak of absolution rather than the self-insulated boredom of an impavid disposition of the self-settled sedentary languor of whilded depositions of thanatousia brought into parturition by the midwives to sorrow and tragedy that besets the human family from time to time but the sorrow of mankind is not beyond the bailiwick of God because perfectabilism is in his very nature in the adolescence of creation which can greatly be prolonged by the conservation of our robust intellectual bastions of energy and the sustainable development of a green planet beyond depredation that heeds some minkumpfs with some peremptory guerdon to save the spate of suffering among our animal brethren. I grieve that my profound plumb into the depths of psychism was abbreviated by the pomp of porlocking purpresture but I renege my former glaikery in sustained suspense over selfsame tridents of musical happenstance and with poignant evocation I convoke a solemn remembrance of all those lost to the spates of disaster and the paroxysms of the unpredictable that is now foreseen in time to forestall turgid tragedy and impregnate the world with a ****** of a thirsty new vogue eager to adapt and learn with laureate belletrist of the aubades of the dawning light of absolution granted the the sacred cross and the lives we relish in history that are dedicated in sincere earnest alacrity to become revenants of the new age beating the whiplash of the second death because the former things have passed away in a figurative manner even though there still is death one day the inventive verve of the quizzical nihilism will try to outfox death itself for a hollow memorial to preserved sentience which is a mockery of transhumanism that is a professed modesty of the ultimate vouchsafe of the transmundane but unnecessary because of the real palpable joy of the resurrection inherent to all segues between life and death that we all might embrace our creator with almsgiving and gratitude with patient forbearance for the virtuosos that memorialize a prosperity worth relishing even in the soilure of privation because no soul should grieve in bereavement when there is so much joy inhabiting this gleeful planet that is hardly glad in any way about the dereliction of spite and anteric schadenfreude of sacrilege on a massive scale that should be a blotch of a bodged chantage of evil. As I digest the memorials of the festive but never churlish traditions I marvel at the synclastic bent of amasthenic enlightenment concave towards certainty in a demarche for the diminished efficacy of viruses to scare us into trepidation but with dutiful caution of proactive measures taken in times of exigency and crisis. There is nothing facetious about God’s exigent deliverance in these times of leniency and fasting as the wineskins preserved from the lineage of old will perdure until they have their fill and the Earth is saturated with the blood of the prescience of a Cattaneo prophecy guarded in his 6-24-2006 set which hints at a catastrophic scenario potentially impending right now or of a future variety where “blood will be pouring like oil gushing out of a well” “respirators will have their fill” “hospitals be closing” etc. and in these steep harbingers we find poise and pause to reflect that the majesty of God is unfurled unpredictably by showcasing the redemptive power of the autarky of the imagination to see the unforeseeable and lurk in the dungeons of the unknown dengonins just to spy with privy knowledge about the circular circus of privation encircling me like the rapture of murders of ravens that are a crow shy of an X-Files repute...Of that situation that the afflictions of the many matter to the anointed few that delegate because of Jethro and through the power of the Levitical orders to abolish some Kosher restrictions among some apikoros Jews that lean on my wisdom because the suffering of animals should be a suffrage for sentient rights of animals not to bleed excessively into a slow painful death. I urge all Jews not to let those cows or other animals suffer so grievously at the hands of malefaction just for a petty consecration which proves a hollow point about sacrifice and thereby seek to abolish some Kosher demarcations on the grounds that they are inhumane sacrilege because the ransom of Jesus of Nazareth’s suffering and agony on the cross-rather than his blood as many people beguiled more on physical manifestations of trauma rather than the emotional toil of suffering that bears more incumbent on the human sympathy-consecrates all virtues of circumcision and makes meat ceremonially clean because we serve a miracle-worker God who hasn’t finished his last work yet because more thaumaturgy is in store. The antagonist of history is congealed human superstition filtered through the siphon of protective scurrilous fears and petty vendettas borne of willborne hatred of tribe and division that was the fettle of preliterate societies of hyperdulia because they knew the iconography of Christ and marveled at his miracles but believed too strongly in retributive justice to scare away the herds of the contrite to a monasticism of plight and blight that consecrated  many great human achievements in scholastic virtue and scientific importance but ultimately found relegation before Gutenberg saved history with his seminal watershed invention third only to the second place wheel and the first place advent of human language itself as the most prominent plucky invention of human revitalization and through the salons of France and the dramaturgy of Shakespeare we found an apex of enlightenment that provoked revolutionary ideas not so guarded by gingerly blackguarded varnish of a superstition for the metal tablets that illustrated magically the future for an abiding audience of the past which must have seemed an abominable miracle to the astounded puritans of the times because songs like Love Story (at least the music video) suggests that the song circulated in the past eras of the English Renaissance before electric lighting was invented. We have all to thank for the invention of rock and roll which is an esoteric title for a sizable momentum of catalyzed verve that enchants the planet still with the majesty of the harp and the lyre to glorify God for all eternity and Allah for all the worlds he possesses in his infinite bounty one in the same for the culminated vision of all hallowed prophets with an emphasis on Surah 2 accentuated to the Christian audience even if neglected by the Muslim audience. I am primarily a Christian but I believe Islam is a divine path worth pursuing on a tentative basis but I have yet to outstretch my hands to try and reach the barnacles of a distant world beyond my womb and bereft of my lineage even though I stand united with the Abrahamic faiths that solidify truth and memorialize the superorganism messiah of humanity in collaboration with our celestial hosts to foist the ribbons of the figurative far-flung Pleiades and the harps of the harpricks of the just as distant but transfixing Orion to envelope the earth in sincere repentance before the holy flock of the justifiable truths found in the candor of devotionals and hymns to the immemorial God of all Creation that is the impetus behind every ambition-if only subconsciously in his universal psyche and consciously the catalyst behind every cohesive machination or orchestration of complex human and alien activity but subsumed in the psychism of God-is the idea that we are living indelible elements that constitute his superorganism in the theoplasm that is circumjacent and adjoined to his intentions that he surveys with such nimongue ease that his wednongues go out of style very slowly because his vogue is the ultimate champion against the misprision of militant psychiatric injustice that needs to be rectified by top-down government action to debrief and inform the necessary travail to surmount my challenges and assume a subsidiary role in the government and the ecclesiarchy to shepherd the shepherds and write for a living with a fair governmental stipend and a partially uncensored internet so my fanfare can envelope a broader portion of the world. I issue a humbled but ultimately otiose entreaty that Donald J. Trump, a personal hero of mine, can be a participant to my plevisable situation by appointing a team of people to work with me on the social engineering of the future and most importantly the ligature of the ecumenical cause for aggiornamento of the ecumenical cause of Abraham and all of his descendants because we all abide by that sacred covenant in the broader world that inhabits our sacred rites and rituals. We should also embrace the boundaries of mysticism to fathom the depths of the theoplasm more fully to understand how the firstborn of all creation is the perpetuity of sentience for the revival of respiration for new species yet to come even more beautiful and prosperous than us and those that already exist frolicking in approximated heavens that we might meet upon transmigration as reincarnated wisps of superior worlds of heavens inhabited by the segues of death but knowing no despair. But I stridently believe in the ultimate promise of an ineffable splendor of a real final resting place or a cradle for the supervisors of the isangelous that orbits above our heads and flutters in our considerations as the vast multitude of worlds.with heroic saviors that spellbind the universe together with a stitchwork of mastery of the fraternal bonds that divide some species from others by insuperable bounds of space and time but through the gift of transcended time ushered by alienesque invention and we have thus been bequeathed a new unexpected emergence phenomenon that is aperspectival in temporal terms but always recumbent upon the prolific dance with a jousting destiny toying with us through swarpollock and other machines of sentinels but never tiring their terrier race as subservient to the human imagination ambitious beyond former bounds.
    Thank God we have a president that presides over the defeat of the strictures of warped and intorted hypocrisies of orthopraxy for the candid endeavor of the plain plaid truth of the vibrancy of germane beating the pulp pallor of the nebbich calculations of uxorious plumage plucky in its resolve to serenade our youthful cadets in their continued resolve to chaperoned campaigns of the barnstorm of the obvious for the conclamation of the ultimate victory of history over its worst proclivities that suspend themselves in the tentpoles of time and space as glaring menaces of affliction. The gated entryway to prosperity should be unfurled with majesty and a welcoming grace to sustain cordial deeds and promote fundamental encounters with vagary not with a vagrant fission but an emergent fusion not of hyperbolic atrocity but rather the subsidence of the chisel of directive ambition that serves the greatest causes of the ****** of dignity to transcend the fettle of disarray. The quibbles of the questermongers and the querulous wernaggles of relative impotence matter greatly to the large bulk of a hibernating humanity but when we all awaken to a universal truth that serves a flickerstorm of revolutionary usucaption of the halidom of tomorrow experienced by the foresight of today. We levy the largesse of a collective bronteum that warns and admonishes gently the people behind the curtains that might find objectionable some of the barnstorms inherent to this missive of doctrinaire but soluble missions to save humanity from its worse caverns of idolatry and to anoint the brightest light to beat the most deafening din of darkness that can be imagined by the sterile vapid retreats of privilege into insularity-we fight not for a mercenary cause but for the valorous insurrection sanctioned by the chartered expedition of new frontiers for a newfound freedom found in fundamental vouchsafes of a freer speech in the lyceum of the knowable reality of noogenesis. We should never suborn the dacoitage of the hybridized compromises of the halvork of mandarism but always tolerate the entreaties of amicable jousts of demarche even when combative with a peaceful irenic resolve that is contempered with virility rather than pomp and not even a hint of virulence because the collective world depends on a quorum of well-spoken and considered thinkers adjudicating a bonhomie rather than provoking a collieshangie. The world should not spurn error but castigate it calmly because the worst errors of temerity are remediated by the ploys of the treacle of the imaginary plane of the supersolid convergence of the ulterior with the pragmatic that serves the working class as well as the shepherds of elite institutions because all deserve a fair hearing in the court of commonwealth justice. There is no treachery in universal irenology that special barleychild of serendipity that shields us from harm while providing bulwarks to stabilize economies and sustain the recognition of our wholesome usucaption of newly acquired deeds and merchandise that spawns an ingemination of technological revolution incumbent upon declassification that leads to a resurgent robustness of economic conditions that calibrates properly on the proper alkendur of the hikkle of hype mixed with disdain. We suppose that the remixed panmixia of virtual insanity doesn’t become an affliction because in many ways it might meet abomination but some people lean on the leniency of felicity to swell the coffers rather than populate the coffins of the agreeable pivot between the sustenance of choice and amicable adjustments in economic security meets a run-on sentence of the levies of strain as the imponderables outnumber the certainties of the covert. We populate the future by going back to the past and this is why the movie is so entitled Back to the Future because if you think about it, it requires a recumbent logic of a recursive incursion of the origination of the future visible to the past to create the impetus to sustain the vitality of a resurgence of travel to the future itself one of the most obvious giveaways in movie titles ever devised by the clever. We encounter the timing of the lightning and thus hear the thunder not of the radioglare but the laskerade and serenade of the pulpit of good deeds rectified by the rectiserial visionaries that balk at orthodromics when the artful bypass of nonlinearity is favored for curiosity rather than missives of emissary diplomacy.
The reparations of tomorrow are the guerdon of yesteryear, the heyday of seminal prophecies that consummated a theological brunt that revolutionized the perspective of eagles nest lookouts all around the world to sempiternal decryption of history showcased by the sheen of prophecies now culminated in the effervescent now is a plangent epiphany in the life of a storybook romance with an artful dalliance with a romanticist ideal of an enlisted destiny recruited to cement its own purpose with concrete action without flagging resolve. The ultimatum of history was a faltered filibuster of the listless historian marveling at the prescient telaesthesia of the unknown visibilia that protrude in remontant certainty that the memorials of yesteryear catapult this cause into the fruition of a dated missive of coded bywords encrypted by the chronological clepsammia of allotted time for special occasions when the entirety of space-time folded upon itself to anoint itself champion of the supersolid reality of the surrealism draped over the tentpoles of abundant absolution that excuses the kisswonks of the glaring threats of Wilkes Booth to entomb a heroic titan of imposture as the real effigy of a slain delay of strenuous calculation to appease the Confederate heart wounded by the diacopes of struggle. In this rollicking turmoil of a roiled time of rookery we can celebrate that the amasthenic weight of the historical certitudes of the docimasy of memorialized junctures in time when all was denuded barefaced in the sight of the world to marvel at the rigged artisans of the artistry of furtive skullduggery that imposes no astringent rebukes other than those reserved for departed gyrovagues of hallswallop before their due time and season, we marvel at the irony that an insular vociferous vehemence of clairvoyance predicated on the absolved shrive of history for aborning and alighted apostasies now stands regnant in triumph of the space-time continuum. This might be an overstatement of the herald of a day signified by a transcendent conversion to a theology reified by the rengall discoveries of the intuitive theopneustic truths of the subsultus of vagary and vicissitude that the day when the code was cracked about the fractures of history converging upon the latticework of ephemeral and ethereal cords of cordial embrace of the cryptadia belonging to the “commonwealth of the aliens of Israel” (Eph 2:12) became evident to the masses was the chosen day of encroachment upon the suspicions of the alerted masons of the American Revolution-to ward off with apotropaic beacons of light glinting in lighthouse caverns of repositories of unknown treasuries-the salvation of the human race from the dudgeons of apostasy by the consecrated creed of the newfangled credenda that borrows heavily from lore to make this fabled date stammer as a freckle in a dimpled time that is cute but eccentric in its flapdoons of memorial that shower history with innumerable examples of the numerological importance of consecrating or desecrating a given day based on the furtive skulks of hidden troves of luxuries the elite have always bestowed upon the elect. So maybe this day wasn’t as transcendent as it could have been and maybe there is a resigned awgrudge that such a pilfer of time would make such a resonant dent on the pride of Britain to provoke their invasion and scuttle the American bastions of prideful reconnaissance of the future bestowed by the patronage of elective privilege, but this day will always be canonical in its ability to reprove the critics that the orchestra of history is not a heterochrony with destiny but a very validation of its truth in serpentine convolutions of the bywords of the guarded synquests of aristocracy. May the doubters gleefully jibe at the overstatement of a heroic task on a filibuster against the cretins that foresaw the trudge of ignominy and still willingly stooped to the levels of evil cadges into prurience that they foisted upon the reminiscence of evil protrusions that they might be forever banished to the barathrum for their pitiable deeds to desecrate and blaspheme that historic wallop of synquest to trounce the trinces of an uncertain future gravitated and mesmerized by certain facts known widely enough to provoke wars and enter the pasilaly of universal knowledge enough to warrant further inspection. The wravel of time is elegant and exquisite and all the glory goes to the coryphaeus dengonin that braved infamy and rebuke to soldier on in demarches to dignify the otherwise seedy drab and daft drolleries of pretense that any uncouth man could ever emerge from the throes of absolute defeat into the vindication that history either by intention or by accident is convex and aimed to entrench the vital truth that accidents are convenient but deliberation is calculus that deserves fanfare. It was because of a seminal theory of theology that this day earned its repute in history because it coincided with such rattled seismic events that are turgid with blessed tragedy that is never gloated over but always solemnly commemorated in hymn and deed of charity and eleemosynary duty. The irony is that the Revolutionary War ended on May 12th 1784 which marked the exact time of the Earthquake in California at 5:12AM PST and that fact makes many subscribers to the scepsis of sebastomaniacal delusion postulates more keen on the acumen of the day that history unraveled at the seams and revealed its circular reference to an ennobled prophecy that was the momentum and excuse for many clarigations of force and many other heralded deeds of posture and gentility or savagery and desecration. All that matters now is that we know that history is not a myth but rather a stagecraft of timing that is predevoted by preordained memorials to the tithes of time to cement its own legacy as foresight transcends hindsight in its own largesse but also its brutal slaughter. If the encroachment of tyranny poaches its greatest champion to excoriate an overstated case of mania they will meet the Army of Me and believe me their exhaustion will no know swift end in the halls of a deep dark purgatorial gridlock cell of eternal torment at the castration of their virility or their spayed femininity because I will not be reduced to rubble because of some hapless Facebook posts misinterpreted by the garbled miscegenated heap of albatrosses of invidious lies trying desperately to dethrone my virtues and seek the ulterior misprision of a  forever vanquished hope that resides in the torment of a plagued future negligent of the sacerdotal duty of the guardians to protect history rather than brutally savage it with dismal reprisals that are pangs of the deepest ire that will provoke a choleric rage enough for them to have to barge into my apartment and break down my doors. They will not trespass into my sanctuary city because I inoculate myself hereby from any incursions foreign or domestic on my livelihood for posts that do not hint at instability but only memorialize cute facts of the gawsy rather than the gawky imposture of the morality police trying to entomb me in the glaikery of a forever sunken refuge of homelessness and ill-gotten subterfuge.

I lay there dying
With my mind wrapped in agonizing knots
Endeavouring to unravel the ardous mysteries of life
Resounding bangs wrecked my temple
With soul confined in fabric mesh of guilt wallowing in a limbo painted with slimes of  failures
   my third eye could glimpse spewed papers spilled ink and broken pens all baying for a piece of my inner being
   The mission i had forsaken was baring it fangs ready to devour me
   As i lay there dying it dawned to me the  the race was over i was hanging in a ravine with judgement at the finish line awaiting my selfish soul
rivulet of ink soaked my **** skin sizzling and corroding my flesh the pain was unwritable  misty wraith  shrouded my eyes snatching away my last moment sight of the beautiful sun
   I lay there with no sense of time laboured breath managed to escape my nasal cavity heartbeat drummed skimply giving me a last chance to make peace with my fate
Inside my restless heart my soul was dying
A cold heat was drying my old *****
My final dying wish tried to escape through my clenched
Teeth
I lay there trying to push the smell of death through my cracked throat
As i chocked with foul air of all the wrongs i had commited
My mask and guise that had obscured my face peeled away seething away my melalin baring my true identity to world masses
Numbed thoughts clogged my mind soaking the reality and waterlogging my six sense
I lay there with needles of truth jabbing every inch of my flesh
In hell demons remixed a dirge with my name reminding me i belonged in abyss
As i lay there dying a wraith of mist shrouded my whole being reminding me of all the darkness inside me weighing me down remindind me i had to die n e ever rise again
I lay there dying
Wondering how many will be left crying

It's 1:21am.
And I would've still been on the phone with you, had it not gone all wrong.
Now I just lie in a mattress of emptiness & an ambiance of lightlessness.
Listening to lyric-less piano chords remixed with the memories of you and me.
And how we used to be.

I hope that someday,
Just as every overplayed song on the radio,
This melody will fade out.
Never to be heard again.

Romancing the aether. If soul mates are just little parts of the big bang that are meandering their way back.  Knowing everyone is just a little remix of what they came across up to that point... then maybe when you meditate and be one with the universe you're just allowing everything to reorganize back to it's natural space. Telling everyone that their learned fears and hatred are not necessary... we're all fragile little bits of stardust trying to find where we fit again. If you give love, and understand that we all just want to survive, feel happy and loved... then it's so much easier to abandon all these unnecessary negatives we have collected. Fall in love with everything and nothing. Be appreciative of the space between.

Azrael Azrael sweet angel death, send your body unto me, let me partake of ritual and rise, flawless and enraptured, into burning sky and hysteria

Pink haired staccato speech acid tripped tongues and twisted mouths you were conflicted, you were conflicted you were and then you weren't

Fallout of frat house suicide party remixed to ****** birth, holy degradation raise your weak and trembling wrists and want for more

Opiod mass epidemic and rising real estate costs, everybody wants a ride on the wheel until it drops off and takes everything in the periphery with it

I'm singing, I'm singing Mary mother dear Mary, will you come to reclaim me, I have waited here forever for a sign

Can you feel this, lover?
I am your death mask
I am your ghost and I speak through you
Kiss me hard with your open Judas mouth
Pray forgiveness into me
Cauterize me
**** me like an open wound
*** into oblivion and never wash your hands again

I am vessel
Open mouth begging hands
Drain into me so I may exist

Empty spaces in childhood bedrooms,
Abscess of feeling **** of spirit
Pure ******* energy
Siren call of the solipsists and the narcissists and the junkies at the church and the poets at the bar and the once sacred twice ****** ego
Nihilist **** and surrealist *****
Somebody has to clean up all this mess

Hit a last high and coast down, come together, shatter
Natural symmetry of becoming and unbecoming
We are working towards an end we will never see

But I can almost feel it coming, yes
I can feel it rise
Christlike and bleeding from the tomb of want,
Raise me, raise me,
Sanctify and cure
Strip me to naked soul ******, light
Light, heat, beginning, beginning,
Send me higher
Send me infinite and screaming into a moment, world historic and vicious, let me emerge ****** but alive, steel and gunpowder

Take me in all my pieces,
Ash tongue to golden hair,
Magician to magic,
Life to death to back again,
Take me by my cinder burning hands,
and teach them how to explode

Methinks hmm, perhaps
I admittedly self plagiarize and quite aware
aforementioned amalgamated, conglomerated,
fabricated, jerry rigged, and organized
eye gripping titled
poem already aired a year plus ago,
though revisiting said theme
downplayed now as thoughts blare,

though similarly filched content
(pertaining to other literary endeavors)
invariably glommed electronically
(digitally remastered and remixed),
nevertheless gobbledygook enigmatically
jerkily, and quirkily communicated,
sans trademark Pi Seine (seen) fishtail career
as applies to uber secreted questions.

This chap challenges himself,
an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
within psychic calm and weal
with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally anonymous reader
mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

a black hole sun (son) prominence
asthma faux eminence amber gris
long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter
in a dark alley coal less sing
burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
would be proffered to hear.

Most instances when I initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
NASA hiss (Onassis) revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly, grow
tusk long haired woolly creature
out malm mouth drool dripping
trademark characteristic viz
pencil neck geek
madly scratching itchy hairs

dotting chinny chin chin of
garden variety generic hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby frank and ernest poet;
home body (nowhere man);
beetle browed fool on the hill;
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy common Joe,
just biden his time,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
comes home to stir the roost.

(Hard boiled eggheads merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst
of tangential threads populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),

trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena, I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate

coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to ***** cells fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. ***

Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining Motorhead
(ace of spades) tour de force,
whereat fingers of the left hand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expanded Leaves (of Grass)
finds me Waltzing Whitman nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.

This penchant spurring confabulation
explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
expatiating honest to dog ness
figuratively go win west
hoard (word) ** seeking
mine own mother lode acquired,
via verse a tile material undergoing
electric kool aid acid test
incorporating rigorous (mortise
and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,

and webbed woven semicolon aided nest
reinforced with double entendre
tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
(ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)
tenants in common beau geste
ma bell heavable own home spun faux
Cambridge Analytica
Jimmy Crack corn and I don't care
gimcrackery defaced facebook best
bite, with absolute zero
data snatched aye evasively attest.

Somebody took Kanye West's music and remixed it all with itself.
Its brilliant.
It makes me think of feelings I've overlooked.
Makes me come crawling
back to my work.
Drooling for inspiration.
It's ok though,
I am fine with it.

A lot of it only ages well if it's
torn apart later.
A lot of it is ****
and I'm fine with that too.

We are at our best
when we are being rebuilt
by the shaking hands of others.

It took me awhile to comprehend that.
It's taken others longer.
Others have yet to even glimpse it.

On my best days I am all three people.

I've been painting for a long time
Retouching, crumbling it up
Giving it a new shade
Blue replacing the red
Waves replacing the wind
Patching it up a bit in the edges
A stroke here and a stroke there
Trying to unmix the sky
Though i know
Somethings can't be unmixed
Nor can be remixed
Retouching again,  crumbling it off
And there you are 
Telling me,  i am not the painter
Telling me i am the canvas
Should've told this a little earlier
I lost a lot of crumbled up skies
Lost a whole ray of colours
Lost all the worn out brush ends
And worst of it all
I lost a lot of 'me'
Trying to paint
When i was really the canvas
                               By Anjala