You're progressive; and so you must denigrate
our triumphant victorious candidate.
Yes, you shot off your mouth.
Now you're trapped to the south
of the land where you promised to emigrate.

Before your resolve starts to stall,
you must heed the Canadian call.
Pack your bags and go forth
to your home in the north.
(or climb over that Mexican wall).

It's the END ! Now the Right will resurge,
and a new coalition emerge.
A Canadian rental
might help with your mental
well-being. We'll play you a dirge.

Proceeding in the wake of mankind's scourge,
Spoken are the words of this great demiurge,
At dusk the cowled of the night shall emerge,
And convey a true evil on God's Earth to resurge.  

Unleashed and unfathomed, behold the words of a phantom
Turning cities into craters and the oceans to chasms,
Imagine: a picture perfect world, can it exist,
Without the plague of the human race, lost without a trace in abyss!

Ignorance tragic, the magic of bliss,
Static damage to the rabid on this planet of ****,
An example of this: the progression of time
Deteriorating in abundance, a final judgment for mankind.

Exterminate the population, man, woman and child,
Convictions, the arrival, apocalypse nigh!
None will survive, total disaster, blood stain alabaster
Abstain, refrain, salvation from a heavenly ******* shall be sought in vain.

Unexplainable cataclysm,
The missing piece of the puzzle unseen in catechism,
But it was written somehow and somewhere
And the emergence of its purpose was unclear, deny what you fear!

The end is near, malevolent seraphim invade,
The end is here, a feeble humanity kneels and prays
It was revealed, none prepared and none spared
And act of evil, fitting for the slaughter of a people.

Mephistophelian ascension,
A requiem for the souls of the ruined be sung
For a destruction, beyond all human comprehension.
Alarum with no human intervention!

An apoplectic annihilation, fed lies by inhalation,
Microbial immolation, infected detestation,
Evasive evasion, catastrophic, melancholic
Leaving mankind intoxicated by his own narcotic

Whilst hypnotically induced, the demons invade,
Equestrian quartet lead the massive evil brigade
A battalion of stallions, on fray to slay grace
Laid to waste in the face of the inhuman race.

To keep pace, without a trace, Messiah on Fire
In dire need, erase calumny the Heavenly liar feeds
Desire breeds and hatred grows
Within those a crueler fate chose the pyre to bleed.

An ascension to an unknown throne overthrown,
A crown adorned in thorns be thy Kingdom's scorn
To the Black, I am sworn, prophet to the swarm,
The scores of the forlorn born to battle in the storms

Of Ragnarok, the magma rocks rain from the sky,
The Earth will end in fire, watch the genesis die.
Terrestrial crucifixion, the mortals' last affliction,
Desperation bringing forth a dogmatic dereliction.

Infliction of pain, deadly diction to the slain in vain,
A spoken name, confliction causing friction
An addiction to the wicked, auspicious yet pernicious,
Foreboding a sinister outcome of ecumenical wishes.

Tú, que estás la barba en la mano
meditabundo,
¿has dejado pasar, hermano,
la flor del mundo?Te lamentas de los ayeres
con quejas vanas:
¡aún hay promesas de placeres
en los mañanas!Aún puedes casar la olorosa
rosa y el lis,
y hay mirtos para tu orgullosa
cabeza gris.El alma ahíta cruel inmola
lo que la alegra,
como Zingua, reina de Angola,
lúbrica negra.Tú has gozado de la hora amable,
y oyes después
la imprecación del formidable
Eclesiastés.El domingo de amor te hechiza;
mas mira cómo
llega el miércoles de ceniza;
Memento, ****...Por eso hacia el florido monte
las almas van,
y se explican Anacreonte
y Omar Kayam.Huyendo del mal, de improviso
se entra en el mal,
por la puerta del paraíso
artificial.Y no obstante la vida es bella,
por poseer
la perla, la rosa, la estrella
y la mujer.Lucifer brilla. Canta el ronco
mar. Y se pierde
Silvano, oculto tras el tronco
del haya verde.Y sentimos la vida pura,
clara, real,
cuando la envuelve la dulzura
primaveral.¿Para qué las envidias viles
y las injurias,
cuando retuercen sus reptiles
pálidas furias?¿Para qué los odios funestos
de los ingratos?
¿Para qué los lívidos gestos
de los Pilatos?¡Si lo terreno acaba, en suma,
cielo e infierno,
y nuestras vidas son la espuma
de un mar eterno!Lavemos bien de nuestra veste
la amarga prosa;
soñemos en una celeste
mística rosa.Cojamos la flor del instante;
¡la melodía
de la mágica alondra cante
la miel del día!Amor a su fiesta convida
y nos corona.
Todos tenemos en la vida
nuestra Verona.Aun en la hora crepuscular
canta una voz:
«Ruth, risueña, viene a espigar
para Booz!»Mas coged la flor del instante,
cuando en Oriente
nace el alba para el fragante
adolescente.¡Oh! Niño que con Eros juegas,
niños lozanos,
danzad como las ninfas griegas
y los silvanos.El viejo tiempo todo roe
y va de prisa;
sabed vencerle, Cintia, Cloe
y Cidalisa.Trocad por rosas azahares,
que suena el son
de aquel Cantar de los Cantares
de Salomón.Príapo vela en los jardines
que Cipris huella;
Hécate hace aullar a los mastines;
mas Diana es bella;y apenas envuelta en los velos
de la ilusión,
baja a los bosques de los cielos
por Endimión.¡Adolescencia! Amor te dora
con su virtud;
goza del beso de la aurora,
¡oh juventud!¡Desventurado el que ha cogido
tarde la flor!
Y ¡ay de aquel que nunca ha sabido
lo que es amor!Yo he visto en tierra tropical
la sangre arder,
como en un cáliz de cristal,
en la mujerY en todas partes la que ama
y se consume
como una flor hecha de llama
y de perfume.Abrasaos en esa llama
y respirad
ese perfume que embalsama
la Humanidad.Gozad de la carne, ese bien
que hoy nos hechiza,
y después se tornará en
polvo y ceniza.Gozad del sol, de la pagana
luz de sus fuegos;
gozad del sol, porque mañana
estaréis ciegos.Gozad de la dulce armonía
que a Apolo invoca;
gozad del canto, porque un día
no tendréis boca.Gozad de la tierra que un
bien cierto encierra;
gozad, porque no estáis aún
bajo la tierra.Apartad el temor que os hiela
y que os restringe;
la paloma de Venus vuela
sobre la Esfinge.Aún vencen muerte, tiempo y hado
las amorosas;
en las tumbas se han encontrado
mirtos y rosas.Aún Anadiódema en sus lidias
nos da su ayuda;
aún resurge en la obra de Fidias
Friné desnuda.Vive el bíblico Adán robusto,
de sangre humana,
y aún siente nuestra lengua el gusto
de la manzana.Y hace de este globo viviente
fuerza y acción
la universal y omnipotente
fecundación.El corazón del cielo late
por la victoria
de este vivir, que es un combate
y es una gloria.Pues aunque hay pena y nos agravia
el sino adverso,
en nosotros corre la savia
del universo.Nuestro cráneo guarda el vibrar
de tierra y sol,
como el ruido de la mar
el caracol.La sal del mar en nuestras venas
va a borbotones;
tenemos sangre de sirenas
y de tritones.A nosotros encinas, lauros,
frondas espesas;
tenemos carne de centauros
y satiresas.En nosotros la vida vierte
fuerza y calor.
¡Vamos al reino de la Muerte
por el camino del Amor!

Whenever the mist of pain and torment loomed;
And my already broken heart, dashed to pieces
You picked them all and glued them back together, mother
You helped me to resurge, with thousands of amorous kisses

When I was surrounded by deep blue silences and my heart cried in pain
You wept my ocean of tears but, you never shed one
The excruciating pain of my life, was hurting you too
But you always said, ‘My love, the struggles have just begun’

Beneath the tender look, your ardent black eyes beamed rebelliousness
I know that you wanted me to be the woman you never got to be
And so, as a present on your birthday, I make you a promise
That I will always be in the shelter of your arms; I will be the woman you want me to be and nothing will ever sunder you and me.

Rhythmically reducing time
for you
for I.  
Coagulation increasingly lessens the beat.  

Off-written and wrecked,
We can’t turn home as
Junkies and
Dealers.
This home,
Washed out in familial gossip of relapse and resurge
After our firefights
Against venomous appetites.
Yet here we light this pipe, you and I,
With a reprise of shell-shocked war stories
Reanimating the grind
Of addiction’s battle.

Promise by the world,
A mind’s conviction and a 12-step program
Would naturally manifest in abstinent purity
And after,
Serenity.

Through the itch
Still
We are lumbering on, yet raging.
Violently insisting that these dreams are vouched for and
Stances held
       Should leave our slicked soles immobile.

Smooth winds crinkling past twigs
And I with you, my dealer,
Am a lubricated branch on smooth-weathered granite grade.

In descent I tear at the throat with embarrassed tears.
Cries that only slicken the stone.
So of it, I swallow what will fill,
And beg you to do the same.
As fingernails rip from flesh
In grip of a still frame I can hear the 12-step program bid out again.  
“Let there be sweat till the clouds run red.
Let trailing beads glisten while
I the blossom
Begin budding in the fall.”

Daughters and Brothers:

Please resurge your relations if these nations wither away,
bringing endless vacancy,
as language becomes barren,
the dollar's value deserted,
and Pharaoh's hire hands
baring sharp arrows.
Or were they claws, not caring
to spare their favorite slaves
in pyramids of kings raised in a debased nature,
the same way we feel
we must hold our's sacred?

Yours Truly

P.S: this bs still exists
in fixed, pre-paid paper.

the idea being, opposed to what james joyce invented in ulysses and sartre replicated with a lack of punctuation marks: point being - at what point is atlas speaking, and at what point is sisyphus speaking? and, as it happens: when are both speaking, and where one of the either is introspecting in the domain of thought... that least futile realm of action, that act of mining: enter the minotaur, who said: you keep both your orbs, i'm attempting a crossword puzzle from (a) to (b) with the only clues intertwined with a memorisation of R L L R R R L L R L R L R L L L L R L R R E (R. turn right / L. turn left, E. exit).

i'm getting this void re-entering
the orbit of planet-365 -
and it's bugging me -
  quite a simple observation -
what's with the volume of jokes?
western society is peppered
with comedy, or rather in
the non-classical sense of what
a comedy ought to be:
    they ****** the poets throughout
the ages: but comedians are
not writing comedies:
they're writing sketches - comedy
sketches... is anyone as tired as me
languishing under the:
  why is the fate of sisyphus always
deemed worse than the fate
of atlas?!
             i find that western society
has become infested with a comedy
virus...
   i've never so many jokes akin
to ****** laughter, where what could
have been genuine, is merely
canned laughter replication...
so many jokes have been said:
but of the many jokes -
i remember my childhood,
as children we used to tell each other
jokes, and remember them...
there was this one about killing
mosquitos and how we went to the 3rd
mosquito's killed funeral...
some classics, that remain lost,
or at least archived in the deepest
recess of memory...
      if there ever was a plight of the west,
it came when western societies
"thought" themselves to be funny...
   ****, it was going so great up to the early
00s...
      boy, they could sing... they could
sing their hearts out!
but then they stopped singing
and thought it was better to tell a joke:
mind you: there are no decent jokes
in the anglophone world -
because:
  (a) too many jokes are being said
(b) a joke is a correctional facility
based more upon insinuated-clarification
than slap-stick spontaneity...
and there's, of course
(c) with so many jokes, it's hard
to tell a decent one...
  a memorable one...
   i still think the anglophone world should
have concentrated on their singing
prowess...
can we talk about the black privilege of
the bible belt gospel choirs?!
  the 100m sprinters?!
          breathing apparatus of the choir
like the guns of navarro!
          why do the english-speaking
nations suddenly think they're funny?
they're not...
    if you managed to watch the original
comedy show from the 1970s
you'd find that there was no canned laughter
instrumented like a bad italian *****...
akin to the moment in *the brand new testament
with ea telling marc that he has a nice
voice, so he does the "subtitles of onomatopoeia"
versus authentic pleasure in the movie...
and meets his german sweetheart...
      the downfall of western society,
if there ever was one, given the 1920s observations
from germany: when the english stopped
singing, and turned their sight toward
comedy...
   i hate comedy for lazy people,
as much as i hate intelligent comedy,
i hate modern comedy because modern comedy
is sketchy, it's not scripted to a proper
comedy in the classical sense -
       the more jokes you tell,
the less chance you have of a memorable
joke -
    i sometimes wish to read a book
of maxims: and find a joke among them -
like the joke of the two picts copper wire
a penny argument and stretch armstrong -
or how welsh men get laid,
              pushing a mutton off a cliff...
tell me a joke worth being said
side-by-side akin to vine vidi vici -
and you can have the floor...
             i think i've had enough of
laughter,
     i am actually beyond tired to respond
with laughter...
          the anglophone world used
to have just great songs, and by having
great songs was renowned for
telling bad, overly intelligent jokes -
                  in all honesty i find more
laughter from moments in between
sedative refills where i am looking for
       a cogito - that has no ergo-bridge
arithmetic into a sum -
   i laugh, because once i start
looking for my "narrative" -
    or the "loss" of therein -
    the moment i stop thinking and
never demand it to resurge with a "purpose"
i find that - omnia in aether est
                    (all is in the air) -
   which is just an alea iacta est
                                            reiteration...
funny: i find catching myself not thinking -
more funny, than any current take
on comedy -
    and it's not exactly pennies
falling from heaven:
   everything on this earth is thrown
into the air, and whoever catches what he
catches - he tends to -
                       the same fatalism as of old.

Reality show
Notoriety hoes
Follow what glows
Behind a fame nose
In a shame pose
As the game goes
They keep staying low
While nasty stains grow
From thinking vapidly
And acting rapidly
Not speaking factually
We don’t see them actually

Seeming tame
And plain
Seeking fame
Their aim
All the same
They play a game
Of hoops of flame

Becoming circus acts
By removing tact
On a negative track
Of shooting flak
And shooting back
Negativity attracts
Harmful impacts
At an old impasse
Of cold syntax
Warranting a gin tax
Drinking from a tin flask
So the emptiness is masked

The reverb
Resurge
Rewords
The birds
Caught in the Internet
Like a flying intercept
Stealing their intellect
With a mundane misdirect
Of inane interests

A new method for dollar dreamers
Now the cynical screamers
Are digital streamers
Pivotal pleasers
Concerned with clicks
By scratch and kick
They hatch a trick
To match a *****
Dispatched to fix
Their lack of hits

The loud and obnoxious
Are proud of the noxious
And opening boxes
They stream video games
Other people made
They just played
For a good grade
In the leisure lane
No pleasure or pain
To treasure my brain

Their reality shows
In modality woes
Personality froze
Under their nose
In a monitor glow
Development slows
As far as irrelevant goes
They’re part of the flow
That doesn’t grow

Taking the shameful road to attention
For a dishonorable mention
Avoiding knowledge retention
For a superficial invention
Of social extension
They have a fatal mentality
That perception is reality
But the exception is vitality
That isn’t just an eventuality
For one must be capable and willing
To try to produce something fulfilling
Instead of just simple time killing
While hourglass sand keeps spilling

on this day, i write
tunes and voices coming in one ear
playing your message as i pause the music
playing the music as i leave your message

thought to resurge but a tough palm stood
to release the string from my opposite drum
attached is my depth from a pit, yelling
with you, we lost the bucket to save it

for this day i shut
so my fading code unbars
scripts i thought i'd never again crack
since my inclination to yours for me to be a part

from now and when i hear you
again will play the music that turns me than up
uncertain, but to neighbor by far is to keep you
from living in my lines

Cuando se fueron todos, yo
me quedé a solas con mi alma.

Plaza cuadrada, con su fuente
sin una lágrima de agua.
Balcones de piedra y de hierro.
Tejados de teja dorada.
Vencejos de la primavera
por el aire de la mañana...

Qué sosiego volver, hablarte,
abrazarte con mis miradas,
besarte la boca de tiempo
donde el polvo seca la lágrima.
Qué descanso poner mi oído
sobre tu madera encantada,
apurar las gotas de música
de la caja de tu guitarra,
recordar, preguntar, soñar
ahora que nada importa nada...

(Borro los pájaros. Enciendo
un cáliz de oro ante una acacia
Y, de pronto, un rumor lejano,
como de mar que se desata,
órgano de oro que libera
sus ruiseñores y sus aguas,
viento del sur que pulsa y sopla
espigas y juncos y cañas...

Ya los balcones solitarios
se han poblado de hombres que cantan,
de hombres que sueñan y se yerguen
en el umbral de la mañana.
Las flores doblan su carmín
allá en las praderas lejanas.
Las piedras sacuden el yugo
de los siglos que las encantan.

Todo resurge, clama, vive,
mueve sus pies, pezuñas, alas,
arde en la hoguera del instante,
hinche los mares y montañas,
desborda el tiempo, como un pájaro
que abre la puerta de su jaula.
Y, vencido el tiempo, en las manos
de Dios se duerme, que lo canta...)

Cuando se fueron todos, yo
me quedé a solas con mi alma.
Plaza cuadrada, con su fuente
sin una lágrima de agua.
Abril, blandiendo por el cielo
su acero pálido de espalda.
Qué sosiego tocarte, verte,
abrazarte con mis miradas,
apurar las gotas de música
de la caja de tu guitarra,
vagar sin fin y sin origen
sobre tus piedras hechizadas...

Andar sintiendo el alma muerta,
Dios mío, ya sin esperanza

Am I plastered?
Drunk or just hanging?
Taking a dunk or just sagging?
I am given to aphorisms
Morals that build us for a reason
Trying to keep us out of mental prisons
Words have me in a haze and I cannot erase these thoughts  that keep running in an entrancing maze.

Metamorphosis. There are matters that enforce this energy which is engorged within a metaphysical force. I use my fingers to pick up a pen so to expel a thought that lingers in my pineal gland.

Goodness. It is grace amazing that is in this place or just a god or the God who shows off his face. We are presented with a gift perennial that is wrapped with mystery. In mists the fists of fate take a swing and if we believe in the unseen we can trust grit and transcend beyond wit. Train our senses to be lit so they can send us beyond -ism's to the essence of goodness.

Locomotion. In my local state I give up my locale to some divine logic gate. I dial in to wire my mental coiling to follow a calling to inspire. Ever the wiser I should soar to the mystic spheres. But ground there is insulation and my calculation computes a technical movement in my skeletal. I am moving locating my next step, relaying locomotives which are concentric energy.

Soigné. A fine dame I dare meet on a fine day. So Ignorant of her beauty I parlay my chances with a few words of jest and curved zest to interact with her invitational tract. If I have a chance in fact I will make a pact to be with her throughout the days and forget about lustful tact. I resurge and her being is muse and to me it is a purge. I aim to converse with her for days and days so we can find confluence as we psychically converge. And I'll tell her that she is pulchritudinous and I am pale true to nought, waiting for my crafting.

Words or chords to find concordance. Some say say swords to slice and pierce and dictate worlds. I say they are mellifluous like a melody that sends a melancholy sadist out of his maladies. Magnanimously magnificent in moments of poetic artistry and meandering prose fixating methodically. From the mammary of the culinary belly we squeeze out these laid letters formed to mean but not to be mean to the means of our diction or magnify our addiction. Perhaps to quantify our intellect beyond the internet, we archive them in dictionaries and illustrate them in some encyclopaedia. Perhaps grunts and clicking of tongues is some medium... But words change the world where lords fail to write laws to keep us sane, and instead have swords forged to have any man slain.

My heart delights in your embrace,
Your cover for the multitude--
Insistence on a sacred place,
Where souls resurge in gratitude,
Accepting my outrageous mind
As easily as picture shows
That light the night as they unwind,
Amid the settling of crows.

My god just happened to me yesterday

And it shone blood, dark red blood.

The papers are red, the peepers are bled.

Shall we ever forgive us for being born? Shall we resurge with new hands for new signs?

Or will our fate slide towards inevitable mud? The question is lit, in every human nerve, but in mine burning coal replaces burning eyes and I cry in the Pompeian destruction of my heart.

Stand tall for those who fail.

This will be my last command,

Stand tall for those who fail.