The body is for life but only to die
then there is an exception not all is linear
there is a feminine rose after the death
for her no more death on Earth!
She was there before the first matter
it was in the making before her eyes.
The first and foremost luminary feminine
moved on heartily panning flawless flow
aligning into the finest angle of the first matter.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it as it comes to be
shaping and forming art of miracle:
One true masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on
praise be to the Lord she being made to measure
mathematically perfect by birth the pi is her!
(The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine
while the circumference of the circle is masculine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer and into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circles
and scans everything at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
she looks on and witnesses the first matter a water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.
Little chip bottomless deep into the finest nature
Fathima instills countless Boolean gates making
access to her beyond digital and AI and conditional.

The sky hasn't yet forgot that follows suit
first, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of the galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds the bottom.
Amidst this water circle floats the first soil
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
named the Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world following the first masculine
Fathima the first feminine pilgrimaged around it
not in the open but strictly in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hand of the uneven pi
every little fraction a small decimal counts connects to the dot showing and without showing a pattern
long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise!

The sun rises and retraces back in the middle lane,
the black box scores at the end of the day it's only a dark chart!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and syncs into the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!

Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

In a second grade classroom
a tiny ant with a treasure thinks only of taking it to his colony.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.

he drags
and pulls
and tugs

On a second grade classroom floor,
the ant's work is hard but will be worth it.
A big hero he will be.
So he drags a piece of popcorn much bigger than he.

he drags
and pulls
and tugs

On a second grade classroom rug,
the ant's task seems insurmountable but he knows of no other way.
So for an hour, he retraces his path backwards dragging a piece of popcorn
across the classroom rug.

He drags
and tugs
and pulls

In the open of a second grade classroom,
the ant feels exposed on the carpet but cover is closer now, he can feel it.
It's just there, where the wall meets the carpet.
A space just big enough to hide an ant.

Closer and closer.

He tugs and pulls and drags his prize closer still
Pulling and dragging the popcorn lurches across the carpet.

His rear legs reach cover
Then his thorax, his abdomen, his head with antennae and mandibles

then

The Problem.

and...

In a second grade classroom
a line of popcorn rests
where the carpet meets the wall.

and when i smell you in my clothes
for days after
like the burn of black coffee
when my arms retrace yours
and when i taste you on my teeth
for days after
like the sour of nicotine
when my tongue retraces yours
and when i feel you on my skin
for days after
like the strumming of strings
when my fingertips retrace yours
and when i hear you in my ear
for days after
like the setting of the sun
when my words retrace yours
and when i see you in my dreams
for days after
like the ghost of memory
when my thoughts retrace yours

that is when i begin to worry
that i no longer worry

The darkness comes when she closes her eyes.
Her body completely shuts down.
The slow moving heart beat, the soft even breathes.
Tell me again why she only sees flaws?

Her mind retraces her heart's wishes.
She dreams.
She dreams of a bright sky and lovely grass.
She dreams of the changing seasons with every color of the rainbow.
She dreams of the chirping birds and prancing deer.
She dreams of the salt water waves.
She dreams of the intoxicating tree lines.
She dreams.

When her heart wishes a little harder, she dreams once more.
She dreams of love.
She dreams of the perfect guy.
She dreams of *** and lust.
She dreams of kisses and cuddles.
She dreams of robbery.

All while her mind wanders the outside world moves forward.
The clock continues to tick it's minutes by.
It robs her of her fantasies. Of her desires.
When the clock chimes, up she rises.

Back to reality.
Back to the cruel world.
Back to not being able to see her dreams.
Right in front of her.

Why? Why? Why is so distant now? Why can't she just connect it all together?
Why?
Because even though her mind is beautiful in the realm of dreams, in reality it's quite the opposite.

She struggles - but no matter how bad it gets, no matter how many cuts she has, she lives for the chance to dream once again.
And when the sun falls beneath the horizon.
That she repeats. Once again.

The skin whispers and summons her hither,
To where secret stories lie hidden in depths
That she had not yet discovered,
The sigh of the flesh, the magnetism
Of touch, the electricity of lust beckon,
Her steps momentarily waver,
Yet she retraces them just in time,
Managing to overhear the conversation
Her heart was having with his,
There were sounds of throaty laughter,
Friendly nudges and incessant debates,
There was a fragrance of coffee in the air,
A nip of flirtation had begun to dance with care,
And there were cushions scattered on the floor.
She sat on the pink one,
And he sat at the other side,
Both immersed in that conference,
Knowing they would let their hearts
Talk each other out,
Before the skins began to talk out loud.

My everything
Is what you are
With our love
We can go far
You are in my life
I will be your wife
Emotions run high
Always your pumpkin pie
My heart races
My mind retraces
Spend my life with you
That’s what I want to do
You are in my heart always
Even on cloudy days
The butter on my toast
My exs are ghosts
I want you only
You’ll never be lonely

No Date
Ashli Jane

What do I want?
That's a very interesting
and difficult question...
so deep, & philosophical,

To wish? To crave?
but not to need?
for me at least
I say indeed,
hope you agreed
a requirement,
I think,
you must feel both,
& also to love,
you ...
must be,
should be,
could be?
...a true companion,
my very best friend
my lover,
who I confide in
until the very end,
your loving hands
on whom we can depend
your pretty lips,
my name he will defend,
rely on in our times of stress,
to whom in all,
I can confess
oh, when my life,
is such a mess,
comforting, trusting
emotionally intelligent
softly encouraging,
challenging me
feels like he's...
my destiny
able to reflect on
personal struggles
while accepting ours
such a beautiful mind
thoughtful and so, very, very kind
perceptive and insightful
to love him, delightful
and humorous
quick-witted,
handsome and right
loves me today,
& all through the night
in darkest of hours
& 'neath stormy showers,
astutely observant
sensitive to others
respected by all
especially by Mother,
creative and artistic
& oh so forgiving,
tappin' a foot,
enjoyin' just livin'
poetically rendering
sensual pleasures of life
amidst daily chores
in triumph and strife,
understanding and strong
a love lasting long,
magnetic attraction,
like moth to a flame,
never regret,
this love doesn't blame
in every single way
& every single day,
every molecular cell
in secrets he'll never tell
so beautifully familiar
surging through my veins
every thought inside my brain,
my body filled,
with endless hunger pangs,
my enlarged heart
it gets a start
with eager valves waiting
like a drug
in your hug
in your kiss,
that I miss,
& your lips,
touching me,
with those...
fingertips,
as again ...it skips,
your touch
is so much,
you are more
than before,
& not just enough
a binding agent
lovely & fragrant,
sticky sweet
A tasty treat,
I wait for you,
& love so true,
I want you
I need you
to know love
2 love you,
just one time,
tell me...
cannot be a crime?
a love like this is so divine,
like a beautiful sun coming up,
over the other side of that mountain
an awe inspiring experience
with no interference,
every time I see your face
or when I don't,
my mind retraces,
right there where you are,
& shining like the Northern Star,
you will always be
the same as me,
different from here
and yet still
we are indistinguishable
like a fire
& built from pure desire,
taking us so much higher,
we are one...together,
our love goes on... forever,
a wish fullfilled
a dream come true
we're holding hands,
just me & you
our love is true
& skies are blue,
with me for every tomorrow,
sunlit days & grey skied sorrows,
sit 'neath the fire
my frequent flyer,
when you bury my bones
when you are there at home,
& if you're ever alone,
you'll know me best
& unlike all the rest
like your dark eyed daisy
your lovely baby,
tell my story rich & true
& I will do the same for you,

this to me anyway,
This...Is love.

Cherie Nolan

It takes approximately 30 years to get the message
that time is actually turning,
that this whirled world is headed somewhere,
that the mirror shows us a new face every time,
only it's nice enough to reveal us gradually
so we're not driven suicidal all at once.

We are creeping towards night
but only because it's day.
The dark clouds loom.
They move into the room.
The sun looms over them.
Do the flowers suffer in rain?
The Black-eyed Susans nod
with tears, Yes, yes, yes.

Yellow is plentiful in our meadow today.
The sun blowing its light all over the grass.
I am not comfortable unless surrounded
by green: grass, leaves, stems.
They place me. They hold me there.
The forest is a spa.

Today, Summer, growth is winning
but the birds are not singing
about transcendence. In fact,
they are quite unhappy.
The sun barrels through the sky
burning away clouds.
The living flute of the beak is forcing
agonized notes into the indifferent face
of a sky so blue as to be totally mundane.

The earth retraces its steps,
an insatiable nomad
or obsessive looking for
something it lost
however many years back.

What it finds is the same handful of skies,
a pearl necklace of stars
strung across it's murky night.
I've been dragged on almost 30 trips already.
It's the same **** every time.

Zefian; Butler of the greater demon, he would be forced to make the main stained glass window of the Castello del Horcondising, he will continue to put himself on the posts in each hermit tree to recruit from the horsemen lordships of the autumnal massif, towards an eternal wailing of birches in harmony. Pay attention to the words and challenges of presence in the Vernarthian Sub Mythology in Horcondising. Everything will be for the creative principle of a new world, where the materiality that will be useless on the surface, is of value and prosperity ubiquitously in any space where the human race degrades to eternity levels of consciousness.

Biological goal, codes of life, material works beyond a life that reconciles organic life and ethereal life. The evolutionary codes of life go further from the super existence, creating transformations that alternate life in spiritual memory, based on multidimensional spiritual intelligence. The consequence and serial of future ideas or captures of fruitive life,  which will be continued in storage links of gospels of remembrance, to preserve our bio-evolutionary trajectory codes. Super microscopic particles will be decomplexed by Zefián, more withdrawn from the demonicity that is rooted in our faith codes, procreating from there to our filtering mechanics of the dogma of existence, to be applied as perfectible memorization tools, allelomorphic from Tsambika to Horcondising. Creating codes of life and experiences between the creation of God and the creation of the superficial world, in such a way that between both canons, the emergent and fleeting guideline of experience contained in the threshold of death is issued. To go further away from the light itself that does not invade us with diseases correlative to the decomposition and corruptibility of the human born and steely spirit, heading towards an ethereal biological goal. .

Says Leiak: “As the spirit of the Vernarth forest in Horcondising, I have been a multi-parasitic organism in the barks of hyper-spaced oaks, beyond all vanity of large volumes of knowledge and extensions of knowledge. My possible genomes change, each time I blink for a longer time, than the short time I have when resources mutate in such a silent time, which I have been able to measure mathematically. The adaptations of nature to threatening changes also endorse the soul of plants, endowing them with the property of resurrection. The comparative sequences make the evolution of the divine being go beyond the biodegradable sequence, to the point of biological balance of constituting a new life, in the plane of selectivity proper to the particles that carry and attract towards the receptacle of a new life, under the code of a transition from one to one that is reborn in another. Each microscopic element functions as a totalitarian entity in Vernarth submythology, harmoniously linking the chaos and concretion of the world of Genesis with the world of the polytheistic worldview.

Says Borker: “My vaporous voice of the curse, guide that heralds a new one that is leading in Tsambika. Everything bad tends to resurrect in the arms of goodness, where it provides nourishment for those who need to incubate new chains of organic and inorganic adaptability, evangelized and not evangelized, because the light that carries them from the top of the oaks that I pass through the mornings, they always greet me, to proceed like Borker, son of nothing and father of nobody. Here I will be to lead together with Vernarth, the emancipation of the stagnant eco-systemic chains that are stranded in the mud of the administrative power of the supposed super intelligence, which relativizes everything and intervenes. Not knowing that the great super reason by itself recreates itself, making new chaos or riddles, overcome by itself”
Zefián says: “Originally, thousands of cells have been condemned to encompass the density of matter and life on the planet of the experiments called Earth. What is between heaven and earth is in the sub mythology of both poles. Eurydice was in the Orphic world given her romanticism with Orpheus Himself, now she is in our tracóntero, in the mask where she leads the forces between heaven and earth. Right here the Horcondising, which fills us with high associative density. Our populations have to live in the temples of evolutionary austerity and meekness, after events of three-dimensional changes, ours here in Horcondiing has already been mentioned, which is the same as now in Tsambika, for all the parishioners decomposing, but biologically mutating to reborn in a useful life reborn from the seed of sweet death "
  
The Vernarthian sub mythology is the one that perfectly communes with the genesis of the first light and sound, amplifying each other, adapting nobly with the amplitude of momentum exerted, to settle in plans of management of history in thick episodes that have not written by mortal hands in real or fictitious transition which we also conform. Each character that intervenes in the Verthian world ..., here something or someone has complementarity with all the heroes and titans that have existed in our collective memories, making them the anti-heroes or titans that still do not know each other.

Ingratia mol de petal says: “even after being purified, everything must be re-purified; we all owe it to thanks to the constant variability of the notes of the cosmos and its generation. The auras of action surpassed those that add up by thousands of years. I am a liquidator of cancer circles of carcinoma and sainete nodules”

Spermazoid fable is presented to everyone: “Serous plasma runs through the grasslands, before the supra-human count in Horcondising. We are all invisible liquid, that speaks crawling and feeding back its wounds, that do not fit with words that speak further of the rigor of well-being. As a heretical pro, he advanced in the roughness of all the ravines and abandoned reliefs, but when he advanced I do not retreat! I am more vile than time, because time passes and retraces the protozoan memory, moving me away to memories that live and are avant-garde of a mortal, but I have nothing everything. When I have these roughness, I am time and its atomic mass dimension stops time, and attached me to its extermination and nihilistic empty concavity”

Orfilia and Aranhis say while dancing: “a sylph and a naiad appear dressed in white, auguring the feminine aspect of the majesty of the elements. They dance through all the co-rugosities of Verthian sub-mythology, with the support of annulling the hieratic intervention of the spermatozoid fable, for this purpose of relativizing the chromatics of the mythological beings that made a dialogue wheel, peripatetic, even being actors having only audience of those who do not know each other. They dance and dance through all the estuaries and stands of the aristocratic families, who went more than three thousand meters to be judged by themselves, to be redistributed to the chilling of the simile *** bei Hinnom, which is at the top of Horcondising, where all the hallucinating timid flashes of all the re-born flowers of the spring of love whistle fiercely contained in the rosy tones of the Trisolate "

Trisolate: “I am and will be the great conductivity of great energy. Symbolism with a premise today to not think and know words with symbolism of speaking oak barks, where this oak says in itself (I say, later you say), the pronoun must be mutated to the sixth plane, where now we will say or that has never been heard. Only by naming the one that is no longer in the associative language of linguistic clans subject to the sixth pronoun of oaks that live and will live with the code of the language that we have never heard, but starting today if, as a point of reference already bet in the ears of the tree and not the deixis protozoan man! "
  
Vernarth says: “When I try to sleep at night resting my head on the understory of oaks, I sleep painlessly because of the vertebrae that urge to rearrange me, because the roots of his ego on the sixth plane make me consciously independent of the references of my fantasies, It will not be long before my wing comes around the metaphysical corner. Here at the Castello del Horcondising the blocks are not square, they are baldons of the memory of the natural ego, which takes the tram through which my shoes came without clothes that condition it or allow it to express itself tetraplegically handicapped, rather more validated by being trapped by the ghostly essence of oak that is never born or dies, but knowing that it has no Ego”

You are so funny in the mornings
Something about your dazed conscience and sleepy nature
Each morning it is enough to make me weak all over again
Each morning I am reunited with the thought of "I love you"
You stumble over silly words, you smile shy and tuck your head underneath the covers, giggling, I can see your smile, I can see it clear
You are so funny in the mornings
You are so gentle in the evenings
Something about the end of the day as the sun retraces it's steps from the day before, we lay in silence
The sound of nothing but breath in and breath out
As the dust particles in the air settle over our still bodies
A car passes by but we do not turn to look, we do not move
Your hand traces up my shoulder and a warm feeling flows like a river through me
You are so gentle in the evenings
You are so simple at noon
Calm and amicable, something about the way you stare out of the car window
Like you are soaking up every tree, every cloud, every gust of wind and it hits your face
You sway to the music in the car, humming sweetly like the sound of a city at midnight
You close your eyes, lean back your head
You are so simple at noon
Every time of day, you are divine
You are the last breath before going underwater
You are the feeling of going for a long walk
You are the sweet smell of an empty room and fresh paint as sawdust blooms all around, building, climbing
You are a journal I hope to fill my days with until the space runs out
You are a poem I cannot seem to end
But until next time
Thank you for being so funny in the morning
Thank you for being so gentle in the evening
Thank you for being so simple at noon

The overcast skies reveal a cluster of cumulonimbus clouds,
a day so dreary and dark that it conjures the idea of fleeing
-- escaping into mindless memories of better times,
sitting in the grass field next to the Markthal in Rotterdam,
opening another bottle of soju in a murky downstairs Seoul bar,
a bar where more than once her feet had buckled under the weight
of one too many drinks, stairs lopsided and wobbly as her steps,
getting stuck in traffic on the way back to the airport of Kuala Lumpur,
tears on her cheeks streaked parallel lines, etched into her make-up
as if a part of her, dripping down into her lap where her fists
were balled up, clenched tight and shaking from the pressure,
visiting Singapore’s Supertree Grove in a one-day trip,
traveling back to Europe, now in Berlin, next day in Prague,
where the standout memory is one too many shots of Becherovka.
Back home it is ten degrees and rain is slowly drizzling down,
the streets are covered with a reflective surface, a mirror
she does not want in front of her, a confrontation she does not want
She left Carcassonne’s castle behind alone, retraces the steps
as if the outcome could still be changed, a mindless mind game
When the sky clears clear contrasts are formed
her escapism has escaped and she is like an esclave to her thoughts.
She travels through all her travels but no what ifs are left to be explored
Tomorrow the weather turns again and so will her memories,
an endless labyrinth she has not yet found an exit to.

haunting history
bittersweet memory
sensual delights
of corpus nights
tremulous whispers
emotional fissures
grazing touches
loving clutches
heartwarming embraces
heartbreaking retraces

my mind retraces the same lines
the same memories
the same times
it screams "I miss you, I need you..
where are you?"

I walk this empty night
the thin branches dance
the stars gleam and twinkle
the chill seeps down to my bones
into to my heart,  
then reaches to my toes

my head is flooded
judgement already muddled
lost inside my mind
locked safe where no one can find--

those thoughts that make me cringe,
make me shake with fear
I dont want to worry you my dear


"but where are you?"

Lost in space
I find my mind racing
Chasing what parts I can still assemble
It resembles a time a while ago
When my days were in disarray and I searched for a way to find where I needed to go
So I stayed below the radar but some how not low enough and it was tough for me to be the center of attention
Especially when it was so negatively directed at me
My brains still races and retraces the thoughts places and faces that got me where I am
But **** does it hurt some times
They’ve committed no crimes against me or the law but when I think of some of the things said my jaw still falls and the drops from my eyes still stall in empty space
These thoughts reside only in empty space
So why do they hurt so much and cause my exhausted heart to pace

an Egyptian dancer
who in the bare silk
retraces her moves
over sand and scorpions,
converting morbid infatuations
to desires in the sweltering heat
and as silk melts
I can think nothing of,
than to watch and pray for salvation
for this timid abomination from faith
maybe this how monsters are made,
I wasn't sure
or I didn't cared that time.

The way is foggy
There is no signal here
No maps, no roads
No lights, no signs
Nor signals to guide me
I am a stranger
To this one-horse town
I do not know

So I fall into slumber
To dreams of woods of umber
The ground still with frost
This icy chill biting at my heels
Are these the dogs of winter?
Is the cold of autumn or spring?
Am I the only one who
Feels anything?

As I climb it gets colder
The mist steals further in
More so I feel lost
Torn between the way home
And the way my heart leads
Though I do not know
Which of these is in front
Nor behind me

From love I draw strength
Blindly it pulls me onwards
I do not know if my path is true
If it leads me to you
If it leads to pastures new
If it leads me back to paths already trodden
Retraces unseen footprints
Through marsh and swamp

I feel so small
A speck in this vast landscape
Amidst unconquerable forces she commands
To which I am subject
Strong may be my legs
But a great load they carry
And I fear they may buckle
For weak, she can make me

the feeling of knowing
where my footsteps have been
my mind retraces every step
until i feel nothing but the cold, the dark
the miserable memory of your face.

there are roads i never drive down for a reason.

I see her barefoot on the sand
she gazes out to sea
The breeze touches her hair
Her eyes fix on the surf

She is at peace
With the sea

Above the waves there is motion
coloured forms are alive
Butterflies, dancing with the life
of a future unlived.

She is at peace
With the butterflies

The butterflies reflect her moods
Sky blue with hope
Scarlet red with love
Rich green with Earth

She is at peace
With the Earth

Before me she transforms
into a meadow of wildflowers
That sing of 60's peace
on a quiet Friday afternoon

She is at peace
With the afternoon

My mind briefly imagines her
Below Caziel's mural
Absorbing a culture of hope
That lives within her heart

She is at peace
With her heart

And then I see her turn
the sunlight plays briefly on her face
She retraces her steps into town
leaving footprints in the sand

She is at peace
With herself.

Hand spun moments
Where I, we
Rise into a cloud
Crystal clear
Doors opening up
I've jumped through hoops aflame
Judging myself all along the way
And I had a thought just not too long ago
I dislike myself the least I have
In quite some time.

A round of free drinks
I hold the cameras up
I fear what I still don't know
And attempt to arm myself with what I lack
No bra, flip flops
I come in like some kind of cute elfin boy
And I think back on all those who have come before me
It makes me feel a little less
Scrutinized.

I'm far far away from home
Three years time in the Chicago skyline
It feels like it has been eons
My best friend says I look completely different
I expel energy in moments
Wondering what that means.

My cat sleeps
I wonder if he will continue to
We curate and plan
We curate and plan.

I've watched so many men
Friends
Jobs
Lovers
Come and go
I've moved five times in three years
I've changed my hair more than I can count
And I stopped tallying up my list of lovers
Because it would take too long
To think it all through.

It is the weekend
The weekends in Chicago slightly slow down
Everyone takes a breather from their email
Except for the constant hustlers.

Do you remember
I often wonder if you do these days
How I stood in front of the mural
The first photo you ever took of me
And the last I would remind you of
To remember me by.

In yoga my mind retraces all of this
Through the sweating and the poses
The instructions
The carving of limbs
I cycle through what it's all been.

Time for rest
Time for rest.
Kisses and busy talk
Subside for now
Time for rest.

i rise with the temperature
ripples off the sidewalk
like all the pools i've jumped in every summer of my life.

i am 8, and the world is the brightest yellow
video games, family, bike rides
from daybreak to sundown
the smell of the trampoline stuck to my hair
sunburnt skin and grass stains
the thrum of cicadas and mourning doves
in one huge chorus, like the heartbeat of the earth
cigarette smoke clings to everything, but no one cares
saturday nights are when everyone plays cards
and the kids are all together
endless games in the basement, and down the hall

everything sighs.
taps the hurt in its chest.

i am 10
and the summer just means i'm home again
everything is a blue, like the sky above the ugly neighborhood
my knees with little lines on them
from being pressed against the vent on the floor
looking out the window
feeling the dusty a/c
wondering how much more a person could feel.
reading books in my room
listening to the birds, and toddler fighting outside
swimming at the apartments, learning to dive
the Cardinals are winning, with the bases loaded
and i've been reading this book so long
the carpet left marks on my arms

everything waits.
draws a blank.

i am 13.
the summer just means it's too hot to wear jeans
things have been gray for a long time now
the laughter from the other kids
still not quite as loud as the ones in the mirror, or behind my eyes
waking up is like treading quicksand
new school, new things to hate
new things to do wrong, places to be invisible
my island surrounded by an ocean made of black glass
i don't remember what home feels like

everything blinks.
takes a second to steady itself.

i am 14
i couldn't feel the heat if it set me on fire
there isn't color
no black or white, or shades of gray
i've seen the color people see when they go blind
all the organs have left my chest
wind whistles through my cavities, plays on my ribs
just as hollow as my eyes look
no words came out when none were passed to me
breaking the stolen scissors on the bathroom floor
i promised myself i would learn to feel something
but they were blunt
nothing magic poured out of my skin
im not a red balloon, im a tree stump

everything stops.
retraces its steps.

i am 15.
things are just as they were
i am back looking at the sky over apartments
pink hair brighter than the sunlight
but a monster is gnawing deep at my rib cage
my mind says the grass is green
but the world has turned mud brown
the kind that gets stirred up when it thunderstorms
kind of like i do every other evening
over a boy who took my virginity, told me to **** myself
it was my fault when he put fire in his skin
my fault no one loved him
i didn't do enough
i hoped the summer would set me on fire again

everything looks down
forces the recollections out

i am 16.
the summer means weeks away from home
spent drunk with friends promised to the army
the stories and the veil over my eyes, the best team
everything is a sick neon green
i wanted so badly to know what love felt like
to make the green turn into pink
for the clouds to come down and let me touch them
but then i remember its just the acid i did
everything will be gray again soon

everything shuts its eyes
hesitates

i am 17.
the summer is a bluish black
it means no school, no people, the color of asphalt
a best friend i had since i tamed my car
the concept of freedom plays with my hair with the windows down
but i know i'm not going anywhere
suddenly things are eggshell white
the color of the walls in the apartment
i'm always trapped in one of those
there for *** and verbal abuse
hoping i make a better punching bag than a person
i know things are a little better when i play guitar on the roof
and play games and smell like sunburn,
just like when i was a kid

everything cries
wonders why everything happens the way it does

i am 18.
the summer isn't here yet
i dream in flashes
vast blue and green, the day i first got to know you
im not ready to be inside four white walls again
the pink ones exude a comfort i can't express
i feel a silent loneliness caress my ribcage again
and suddenly i am 10
wide eyed and quiet
i push my glasses back onto my face
and hope i get a phone call soon
calculating how to make 3 weeks fit into 3 hours
then giving up on all of it
wanting from a wishing well far deeper than my own
to be able to fly with you to the desert
where things will be yellow again
but i know far more than i did
money and the concept of medication bare their teeth my direction

everything sits.
none of it is worth thinking about anymore.

numbness bites my fingertips now
somewhere in the pit of my stomach
i wrote a note about the memories
and not really wanting to repeat
the summer

THE WORLD STIR
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
When healing drops of Heaven’s elixir
Drop down upon Earth,
Beauty speaks of Delight of Being
And Brown breathes an exhilratingmirth;
Let the sublime silence of the sky
Meet not the furore of the miry filth,
And let night go without end
Though darkness seems to exist.
A serene tranquility trembles within the
Tremulous expanse of the occult space,
An iodolon of ecstasy soon
Retraces its long lost forgotten steps;
The nascent air is now vibrant with
The message of the incommunicable breeze,
An illimitable joy from the Kingdom of Bliss
Seeks its spectacular release.
The solitary clairvoyant writes
His message in inaccessible heights,
The memory’s archive soon opens
Its pages of formidable foresight;
The desolate despondency is in the soul within
Still, there is magnificent melancholy rapture-clad,
The lightening freedom bares its *****
To make the lone explorer extravagantlymad.
The miracle of mystery unfolds the secrecy
Of the unlocked chapter of the divine play,
The inner audience is the only witness
The appeal of the Ineffable opens its doorway,
The effulgence of a thousand suns
Emerges from the abysmal darkness’ depth,
The moonlit marvel raises alarm
Alas! Ony the stars are wide awake!
It is only in the awakening of your Soul,
The illusory world game disappears
In the purest Consciousness
Beyond Body, Mind and Spirit
In an enlightening Wisdom
You do reach the supreme human Goal.
(Dated 9th June 2021)

buckled concrete rooted up
by           and
      oaks           elms
impassable in a chair
despite the full battery
she turns
retraces
finds steps this time
so it's into the street
the only way
to reach the square
to protest
the marble statue
now she's passed
by the pickups
with the flags
whose drivers
on their way
to guard the monument
guessing she is not on their side
hurl epithets
call her a lover
of that which they
in their ignorance
despise