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Mark Parker Dec 2014
Writer's block is like a white stone wall.
Every failed poem in the trashcan is like a brick.
Soon, I'll have enough to rebuild the great wall of China,
and the garbage man will know
many trees have died for my poetry.
Take heed, only you can prevent forest fires.
So, why not have fun with writers block if it breaks writers block.
Rex Allen McCoy Jan 2015
Ancient doors creak and groan
scraping back the dust
of ages gone
A formidable sight...
like standing guardians
since time immortal

Slinking in
past swirling fog
I pause to calm my fear
adding strength to resolve
when suddenly...
a deafening voice ERUPTS
with EXACTING FASTIDIOUS truths

Solid ground shatters beneath me...
I hover helplessly
Below me...
a noxious boiling maelstrom

The voice of truth EXPLODES from above
ECHOing  my 'Every Sin'
the resounding shock-waves
drive me down

Legs lifted high
to avoid the searing pain
then
a tangle of blistered hands reach out
and drag me within the churning inferno

Blinding spin and unbearable suction
envelope

Scream fades to gurgle

Unconsciousness welcome
though never met

The searing pain still rising yet

Each fibre ripped apart
to molecular particle

Riding the vortex of purification
Separating sins from soul

Finally

Cast out
and caught yet again by the uterine web
with the voice of truth
still taunting ...

" BETTER LUCK THIS TIME "
Shankar Pattabi Aug 2015
The Saga of battle face off between Arjuna & Karna.
Karna gets the Naga ashtra from the Lord Brahma.
The Naga ashtra arrow is set to hit the target without miss.

Arjun Chariot is Guided by Lord Krishna.
Arjun & Karna face to battle for the survival for the supremacy
Battle of best in the Kurukshetra between karna & Arjun
Arjun is know as the Best in the Bow.

But while the situation is different with karna with Naga Ashtra arrow.
Force of Arrow from bow making huge noise of impact in the wind.
With every arrow from bow of both are hitting in the mid air & collapsing

Karna lefts the Arrow of Naga ashtra & prays the Slogan to be effective
Arjun no answer to the arrow of Naga
Keeps quite & focus towards Lord Krishna
Lord krishna smiling replies to bow
Arjuna replies with angry Iam an Hero & can face with my Bow.
Karna with Big laughter speeds the Arrow of Naga towards Arjun.
The Naga Ashtra is a Destruction weapon in the world.
Naga Ashtra targets the Head of the Arjuna
Lord Krishna pushes the chariot by his thumb towards down earth

Arrow of Naga is straight towards Arjuna Head.
Lord Krishna Commands to bow the head down
Arjuna does so the arrow is supposed to hit the head with out miss.


Arrow is will not stop without hitting head.
Karana is eager to celebrate the Victory of best in Kurushetra
Lord Krishna hears the sound of hitting head
& Turns to see the What happened?

Lord Krishna says yes the arrow hit the head
Arjuna replies Lord Iam safe
According to Shastra Naga Ashtra hit the Head of Chariot
Karana will not able to reuse the Ashtra of Naga
as it has hit the Head of Chariot.
By this Arjuna Leaps wider angle to arrow the Bow
& the Bow lands on Karana chest.
The Battle of Big is won by Arjun in the period of Kurushetra.
Yours
Shankar Pattabi
ht Apr 2023
I chew Nicorette gum -
I don't smoke cigarettes

I use safety razors (not for their intended purpose),
I draft suicide notes in an app

I won't overdose - reuse my organs,
I'll drive off a bridge in a Prius

I'll turn the lights off before I go,
Turn my ashes into a tree
I'm a fraud. I drive an Escape. | h.t.
Wanderer Mar 2012
Happens every other day
Feelings of guilt as a wasteful being
Rearrange brain function
Monopolizing firing synapses
Recycle, reuse
Regurgitating, dull whitted infomercials
All wanting you to buy, buy, buy
Sure you could use another sharp knife
Maybe even a blender
On special now buy one get one free
A kitchen already full of utensils that you don't use
Caught up in McMonsantoland's corporate sponsorship
Frankenburgers all around
Cancer is the cure
Picking you off one by one
Genocide
Intelligence retardant children growing up in front of CIA bugged televisions
They know your patterns, habits, what makes you tick
Big Brother is watching  all of you be enslaved
In the end your box will be numbered
Eight humans deep
Stacked high along the streets of America
Guiding the way to the ****** sunset of our existence
Cameron Godfrey Oct 2012
When the world is slowly dying
Bears on icebergs, melting, crying.
When you refuse to reduce or reuse,
Think of the people and animals you abuse.
All the talk of apocalypse
But zombies don’t compare to this.
The universe’s suicide
The struggle, the difficulty to stay alive
The problems we face, that we cannot erase
Someday we could lose this place.
So walk to school, ride your unicycle
Reduce, reuse, and finally, Recycle
Well, I guess all poems are on the earth.
Joan Karcher Jul 2012
emerald, olive, viridian
oh how you perplex me
forest, jade, chartreuse
why do you tease me so
cyan, verdigris, moss
such excitement arises
to be a word
to be a meaning
is there such a thing,
to have a feeling
to see a vision,
phthalo, pine, teal
are you the same
mint, myrtle, laurel
you make me envious
to be blooming, to be healthy
to be young, to be clumsy
are you callow, how about credulous?
but such a conservationist
unquestioning, so trustful,
tenderfoot and common
the tree, the lawn, the willow
though ecological and crude
a sage in all but name
apple, spinach, pea
aren't you scrumptious,
lime, kelly, bice
are you nature, how about luck
you're pungently rotten
though with such dark beauty and hope,
love and lust ensues
you're the jolliness of balance
and the creative intelligence;
of evil, and decay of money and safety,
will you resurrect me, are you immortality?
such jealousy arises
high goals and honor
so so allusive
healing and vitality
you're calming though fast
lush spring stability,
abundant generosity,
vert vegetation; witchcraft
an aphrodisiac I hear,
are you youth or fading youth?
sunrise and life, growth and fertility
sacred ideology,
eroticized though shameful
so romantic and humble
I see the third ray
or is the the fifth ray, the third eye
are you truth, are you vision
it's becoming a science,
so much compassion
the fourth chakra, the heart,
the centre of us all
a higher consciousness
such a harmonious aura
a hunter, a nurse, a solider, an outdoorsman
villains and superstition
misfortune and prosperity
with toxicity, sickness and death,
recycle and reuse
oh so powerful
you exude auspiciousness
just a holiday
mystical fairies and spirits
though also devilish,
cancer in the stars
a renewal of paradise,
biliously tranquil
are you refreshingly soothing,
peacefully restful,
a naive novice,
very understanding,
is there truly a term for you?
what do you really convey,
countless representations
a definition of name,
or do you signify the feeling, the specimen
the aspect?
though some have no locution for you

here I am,
stepping around the issue
you are you, in any word
yet with a different meaning
Every word in this poem describes or is described by one thematic morpheme
Akemi May 2014
New horns
Paper crowns
Ink kings
Flash smiles

Sever your minds
Sever your necks
We’ll speak in circles round
The fool within

A frenzy target for your
Sensational ****
Dissect this media market
Black lust and haste

Reduce
Reuse
Retie
That ******* noose
2:55am, May 18th 2014

Celebrity endorsements.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2013
I sew therefore I am. This is what women do she thought, even with the television on, muttering and flickering in the corner. But its turning on was but a reflex action to being alone when she came down stairs after reading to her child, and the sitting room empty of his presence. Only the cats occupied her chair where she now sat and sewed.

For once her sewing pile had his nightshirt, a tear at the bottom, a missing button. It was old, well-worn, of a light blue stripe. That was what he wore in bed, and, as he invariably read to her each night, she would slip her hand inside the shirt, across his stomach to a place she had discovered at the top of his pelvis that seemed to be there for her hand to rest. One night she had felt the tear and thought, I must mend this.

She knew something of the feminist canon: Rozsika Parker's Subversive Stitch lay browsed but unread on her bookshelf. The impact of the book was enough: that the relationship between women’s lives and embroidery had brought sewing out from the private world of female domesticity into the fine arts and created a breakthrough in art history and criticism. She remembered writing that somewhere in a student essay. But mending clothes was hardly fine art. And then she remembered Sashiko, the ‘little stabs’, that functional stitching of clothes in Japan.

They had met at the station for a 30-mile train journey to a nearby city. It was a blue-cold December day and they had felt warmed by seeing from the train window a covering of snow on the ploughed fields. She had worn her grey coat with the green lining and an indigo blue-pattern scarf, a swinging denim skirt and orange-patterned top. Tights and boots. He: she had forgotten. Funny that, remembering what she had worn, but for the man she was beginning to feel so hopelessly in love with, and by the end of that day, hold in her heart, seemingly, for evermore, she could not remember. His old brown jacket perhaps . . . No, she couldn’t be certain.

He had loved the exhibition. It was an unencountered world, though he had experienced Japan, but not, as he said (at length), the rural fastness of an offshore island where women were loggers and men were firemen. It was the simplicity of the stitch that captured his attention, the running white-cotton stitch on the blue indigo workware, occasionally a red thread on a decorative piece – a fireman’s tunic. This was stitching about mending, reinforcing a worn area by stitching on a new patch, and in doing so novel patterns evolved, so novel that this traditional stitch became an inspiration for Reiko Sudo, Hideko Takahshi, and the cutting edge textile designers of 20C Japan. It was reuse that made sense.

He had loved the names of the stitches: passes in the mountain, fishing nets, the interlaced circles of two birds in flight, woven bamboo, the seven treasures of Buddha.  She remembered the proximity of him, touching his arm to show, and sometimes just to touch his arm – yes, he was wearing that old brown coat. It was before they were lovers, but she was sure then they were in love, and it seemed impossible and quite wrong to be in this large gallery, flowing too and fro, apart then together, apart then together. She thought: he knows how I want to be when looking at such things; I need space. And she supposed he needed space too because the moment they entered the gallery he left her alone. But that coming together was, and remained ever after, a warm thing, and she remembered that day being a little aroused by it being so.

Later, they had walked a short way from the gallery to a tiny cottage-like bookshop he knew, a bookshop full of impossibly large books on art and architecture. He had something to find: The Crystal Chain Letters – architectural fantasies Bruno Taut and his circle by Ian Boyd Whyte. There had been her favourite  Mark Hearld cards and his collaged pictures in the window. She went upstairs and knelt on the wooden floor to take out the books on gardens on the lowest shelves. The winter sun had poured through a nearby window, warming her face till it glowed. But she was already glowing inside. And he came and knelt behind her. He rested his head on her shoulder and she had turned and put her arms around him. They had kissed, a delicate, exploratory, yet to be lovers kiss that had made her feel weaker than she already felt. She knew she would remember that moment, and she had, here on her chair years later, now in a different sitting room from the one she had returned to that evening without him, returning to her husband and children. And she had missed him beyond any measure and written to him the next day, a letter written in her head before she had slept, and then the following morning, with the children at school, she had lain on her bed and calmly touched herself to remember his kiss, their kiss.
Gabby O Apr 2015
I know how to read
thinking, interpreting,
it's all fresh in my head,
yet writing is different.
I have a penchant for using used words.
The phased out phrases,
the reworked rhymes ,
the secondhand sentences that fly over pages upon pages of my poetry,
that's the writer I am.
Someone made of words written so many times before,
captivating carelessly.
Literature made from the same recipe yet turning out different each time,
new art made from recycled paint.
They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,
yet I wonder if i'm simply the lowest form of fraudery
as an imperfect wordsmith writing over printed pads
and old book pages.
Touching on topics tactlessly,
Living through artists vicariously,
weaving with words i could never properly pronounce.
But in thought
looking back
I can only write what I know,
and if I know not the world beyond novels,
beyond poets and artists,
at least I know how to read.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
these western leftist,
make us former commies...
look... really really
******* bad...

        my grandfather,
who was abandoned by his
father, spewed by the lies
of his father's brother,
found some stability
in the communist party...

sometimes did jury duty...
the communist party
gave him a house... etc. etc.,
but this, "thing" in the west?
the dissonance conundrum
of creating a collective hive?

it doesn't, and it will never work...
i already said this,
but i'll say it again...
communism does work...
but in only one instance...
post-war countries,
esp. given the plight of
Syria...
                
           it's a transitory period...
so the Syrian baker
can trust the ******* Syrian
taxi cab driver, once again...
communism is not a failure
in that it's applied as
a fail-safe concept,
a rebuilding mechanism,
  
like Poland... 1945...
through to circa 1990...
    it worked...
  **** it worked...
  eastern Europe didn't
receive funds from the American
Marshall Plan...

but Sweden and Switzerland
did...
   i thought they were neutral
countries in the conflict?

communism is a failure if its not
considered a recovery economy,
or rather:
    there's no or other at this point...

in post-war scenarios,
it's the only egalitarianism that works
in the short-end...
this is not English style of
egalitarian idealism...
   (a term i borrow from German
idealism of Kant)...
            no... the English don't know
that their egalitarian idealism
doesn't work...
it's too soft...
the war was harsh...
you're not going to rebuild
the same civic plateau with capitalism,
of a country that was either:
invaded by a foreign power,
or imploded into chaos via
a breach of ethnic-civility...

you can't rebuild Syria with
foreign intervention...
communism is far from a failure
of ideology...
   it was always supposed
to instigate a transitional
period, a post-scriptum...
   a communism can exist,
successfully, for... roughly 50 years...
once the tragedy passes...

and then the free markets can
take over, capitalism can have its
"stage fright", or rather its
wild west...
            but not before the circa 50
years are over...
  a Syrian baker,
   must begin a civil dialectic with
a Syrian taxi driver...
no amount of foreign intervention
will solve the problem...

it's not like you can reuse
the rubble to rebuild the same houses...
sure... the darkest hour
in Poland under communism was
when martial law (stan wojenny)
was implemented by
Wojciech Jaruzelski
(Roy Orbison, no, really,
Roy Orbison)...
food-stamps, long queues at supermarkets
rationing... only white vinegar on
the shelves of supermarkets...
the whole presupposition of war
against the Soviets,
  counter measures to
      avoid the instances of
the Hungarian / Czechoslovakian
occupation / suppression...
   the Parisian spirit of '68...
every time i look into your loving eyes,
one look, from you,
  i drift... away!
    i pray, that you, are here, to stay!
anything you want, you got it...
anything you need, you got it...
anything at all, you got it...
   bay.................................. be!


western Europe received pittance
pay-checks from H'america...
eastern Europe received the hard graft of
communism...
             and it worked...
because it was supposed to work
for the 50 or so years that it did work...
when it stopped working...
my home town lost roughly 20K
   metalwork jobs...
  the metalwork factory was scrapped,
cut up, sold to foreign investors...
Celsa? i believe that's a Spanish company...

some people grew old, retired,
some went on the dole,
some became homeless,
some migrated to other parts of the country,
otherwise took the bold route
and emigrated to other parts of
Europe and the world...
a town dies, the people disperse
if in a dispersing worthy age...

     but i turn on the tube...
and listen to all these leftist lunatics,
and i'm like...          what?!
communism works,
   it works, in exceptional circumstances,
and like i said, before an equal
footing competition market resurfaces,
you're getting ****...
             this is not to suggest that
communism is at odds with capitalism...
apparently... it never was!

         but... you can't rebuild
Syria with capitalism...
  first you have to return to a commonly
shared civility, a counter to what
already exists in the English egalitarian idealism...
best represented as:

a 200m race at the Olympics...
all the competitors walk an equal
pace for 100m...
        and the next 100m?
they do their sprint, they compete!
but not until communism creates
a basis for a mutual trust of civility
between a Syrian baker,
and a Syrian taxi driver...

      capitalism and outright
competition will never solve the problem...
because outright competition
creates nothing more than
an dystopian: post-apocalyptic
mad max: fury road endless cycle of
recurring opportunists...

scavengers...
                      it works... in periods of
roughly 50 years...
what... and capitalism isn't prone
to its own timescales of economic crashes?!
see...
             even capitalism has hiccups...
but like i said:
    communism works...
for time periods, post-scriptum of
the damaging events...
                        under exceptional circumstances
of it being necessarily implemented...
like world war II... the Syrian civil war;
and only then!

****... my grandfather and all the other
school children, actually cried
when news hit the country about Stalin's death...
i have access to an actual ****** source,
what do you have?
  a target of ridicule,
        donning a che guevara t-shirt
who still hasn't rid himself of acne?
niamh May 2015
I took the icy
Crystals
From around your
Heart
And made myself a
Necklace
Lest you try to
Stab
Me with them again.

Who's a clever girl.
Lauren Yates Jun 2012
If a wrecking ball fell through the ceiling right now, I wouldn’t run.
I’d relish the scramble, apt as a totem pole amidst a school of fish.
If you don’t want to get hurt, just go around me.
You should know by now I’m always in the way.

If I were a totem pole amidst a school of fish,
I’d hope to be crushed at the center of a dance floor.
You should know by now I’m always in the way.
Disaster only strikes when we write it off.

I hope to be crushed at the center of the dance floor.
The ones who never knew me would reuse my obituary.
They’d know not to write off disaster.
They’d wrap their dishes in the newsprint when they moved uptown.

The ones who never knew me will reuse my obituary
for the thousands of others just like me.
They’ll wrap their dishes in newsprint when they move uptown.
They never pray for wrecking ***** to crash through ceilings.

The thousands of others like me
never knew that expecting the worst could save lives.
I always pray for wrecking ***** to crash through ceilings,
but this is not the answer.

Expecting the worst only saves lives
if your death is a surprise party that never happens.
This is not the answer.
You cannot think like this every day.

If your death is a surprise party that never happens,
you will stop believing that it is possible.
You cannot think like this every day.
Your fear will become the moans of a woman who’s not wet.

You will stop believing that what you want is possible.
If a wrecking ball falls through the ceiling right now, I won’t run.
I will moan through the fear even though I am not wet.
Just go around me if you don’t want to get hurt.
Pantoum.
Mark Jun 2020
A COLOURFUL FRUIT BLAST        
From the 1st diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.            
            
Hi, my name is Stewy Lemmon and I’m your normal, everyday, friendly, country boy, who lives about 2 hours away from the big city lights. My family’s home is nestled amongst the trees on a hill in a little country village called, 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.

It's located just a little north west from the famous town of Bearfeet Ridge. Famous of course, because of the mysterious and rarely seen yellow tailed bear family, that is said to inhabit the nearby treed mountain range. The town's people have even given the rarely seen bear family sightings, a nickname called, 'Bearfeet Yellow Tales'.            
              
My family is made up of one much younger brother, named Lemmy; two much older, identical, twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, and my proud parents, Archie and Flo.            
              
On Christmas day this year, I received a pet mouse as one of my presents. I quickly named him Smoochy, after he suddenly jumped up and kissed me on the cheek, then fell into my top left-hand side pocket. From that moment on, I knew that Smoochy and I, would have such fun times and great adventures together.            
              
This Christmas afternoon was especially hot, so my Mum Flo cut up some healthy and yummy assorted fruit for the family, as a snack and placed it on the table, which was placed in between, the two large trees in the backyard.

I especially love bananas, apples, oranges, grapes and lots of watermelon mixed together in my bowl. I named this creation 'A colourful fruit-blast'. It’s so much fun to eat, although, my little brother Lemmy only likes bananas in his bowl, with a dash of sweet honey.            
              
My two much older identical twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, love to eat only green celery sticks and plain yogurt on hot days. Smoochy also ate some of my delicious, colourful fruit-blast and even drank a little of my icy, strawberry flavoured, thick shake, through his very own, home-made straw.

My Dad Archie, is very handy at making things out of wood, metal and even plastic and loves to paint unusual designs on whatever he makes. Dad does all of his, building and painting in his unusually built and outrageously painted backyard, outback shed.            
              
So, after he had some of Mum's afternoon fruit snack, Dad built a mouse house, for my grouse, new pet, mouse called, Smoochy. Dad even hand painted it with such colourful flair, from using his artistic nous. But, when I placed Smoochy, into his newly painted, mouse house, the paint wasn't dry enough, and he got yellow paint all over his, oh-so-cute tail.  
  
After my Dad Archie, had finished the grouse, new pet, mouse house, he thought, what could he make for me, as a New Year’s Eve surprise present. He quickly thought of a great idea and headed off to his, unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed.            
              
Dad was busy for days, coming and going from his backyard shed and snoring so loudly, while taking short naps on our backyard hammock.            
      
Also, Dad kept taking pieces of Mum's colourful fruit snack, but only very small amounts at a time, from her ever so clean kitchen. Then, sneaking it all back into his, very hard to say shed. You know, the one in the backyard.  
  
My Dad had finally finished building my surprise present, just in time for New Year’s Eve. Then, because we were hosting a party at our house, at about 11.50 pm, my entire family, neighbours, friends, Smoochy and I were all waiting outside, in the backyard for the clock to strike 12.00 midnight.
  
With only 10 minutes to go my Dad, rushed off to his, you know where. Yes that's right, his unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and brought out my surprise. You will never guess what it was, for it was radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust and really red. Have you guessed correctly? Anyone? No? Okay, I will tell you what it was. It was my very own really red, reusable, retro rocket.            
              
When I saw the rocket that my dad had built for me, I was over the moon with happiness and I had a smile on my dial, that felt like it was almost as long as about a mile.            
    
All of a sudden, all of my family members, neighbours, friends and I started screaming out 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1. We all shouted out together, at the top of our voices HAPPY NEW YEAR. Then my Dad helped me light my, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise and we both stood back, to see it take off and fly into the sky. My Dad told me, it was especially built to create, a fireworks display in the night sky and then return back to us. All so we could reuse it again, for next year.
  
All of a sudden, it took off so high into the night sky, I thought my new, radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise, was going to the moon and may never come back down to earth.            
              
But then we heard a loud bang, the top of my rocket separated from the main body of the rocket and exploded into bright colours all over the night sky.            
              
After a while though, my entire family, our neighbours and our friends, felt things dropping onto their clean party attire. People had red blobs on their backs; yellow splats on their shirts and even some on their skirts; small orange flecks on their faces and a few people had small black bits, dropping into their top, left-hand side pockets.            
    
"It's my colourful fruit snack, coming down from the night sky", yelled Mum. So she went searching through the crowd for my Dad. When she found him, he was chuckling with laughter.

He told us all, ‘That he had packed the radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket, full of Stewy's favorite fruit. Also, because fruity, firework explosives would really make the sky, so much more colourful to the eye, and ever so tasty in our mouths’.
              
My Dad wanted to make as many colours as he could for the fireworks display. He used some of Mum's colourful fruit, which included, apples, bananas, watermelons, grapes and oranges.            
              
Even Smoochy was getting hit by the furiously flying, fast falling, fantastically funny, fabulous family fruit by Flo, through the small gaps, in his newly built, freshly painted, grouse, pet mouse, house. It was the best surprise I have ever seen, come out of that unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback shed.            
              
Oh, what a fun and tasty New Year's Eve party we all had, on that, oh, so wonderful and colourful fruit blast of a night, in my little country village of 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.
© Fetchitnow
20 October 2019.
This children’s fun adventure book series, is only for children from ages, 1-100. So please enjoy.
Note: Please read these in order, from diary entry 1-12, to get the vibe of all of the characters and the colourful sense of this crazy mess.
Lara Lewis Jan 2014
Tiny toes pitter patter,
The dish, the spoon, china clatters,
In the end it doesn't matter,
Nothing is new anymore.

Reduce, reuse, and recycle,
Take an inch, I go a mile.
Faces tighten with a smile,
Tired ankles, wanderlust-sore.

Marching songs, stomping feet,
Blood shed on the fresh cleaned street,
Sight of violence, scent of defeat,
Find a way home, find a way home.

Louder voices, stronger words,
Fleeing children, roosting birds,
Frame and focus, rule of thirds,
Final days of the Peace of Rome.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2018
VD/ lasting life

I have VD.

the decapitating, desiccating disease slow taking over

every day another word withers and there are no replacements

the diminishing returns cannot be substituted and all losses are
permanent, like Samson’s hair, once cut, cannot grow back

I live alone.  Easier then conversing,
gaps in your sentences,
****** communication that is pointless anyway

banished by overuse and incapacitated;
tarnished by time, silver polish resistant;
too late for inoculation the cortex eroding;
the Vocabulary Diminishment has cost me so far:

rain and all its weathered relations;
sad and it’s variant cousins;
body partition arrhythmia, breathtaking breathing loving has
jumped overboard

lasting life

never bothered me that verse and curse rhyme so fittingly,
fit for life, for ‘tis nothing but re-racked intermittent rhymes,
reasoned rhythms connecting the intermittent mayhem’s
dropping by for fun and choosing, verse or curse

nevertheless, won’t bother to explain the difference
between last and lasting, leave it for you to self-teach-taught

nonetheless,  body is degrading, the needs grow strongly weaker and the bites taken out by time, her, imagination, p ain,
even worse words disappear, f irst a letter the hole s aces are
modern art product, avant garde  at the finish line

empties remain as abscesses with all-access passes,
cortex locked on only receive is busted and most of your
transmissions go direct to the
Junk mail folder

winter drags and summer now a vision of was and no longer a
will be, a thrilling sensory palace with a closed sign
appliqué to my weakened ayes

time to rise time, to shave, put on the cutaway uniform
when you obtain the obligatory occasional I love you
and it winces, and tears still come easy
when you want them too
but you don’t want them to arrive or
let depart the ones that presently dry
of their own according in their place

mechanics of writing are obstacles and the cherished
lovely fluidity of transportation traveling transformation is searingly wearing and beyond the just,
the reach, of the true meaning of meme
which means has no more to communicate

the days of slow wasting away,
when the touch is worse
you say out out loud to the tiles
shave away the slough, flush the fallen skin cells,
just cut me down, these bad poems are too onerous
when the brrrain is hardened ice ball hitting forehead

so we go away in every sensory hurrah
retired to solitary ask no questions expect no answers
dreaming of healings but that is another self-starting movie
dreaming sequence that has been erased

fearsome, the energy drinks required to survey survival,

much easier to bid adieu and bypass au revoir

the standard set can be modified or erased
and everyone wants a shortcut lesson to skip to the
top of the line, are they unaware that line will choke au fin

important meetings ahead, assembly the solutions and your
children want answers and you give them a mirror and implore
them do better than thy lousy training

don’t make no difference, their genomes contain
mon nom so they come cursed and I who wrote, shot prayers
on skywriting writ, have none to offer present-lies

poor babies too long this elegy, too bad for you
work is hard and no r&r location on my list and short
attention spans will bring you low in world of words


say bad bye to over loved companions

https://hellopoetry.com/words/

the Vocabulary Diminishment disease don’t permit
reuse: true colors needed crest creation and all the
breaks are bad and the words have fled my pointer
fingerprint fingertip

code only in 0’s;
it’s like having halve a tongue
and if you were among the lucky few who knew my visage,
look away look away and let this too long spaghetti sauce be
recipe thrown away my vision is satisfied

3:11 am and no more
s words to fall upon
Alex M May 2016
I have mistreated you
I have thrown you away
I have made you weak
I have polluted you
I have made you *****
I have damaged you
I have destroyed your outer beauty
I have built new structures, that cover your natural landforms
I have made you change so much in such little time
I have mistreated you

I now care
I now think before I do
I now do not litter, but recycle
I now reuse and reduce
I now build more of your natural beauty the best I can
I now encourage others to take part
I now reduce waste
I now conserve water
I now try to make you new
I now care

I will share
I will tell people the news
I will joins “Save the Earth” groups
I will spread the word
I will take action
I will create an army, to save your worth
I will hang signs and posters
I will explain what we have done
I will show new effective solutions
I will share

I have mistreated you
That was in the past
I now care
I will treat you right
I will share
I will spread the word

We will all take action
This poem is about earth day.
NickBlockOneLove Jan 2013
Look at all the flames ***** look at everything you've done
your gonna have to let me excuse
excuse you from this verse
*** you just think of it as some sort of abuse
and i know this may seem like its somewhat overused
i know it seems sometimes i always reuse
but thats just my view
its kinda like getting lost in the group of the whose
who only to get caught roaming around without your shoes
and now you just don't know what to do
Its whats you always wanted
just to infuse what you feel just to transfuse
and provide with that ruse that you choose
but you gotta pay your dues
pay your dues to the world
for we are all caught up fighting for our lives in the middle june.
were all caught up fighting for our lives
every other minute
every other hour
so what do you do?
onlylovepoetry Oct 2023
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “

an early morning insertion,
says writes a love poem of
necessity, no formal request,
but as I am quiet bound to
her chest rhyming rising, falling,
she, caught between eyes closed,
but ears open, in pretense of deep
sleeping,
leaves me treading words,
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “
borrowed for reuse, as waves
that have been here moments ago,
but only now just splashing me
to a place of inspiration, I look
up at the jambalaya of verses,
and declare myself satisfied,
both in love and wish this:

a completed poem that satisfies a
noisy urging~surging to tell her I
love her without disturbing her
peaceful state of drowsy and
permitting me too
(thinking pause)
to
taste a piece
of peace, so
well completed
8:56am 10/4/2023
Oskar Erikson Jun 2016
You require at least three similes.
A metaphor or two.
This section needs more sibilance,
and another allegory on alliteration too.

Creative writing
now a standardized test
where a poet seems
to do slightly poorer than the rest.

You receive a checklist, told
bye and buy the book.
Drain away the colours upon your pencil
or face the examiners sickle and hook.

Creative writing
now a slog a convoluted use and reuse
of that which
"improves"
your descriptions and inscriptions.

You need a conclusion.


something befitting a happy end.
Try anything smart
and a bad grade i'll be "sure to send."
Zachary Nov 2013
you took powerful women and made them powerless,
kissed each tongue as if she was a new flower sniffed
a treasured spelled question where its only found in bliss
a new girl for my hand now that's a cowards tisk tisks
spitting each one of there souls for your own self discovery
my menacing thoughts are hashed out as if each one was for her, you see
like i was a monster with an inner demon that counted our souls
that counted our souls as if i was the one stealing
right out of stock i rather fight then mock
im stronger then i look
most of mother ******* rather leave then look
you know leave comfort right outer your nook
its over booked
like a library over due
curse
each one of my demons that over see
my shoulder they sneeze
achoo
and i only flu they breeze
Jehovah
my god he sees.
id rather respect him
then fall into a snare of sleeze
you mother *******
barely got a grasp of life
and see more then only I can
sac
riff
ice
its a little watery for jam,
maybe you should open it
close most of those books
that never opened
or writ
or did i mean write
lets charge the read
not for the color
but only because
we seek for that lover
its or an
orange
melodies
that searched more then what i have to cover
or more then me just wanting to brother
sibling or not
i will fight and naught
breathy cadence of her warm children
most of you mother are just feel ins
they are some what still-in(steal?)
no use reuse
you dont think God
(God dont you think)
will choose?
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2010
“O, you who read and learn, please take heed and be concerned…”

This Earth upon which you so proudly walk, now it time for the Sun and Her to gravely talk,
The baking Sun’s heat rapidly rises, the melting kingdom of the mighty polar bear is in crisis,
From Pole-to-Pole and all over the green globe, we must beware of pollution’s slimy crime,
The seasons twist and twirl just like a revolving door, nobody reasons to help the thirsty poor.

“O, you who read and learn, please take heed and be concerned…”

Engineers drill into the Earth’s veins causing so much pain, seagulls burn and drown in acid rain,
Pipes **** out black oil from the Earth’s deep core, Her rocky bones and fleshy soil are so sore,
Her life blood is pumped to fuel coughing motor cars, which are soon discarded with yesterday’s tins and jars,
Poisoned are the ocean’s seals and whales, will anyone stop and listen to the Earth’s warning wail?

“O, you who read and learn, please take heed and be concerned…”

There is still hope and time enough yet, if we together get we can halt this grime and threat,
We must do what the students do at my local school, they live by true values and excellent rules,
Environmental projects and dreams here abound, everyone there is very aware of green schemes,
Let us quickly play our crucial parts, we must all commit these important issues to our hearts.

“O, you who read and learn, please take heed and be concerned…”

Plant a tree or flower, keep a bee and honey hive, you must strive to keep Mother Earth alive,
Share a car, walk to the park, care for the grass, plant a green garden, grow peas, pears, potatoes or tomatoes,
Recycle plastic and paper, save your water, turn off your computer, use the wind to dry your Manchester United jumper,
Reduce your carbon footprint, reuse shopping bags and pass the hint, lower the heating sweating temperature.

“O, we who now know, it’s up to us to change or else we reap Tomorrow what we Today sow,
We must protect this Earth, this is after all our place of birth and our lovely home, a brightly shining rainbow…”*



©Rangzeb Hussain
Dreams Flutter,
twirling inside,
the chimerical mind,
of a dreamer;
my head soaring up,
to meet the clouds,
dancing among the stars.


Being a dreamer,
I am no stranger,
to listening to the lyrics of my heart,
perrsuading me to obtain,
a bouquet of hopes and desires,
that resonates with,the strings of my soul.


"you're impractical",
taunts the voices,
weighing my spirt down,
as self-doubt lingers,
upon my lips,
tasting the return of the bitterness,
a brackish inferiority,
leaving the gulp of confidence,
a difficult pill to swallow.


The shackles around my legs,
forces my choices to decrease,
as the chains of the past,
stifle the ability,
to utilize the clouds,
enveloping my thoughts ,
as stepping stones.


The sight of Intuition,
a gift of the prophets,
allows me to tap into,
talents of Creativity,
skills of persistence,
painting colors,
saturated in intellect,
concealed by a youthful demeanor.


The corset of Thorns,
pricking my torso,
a garment I reuse,
to wear upon my frame,
the suit of torture,
entrapping me within,
a plague of atrocious remembrance.


I return to the physical world,
abandoning  my environmental prison,
to bathe in a hot spring of Lotus Flowers,
soothing my exterior form,
as I conquer one element,
of my internal Struggle.


I rise from the plethora,
of Lotus Flowers,
basking in the dawn of my metamorphosis,
gaining ecstasy,
as I arrive one step,
closer to reaching the biggest desire,
of this dreamer.
Nigel Morgan Dec 2014
The Open Studio

Usually the journey by car flattens expectation, and there’s that all-preoccupying conversation, so one only takes in the view where there’s a halt at a traffic light or at the occasional junction. A pattern on a wall, a damaged sign, a curtained window. Waiting, one looks and sometimes remembers, and what one sees later reappears in dreams or moments of disordered contemplation. A train journey is another matter: you sit and look, and when it is a trip rarely made, you put the book away and gaze beyond the ***** windows to a living landscape that scrolls past the frame of view. When you arrive there’s inevitably a walk: today through a town’s industrial hinterland, its pastness where former mill buildings have tactfully changed their use to become creative places, peopled with aspiration and strange activity. Walking reveals the despair of forlorn roadside business falling back into alleys ending in neglected and empty buildings, so much *******, silences of waste and decay.

But here’s the space, there’s a sign on a board outside, OPEN STUDIO TODAY. Entering inside it is quiet and cold, the door remaining open to let in the December air and the hoped-for visitors. But it’s bright and light: a welcoming presence of work and people and coffee and cake. And here’s the studio, a narrow space between make-shift walls where the artist works, where the work awaits, laid out on the surfaces of desks and tables, on shelves and walls, specimens of making; ‘stuff’, the soon-to-be, the collected, the in-progress-perhaps, the experimental.

Good, a heater blows noisily onto cold fingers. In the turbulent air pieces tremble slightly from their hangings on the walls. They are placed at a good height, a ‘good to be close to examine the detail’ height, the constructed, the made, the woven, the stitched, the printed, all assembled by the actions of those quiet, intent, those steady hands. There, a poem on a wall next to the window. Here, photographs of places unlabelled, unrecognised, but undoubtedly significant as a guide to the memory. Look, a dead badger lying in a road.

Next to the studio, a gallery space. Two walls covered with framed prints, well lit, a body of work captured behind glass, in limbo, waiting patiently for the attentive eye to sort the detail, that touch of the object on paper, that mark found and brought out of time and place. Perhaps these ‘things’, some known, some mysteriously foreign adrift from their natural context, have been collected by that bent form on a windswept beach, by the hand reaching out for the  gift in the gutter, struck by the foot on the track, unhidden in the grass by the riverside, what we might pass as without significance and beyond attention. This artist gives even the un-namable a new life, a collected-together form.

Moving closer let the eye enter the artist’s world of form and texture - and colour? There is a patina certainly, colour’s distant echo, what is seen on the edges, a left-behindness, more than any subtlety of language knows how to express, beyond comfortable descriptions, not excitable, where the spirit is damped down and is restful to the mind, a constancy of background, like a capturing of a cloud but bulging full of hints and suggestions, where texture is everywhere, nature’s rich patterns colliding with things once invented and made, used once, once used left and changed, thrown away, to be brought before the selecting eye and the possibility of form with meaning its patient partner.



J.M.W.Turner writes  on poetry and painting

Poetry having a more extensive power
Than our poor art, exerts its influence
Over all our passions; anxiety for our future
Reckoned the most persistent disposition.

Poetry raises our curiosity,
Engages the mind by degrees
To take an interest in the event,
And keeping that event suspended,
Overturns all we might expect.

The painter’s art is more confined,
Has nothing to equate with the poet’s power.
What is done by painting must be done at once,
And at one blow our curiosity receives
All the satisfaction it can know.

The painter can be novel, various and contrast,
Such is our pleasure and delight when put in motion.
Art, therefore, administers only to those wants,
And only to desires that exercise the mind.



Twilight

A day aside and diaried into busy lives
So to a morning walk to Turner’s View
Above the River Wharfe and Farnley Hall
Where it is said the inspiration came
For his famous oil of Hannibal,
with elephants and storm-glad Alps.

On to lunch where six around a table
Souped with salad before we homed
Mid afternoon the day in decline
We were done with words so watched
The edge-timed light flow between our hands.

Inevitably we climbed the stairs to lie
In twilight’s path beneath the skylight’s
Square a sliver-moon we couldn’t see
Gracing the remaining daylight hour
Marbled with shadows our collected
Curves and planes lay as sculptures
In the approaching dimity and dark
Each experimental stroke of touch
Holding us dumb to speech and thought
As night’s soft blanket covered us entire


Northcliffe Woods

Oh nest in the sky, empty of leaves,
Those tangled branches
Reaching out from twisted trunks
Into the sullen clouds above, when

Suddenly a crow -
Corvidae’, she said -
And simultaneously pulled
a hank of ivy from a nearby tree.

Hedera Helix I thought
But did not say, instead
I whispered to myself
Those ancient names I knew.

Bindwood, Lovestone
(For the way it clings
To bricks but ravages walls),
A vine with a mind of its own. But

She, in a different frame that day,
Apart, adrift and far away
From our usual walk and talk,
Fixed her gaze on the woodland floor,

Whilst skyward I sought again that
Corvid high in the branches web
Black beyond black beyond black
Against the pale white canopy above.


Franco*

Blow She Still
Ed insieme bussarono
Sweet Soft Frain
Cloche Lem Small
Spiri About Sezioni
Portrait Eco Agar
Le ruisseau sur l’escalier
Etwas ruhiger im Ausdruck
Jeux pour deux
For Grilly Fili Argor
Atem L’ultima sera
Omar Flag Ave
The Heart’s Eye*

play joy touch
code panel macro
refraction process solo
quick-change constrained
hiatus sonority colour
energy post-serial scintillating
aleatoric reuse transformation

A lonely child who imagined music
on sunday walks, he would talk about
how one lives with music as someone
would talk about how one might live
with illness or a handicap. He said,
‘You cannot write your life story in
music because words express the self
best whereas music expresses something
quite beyond words’.
This is collection of new and previous verse and prose gathered together as a gift for Christmas 2014 and New Year 2015. Each poem was accompanied by a photograph or painting. Sadly the wonderful Hello Poetry has yet to allow such pairings. The poem constructed from the words of J.M.W.Turner makes a good case I think for bringing image and word together - at least occasionally.
JM Romig Apr 2015
everybody’s angel bodies
find happening midnight
on Kansas pavements
hipsters’ motherwords are wholely robed by time
instant everything is ordinary
buggered city  immortals --
annoyed, parentless, marijuana everymans
swiftly digging unknown eternity
groaning strange in the long mysterious night
roaring, vibrating kindness
from their holy tongues
blazing inner hideous human gold
draining ***** forever
draining everything
forever -
Moloch, Buddha, Abyss
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
Mostly a Cutup from "Daydreaming of Ginsberg" by Jack Kerouac, and "Footnote to Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. NaPoWriMo 2015

To make sense of it, imagine its explaining the modern world to the beat generation in their own language.
Alyssa Yu May 2014
i. There are moments when I think that I write until the words run into the ground. I reuse metaphors and recycle imagery until the English language is used up and nothing but compost. But god, it is like yours can speak life into being. They are a breath of fresh air in the cave where I’ve been hiding, and for the first time in a while, I remember what light tastes like.

ii. Every night I have tried desperately to feel something, anything, squinting at the ceiling to try to force a single tear out and pretend that I remember what emotion is. But you remind me what the ocean feels like on my cheeks.
And it is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.

iii. Sometimes, the only reason I still believe in God is because someone had to have sent you here to save me.

iv. It’s been a really long time since I’ve believed a compliment. And it’s only because you have worked your way into my life well enough to know my imperfections and then continue to see beyond them.

v. I can see my future more clearly with you than with anyone else.

vi. I get into trouble because it seems I romanticize everyone who comes into my life, constantly thinking of them as a better person than they might be.
Except you. You are literally as amazing as I think you are. (And just as you are the only one who can compliment me, trust me when I say I know what I’m talking about when it comes to you).

vii. I swear, if my life ever flashed before my eyes, I would see only high school swim meets, camera-******* photo shoots, squirrel watching, Prom, late night conversations in the glow of the moon, and a brief glimpse of a girl struggling to read my clearly too-fancy name tag.

viii. I realized while writing this, that for the first time, I am actively trying not to be self-deprecating. I guess if someone like you can love me, I want to work a little harder to try as well.
You are right; we bring out the best in each other. For a while, I thought that I could only build others up by tearing myself down. But with you, I feel like we can take over the world (which we will). I hope I have loved enough to make you feel the same way

ix. Thank you. For all that phrase is worth and then a hundred times more. It cannot even come close to conveying what I feel right now, but then again, I was the one who was never comfortable with emotions to begin with.

x. I love you.
For my best friend.
Poetoftheway Nov 2015
~for SPT~
whose poems transform with lovingness

~~

*distinguishing, extinguishing,
the knowledges to retain,
reuse daily, mightily,
pleasures insights beloved,
honored with the stripes of daily use

then there are,
the knowledges to retrain,
non-removable, rising up from your
edges
of the very fine line
tween
pain and experience

they must Main Street remain,
be thankful for that,
for love regained,
needs the benchmark
of having lived love,
the loss of loss when recalled,
when new gets a turn, reinstalled,
is now twice sweeter
8:14 am
Nov. 1, 2015
nyc/nml

~~~
SPTSPT
7 hours ago
Scar
I need something other than food to keep me calm to take my mind off I need something other than drugs to keep me here and free from harm I need something other than people to know I'll be ok I need to know there is a god one at times I'm willing to die for to ask him why for if I fear to be alive why lord can I not die..if live is to remember to what love I had surrendered was only taken to dip my hands in death..why then do you take my breath only to give it back.. Is it to remember as I do to live in shame of fear to nothing but his humbling way... I'll never understand
Kagami Sep 2013
I am dressed in iron. Layers of it.
Sweat and blood mingling with tears.

And it rusts.

And erodes.

And crumbles.

And soon, my strong persona
Will be gone.
Or maybe it already is?
I've tried so hard to care for my armor,
But everything decays after a while.

I am exposed.

My fragile body is bare now,
And this glass figurine is crying.

She wants to be wrapped in steel this time. Titanium.
That way, she won't break as easily.
And her tears will no longer clatter on the floor,
Shattering into bright little stars.

They don't deserve to be stars.
They are dull.
She may hurt, but her tears are empty.
She has no tears left.

She gave those away too long ago, and they were lost.

And they were bright.
Wasted.


And she wants to be covered in molasses.
Maybe then, when she finds her tears again,
They will stick to her, and never leave.
Maybe she could use them again.

Reduce Reuse Recycle.
She could save her world, and allow
Other pains
To sleep there.
Absorb them from the creatures
She talks to daily.
Hiding them in her iron.
Steel.
Titanium.
Molasses.


Anything is better than
Glass.
Autumn Apr 2013
humanity is like a dish.

it can go through so much, but eventually it's color will fade.
you can reuse it, and wash it and it'll look brand new.
and if you press your knife to hard or slam it down on the table, it could chip.
and maybe you have super glue just lying around, so hey why not?
fix that old plate up.
and it can be put out for anyone,
anyone at al can use it,
and in a store when you decide hmmm should i buy, and take it home or what
you decide on the way it looks, whether it's the right color or size
and when you decide to get rid of it, you decide on how empty that superglue containers been getten
cause that plate was used oh so many times, it's color has faded
and it has more than just a couple chips.
so to the garbage it goes.
and so
you go back to the store to but a new plate, maybe a different color, this time, eh?
Cheryl Jul 2018
I'm good at recycling
texts and touches and words
I didn't realize they were non renewable resources
but I'm smart, I saved them
and I've found I can live on very little
I'm an eco lover
I realize I sound down on love lately, but I'm totally not! I love love love :)
Refract the light
Retract the night

Refrain from pain
Regain from feign

Repel all sight
Rebel all flight

Reuse that smile
Reduce that rile

Retell a story
Resell a glory

Reflect ambition
Reject omission.
Louis Brown Aug 2010
A heart that once was tender
Can somehow turn to stone
Their words may still sound gentle
The actions set the tone
A rock is just a rock
But a quill may well disguise it
As lips may spin BS
And hide the cold inside it
Those hearts can thrive on weakness
To feed on and grow stronger
‘Reuse that same old source
To resupply their hunger
It gratifies their muse
To know they have your number
Copyright Louis Brown
Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and higher, a certain anti-demonological air carried a Keri towards the sails of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. He had on the floor of his cell some branches of Tamarisks, like Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired in his own monk's feet and became perennial in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the re-transformation essences of the lexeme of greenness conventional in Patmos, being very deflowered in periods with high tempers, only with some secretions in which Procorus felt adventitious of its reflowering, from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of the inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Lion of Sulfur that derived from the Cinnabar, and with the Anemoi wind that was impregnated in the capsules of the Tamarisk, under the feet of the acolyte. In the aquifer of the groundwater phreatic layer on Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Post-Gaugamela Lid, I get in the Ex Varna with re-transfigured iridescence on Mount Tabor.

Procorus says: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk, has poured the limits of our Oikodomeo, to retain the surface plate and reuse it in absorbing the fire under my feet, compelling them to readjust under the igneous soil concentrated in the cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae, which imposed themselves on the bruised beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisks, showing themselves innocuous in the cloister imagination and right here asphyxiated by some Chaldean tribes, who felt themselves from the stand of illusionism of the Ex Varna ”.

In the compaction of this epic hyper fantasy in that instant, the dedication of the Gift was born to interpret the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would seem until now, under the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere, by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which is finally restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and the chamber of San Juan Apostle, being finally supported by layers and shawls of subterranean aqueous filters, towards a restructuring of the Euclidean plane and towards the vicinity of the plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were three-dimensional already in the construction of the Oikodomeo, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would be triggered when the Hexagonal Progeny arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-purgatory construction, for the Oikos in Abode of the social unit of Aquarian spirits or Aqua that is terminated at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace and between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodom, here every day spectra purged and rubbed each other in the archetype of the Megaron, which was intended to give in oblations and votive connections in the massages that the spirits of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal fight to live in friction and in the brown partitions of the Megaron bloodless to inaugurate it as a solid bulwark, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly snatches vitality co-energized in their extremities, of total imbalance and of bumpy patrons maneuvered on their feet crawling towards the karmic Saetas of Velos Toxeumas and Dorus unscathed. But feverish and threatening their integrity, when they fell and stepped on the Euclidean edge, opening from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric in the paranasal of Kanti and their neighborhood spatiality in the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse of its coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the columnar of its Sabines and of the Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians of the 4th century BC. C., already entering into borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, near all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them drunk with Nepenthe, by nozzles of intense rain of vine in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, Handing them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori... and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solidly in his solitude when he saw that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single chandelier to expand more inaccessible in the semiglyphs and in the grooves of the Megaron, which glowed synarchically. in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian)
Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna
RoDin Nov 2013
reuse
reduce
recycle

battered hearts
not to be
discarded

— The End —