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Rosh May 2016
Inside each one of us,
under the buried lies,
are a million hidden truths
And an unsung sacrifice.

The sacrifice to keep it all within,
the sacrifice much mocked.
But I fail to see the issue
With keeping it all locked.

It's safe and sound inside
with no one else to see
and no one else to judge,
My million hidden sanctities.

Why tell the world your secret
when it's only going to spread
and ****** away that little truth
that last bit of thread.

So, yes it's a façade,
and I have a million layers of complexities.
But in the end I'll find comfort
in my million hidden sanctities.
Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven firstborn,
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam’d?  since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear”st thou rather pure ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tell?  before the sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap’d the Stygian pool, though long detain’d
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne,
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night;
Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to re-ascend,
Though hard and rare:  Thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou
Revisit’st not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So  thick a drop serene hath quench’d their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veil’d.  Yet not the more
Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt,
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
That wash thy hallow’d feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit:  nor sometimes forget
So were I equall’d with them in renown,
Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace;
Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides,
And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old:
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal note.  Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank
Of nature’s works to me expung’d and ras’d,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou, celestial Light,
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
Now had the Almighty Father from above,
From the pure empyrean where he sits
High thron’d above all highth, bent down his eye
His own works and their works at once to view:
About him all the Sanctities of Heaven
Stood thick as stars, and from his sight receiv’d
Beatitude past utterance; on his right
The radiant image of his glory sat,
His only son; on earth he first beheld
Our two first parents, yet the only two
Of mankind in the happy garden plac’d
Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love,
Uninterrupted joy, unrivall’d love,
In blissful solitude; he then survey’d
Hell and the gulf between, and Satan there
Coasting the wall of Heaven on this side Night
In the dun air sublime, and ready now
To stoop with wearied wings, and willing feet,
On the bare outside of this world, that seem’d
Firm land imbosom’d, without firmament,
Uncertain which, in ocean or in air.
Him God beholding from his prospect high,
Wherein past, present, future, he beholds,
Thus to his only Son foreseeing spake.
Only begotten Son, seest thou what rage
Transports our Adversary?  whom no bounds
Prescrib’d no bars of Hell, nor all the chains
Heap’d on him there, nor yet the main abyss
Wide interrupt, can hold; so bent he seems
On desperate revenge, that shall redound
Upon his own rebellious head.  And now,
Through all restraint broke loose, he wings his way
Not far off Heaven, in the precincts of light,
Directly towards the new created world,
And man there plac’d, with purpose to assay
If him by force he can destroy, or, worse,
By some false guile pervert; and shall pervert;
For man will hearken to his glozing lies,
And easily transgress the sole command,
Sole pledge of his obedience:  So will fall
He and his faithless progeny:  Whose fault?
Whose but his own?  ingrate, he had of me
All he could have; I made him just and right,
Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
Such I created all the ethereal Powers
And Spirits, both them who stood, and them who fail’d;
Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
Not free, what proof could they have given sincere
Of true allegiance, constant faith or love,
Where only what they needs must do appear’d,
Not what they would?  what praise could they receive?
What pleasure I from such obedience paid,
When will and reason (reason also is choice)
Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil’d,
Made passive both, had serv’d necessity,
Not me?  they therefore, as to right belong$ ‘d,
So were created, nor can justly accuse
Their Maker, or their making, or their fate,
As if predestination over-rul’d
Their will dispos’d by absolute decree
Or high foreknowledge they themselves decreed
Their own revolt, not I; if I foreknew,
Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault,
Which had no less proved certain unforeknown.
So without least impulse or shadow of fate,
Or aught by me immutably foreseen,
They trespass, authors to themselves in all
Both what they judge, and what they choose; for so
I form’d them free: and free they must remain,
Till they enthrall themselves; I else must change
Their nature, and revoke the high decree
Unchangeable, eternal, which ordain’d
$THeir freedom: they themselves ordain’d their fall.
The first sort by their own suggestion fell,
Self-tempted, self-deprav’d:  Man falls, deceiv’d
By the other first:  Man therefore shall find grace,
The other none:  In mercy and justice both,
Through Heaven and Earth, so shall my glory excel;
But Mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.
Thus while God spake, ambrosial fragrance fill’d
All Heaven, and in the blessed Spirits elect
Sense of new joy ineffable diffus’d.
Beyond compare the Son of God was seen
Most glorious; in him all his Father shone
Substantially express’d; and in his face
Divine compassion visibly appear’d,
Love without end, and without measure grace,
Which uttering, thus he to his Father spake.
O Father, gracious was that word which clos’d
Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace;
, that Man should find grace;
For which both Heaven and earth shall high extol
Thy praises, with the innumerable sound
Of hymns and sacred songs, wherewith thy throne
Encompass’d shall resound thee ever blest.
For should Man finally be lost, should Man,
Thy creature late so lov’d, thy youngest son,
Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though join’d
With his own folly?  that be from thee far,
That far be from thee, Father, who art judge
Of all things made, and judgest only right.
Or shall the Adversary thus obtain
His end, and frustrate thine?  shall he fulfill
His malice, and thy goodness bring to nought,
Or proud return, though to his heavier doom,
Yet with revenge accomplish’d, and to Hell
Draw after him the whole race of mankind,
By him corrupted?  or wilt thou thyself
Abolish thy creation, and unmake
For him, what for thy glory thou hast made?
So should thy goodness and thy greatness both
Be question’d and blasphem’d without defence.
To whom the great Creator thus replied.
O son, in whom my soul hath chief delight,
Son of my *****, Son who art alone.
My word, my wisdom, and effectual might,
All hast thou spoken as my thoughts are, all
As my eternal purpose hath decreed;
Man shall not quite be lost, but sav’d who will;
Yet not of will in him, but grace in me
Freely vouchsaf’d; once more I will renew
His lapsed powers, though forfeit; and enthrall’d
By sin to foul exorbitant desires;
Upheld by me, yet once more he shall stand
On even ground against his mortal foe;
By me upheld, that he may know how frail
His fallen condition is, and to me owe
All his deliverance, and to none but me.
Some I have chosen of peculiar grace,
Elect above the rest; so is my will:
The rest shall hear me call, and oft be warn’d
Their sinful state, and to appease betimes
The incensed Deity, while offer’d grace
Invites; for I will clear their senses dark,
What may suffice, and soften stony hearts
To pray, repent, and bring obedience due.
To prayer, repentance, and obedience due,
Though but endeavour’d with sincere intent,
Mine ear shall not be slow, mine eye not shut.
And I will place within them as a guide,
My umpire Conscience; whom if they will hear,
Light after light, well us’d, they shall attain,
And to the end, persisting, safe arrive.
This my long sufferance, and my day of grace,
They who neglect and scorn, shall never taste;
But hard be harden’d, blind be blinded more,
That they may stumble on, and deeper fall;
And none but such from mercy I exclude.
But yet all is not done; Man disobeying,
Disloyal, breaks his fealty, and sins
Against the high supremacy of Heaven,
Affecting God-head, and, so losing all,
To expiate his treason hath nought left,
But to destruction sacred and devote,
He, with his whole posterity, must die,
Die he or justice must; unless for him
Some other able, and as willing, pay
The rigid satisfaction, death for death.
Say, heavenly Powers, where shall we find such love?
Which of you will be mortal, to redeem
Man’s mortal crime, and just the unjust to save?
Dwells in all Heaven charity so dear?
And silence was in Heaven: $ on Man’s behalf
He ask’d, but all the heavenly quire stood mute,
Patron or intercessour none appear’d,
Much less that durst upon his own head draw
The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set.
And now without redemption all mankind
Must have been lost, adjudg’d to Death and Hell
By doom severe, had not the Son of God,
In whom the fulness dwells of love divine,
His dearest mediation thus renew’d.
Father, thy word is past, Man shall find grace;
And shall grace not find means, that finds her way,
The speediest of thy winged messengers,
To visit all thy creatures, and to all
Comes unprevented, unimplor’d, unsought?
Happy for Man, so coming; he her aid
Can never seek, once dead in sins, and lost;
Atonement for himself, or offering meet,
Indebted and undone, hath none to bring;
Behold me then:  me for him, life for life
I offer: on me let thine anger fall;
Account me Man; I for his sake will leave
Thy *****, and this glory next to thee
Freely put off, and for him lastly die
Well pleased; on me let Death wreak all his rage.
Under his gloomy power I shall not long
Lie vanquished. Thou hast given me to possess
Life in myself for ever; by thee I live;
Though now to Death I yield, and am his due,
All that of me can die, yet, that debt paid,
$ thou wilt not leave me in the loathsome grave
His prey, nor suffer my unspotted soul
For ever with corruption there to dwell;
But I shall rise victorious, and subdue
My vanquisher, spoiled of his vaunted spoil.
Death his death’s wound shall then receive, and stoop
Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarmed;
I through the ample air in triumph high
Shall lead Hell captive maugre Hell, and show
The powers of darkness bound. Thou, at the sight
Pleased, out of Heaven shalt look down and smile,
While, by thee raised, I ruin all my foes;
Death last, and with his carcase glut the grave;
Then, with the multitude of my redeemed,
Shall enter Heaven, long absent, and return,
Father, to see thy face, wherein no cloud
Of anger shall remain, but peace assured
And reconcilement: wrath shall be no more
Thenceforth, but in thy presence joy entire.
His words here ended; but his meek aspect
Silent yet spake, and breathed immortal love
To mortal men, above which only shone
Filial obedience: as a sacrifice
Glad to be offered, he attends the will
Of his great Father. Admiration seized
All Heaven, what this might mean, and whither tend,
Wondering; but soon th’ Almighty thus replied.
O thou in Heaven and Earth the only peace
Found out for mankind under wrath, O thou
My sole complacence! Well thou know’st how dear
To me are all my works; nor Man the least,
Though last created, that for him I spare
Thee from my ***** and right hand, to save,
By losing thee a while, the whole race lost.

Thou, therefore, whom thou only canst redeem,
Their nature also to thy nature join;
And be thyself Man among men on Earth,
Made flesh, when time shall be, of ****** seed,
By wondrous birth; be thou in Adam’s room
The head of all mankind, though Adam’s son.
As in him perish all men, so in thee,
As from a second root, shall be restored
As many as are restored, without thee none.
His crime makes guilty all his sons; thy merit,
Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce
Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds,
And live in thee transplanted, and from thee
Receive new life.  So Man, as is most just,
Shall satisfy for Man, be judged and die,
And dying rise, and rising with him raise
His brethren, ransomed with his own dear life.
So heavenly love shall outdo hellish hate,
Giving to death, and dying to redeem,
So dearly to redeem what hellish hate
So easily destroyed, and still destroys
In those who, when they may, accept not grace.
Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume
Man’s nature, lessen or degrade thine own.
Because thou hast, though throned in highest bliss
Equal to God, and equally enjoying
God-like fruition, quitted all, to save
A world from utter loss, and hast been found
By merit more than birthright Son of God,
Found worthiest to be so by being good,
Far more than great or high; because in thee
Love hath abounded more than glory abounds;
Therefore thy humiliation shall exalt
With thee thy manhood also to this throne:
Here shalt thou sit incarnate, here shalt reign
Both God and Man, Son both of God and Man,
Anointed universal King; all power
I give thee; reign for ever, and assume
Thy merits; under thee, as head supreme,
Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions, I reduce:
All knees to thee shall bow, of them that bide
In Heaven, or Earth, or under Earth in Hell.
When thou, attended gloriously from Heaven,
Shalt in the sky appear, and from thee send
The summoning Arch-Angels to proclaim
Thy dread tribunal; forthwith from all winds,
The living, and forthwith the cited dead
Of all past ages, to the general doom
Shall hasten; such a peal shall rouse their sleep.
Then, all thy saints assembled, thou shalt judge
Bad Men and Angels; they, arraigned, shall sink
Beneath thy sentence; Hell, her numbers full,
Thenceforth shall be for ever shut.  Mean while
The world shall burn, and from her ashes spring
New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell,
And, after all their tribulations long,
See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds,
With joy and peace triumphing, and fair truth.
Then thou thy regal scepter shalt lay by,
For regal scepter then no more shall need,
God shall be all in all.  But, all ye Gods,
Adore him, who to compass all this dies;
Adore the Son, and honour him as me.
No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all
The multitude of Angels, with a shout
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud Hosannas filled
The eternal regions:  Lowly reverent
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast
Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold;
Immortal amarant, a flower which once
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
Began to bloom; but soon for man’s offence
To Heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows,
And flowers aloft shading the fount of life,
And where the river of bliss through midst of Heaven
Rolls o’er Elysian flowers her amber stream;
With these that never fade the Spirits elect
Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams;
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.
Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took,
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high;
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven.
Thee, Father, first they sung
S Mar 2015
There is a darkness in the depths of the heart,
A darkness so consuming and overwhelming,
Able to govern the entire human existence: mind, body and soul.

It is ever evolving to deceive its victims,
To pull them by their toes into utmost  insanity,
Utter unhappiness and painful disposition.
This darkness pervades all,
Eludes all and in doing so,
Corrupts the ever-pure tabula rasa of the innocent.

The innocent turn dark.

But in their darkness,
For every smile and laugh,
There must be good,
There must be happiness,
There must be light.

It is this light that shines through a heart of darkness,
That is able to pervade through the charred sanctities of life,
That can create the slightest keyhole in a resoundingly locked door,
That gives the will to continue,
To search,
And to live.

In every person's heart there is a candle.
A source of light,
A source of happiness
And of serene peace.

Yet,
*It is only able to serve those who light it.
Experimenting with the views of enlightenment philosophers on the good and evil in all of us. Are we inherently good, bad, corrupted or ignorant?
I did not change my day in anyway because of God or any other sod who poked his nose into my business
I got more or less but usually ****** all from sanctities sat in some easy chairs in hardship hall and telling me how to behave,
or pointing me in some direction expecting rehabilitation and perfection.

I changed because of you alone and how you changed me,
how could one man be so blind with blinkered eyes and not see kindness,love and honesty, that shone from you and into me.
Oh
how simple it now seems when dreams come true and you are here
how easy to slip off that coat of nonchalance and fear and wrap my arms around the arms that wrap around a man like me.
This could be the reason why I want to fly,to float,to sing and shout and wave my hands about
this could be my making and I am yours,here for the taking,take me now and show me how to love you true,to be at one with you and we could be that harmony.
I was imprisoned but now I'm free
and now I see,
the plan designed for me
included you
and you
alone.
Urania speaks with darken'd brow:
  'Thou pratest here where thou art least;
  This faith has many a purer priest,
And many an abler voice than thou.

'Go down beside thy native rill,
  On thy Parnassus set thy feet,
  And hear thy laurel whisper sweet
About the ledges of the hill.'

And my Melpomene replies,
  A touch of shame upon her cheek:
  'I am not worthy ev'n to speak
Of thy prevailing mysteries;

'For I am but an earthly Muse,
  And owning but a little art
  To lull with song an aching heart,
And render human love his dues;

'But brooding on the dear one dead,
  And all he said of things divine,
  (And dear to me as sacred wine
To dying lips is all he said),

'I murmur'd, as I came along,
  Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd;
  And loiter'd in the master's field,
And darken'd sanctities with song.'
Edward VanHoose Mar 2012
By chance we sat close that night as the light
faded, leaving that just-before-rain spirit
pervading the air with nature's answer
to expectations of brilliant designs
soon to fill the heavens with their display
of ruthless radiance fused with honor,

and when the first boom crashed, then you honored                                                    
the hot pursuing trail of blazing light
by squealing with delight in a display
of faux-female mystique while the spirits
of that just-so spot atop your head, designed
to muddle my mind, silently answered

longings I felt when your eyes sought answers
to my quick withdrawal-- No, I honor  
you too much to indulge secret designs--
but the fury of sound melted the light
nascent in dark orbs as we tasted spirits
of sulfur from the forgotten display's

willful efforts to prune our own display--
happy intrusions ordained to answer
pride bursting from our bodies' caged spirits--
national prompts calling, Present! Honor
the ones privileged to die for the light
reflected deep in the inner design

of her still questioning eyes designed
in palpable deference to displays
emasculate now in the lessened light,
overcome by the thickened smoke-answer
overflowing our lungs with no honor
for imagined sanctities of spirit,

and then the sky tore, releasing spirits
in sudden gallons naturally designed
to drown mystical visions in honor
of reality, the potent display
inherent in terrestrial answers--
non-reflective of superior light.

when introspection answers to design,
when spirit surpasses worldly light,
then displays of honor must burst their forms;

must give way to neck-chilling encounters
with an intangible, marvelous truth.

The
Erecting
Inquisitive petals
Settling in the creamy-gray aromas
Of these Arabian desserts
Undresses the tales of the scheherazadian nights bare


Let's follow suit
Let's not cloven ourselves afar
But to mix these cold breezes and tales
With strawberries in treasured jars
Let's mar the very decorum
Painting to desecrate the sanctities here


Let every dripping sweat,be sultry
To make pools on these desserts tonight
For every minute counts
Every sigh amounts
How our mouths seek to melt astray
The wild flaming incense within


Honey!
These beds are full of roses
But know and learn "I'm Roman"
So Let's recite The Hail Marys
Counting every star
And dream but to embrace the heavens tonight


For the world is blind,but here his eyes

A Night In Arabia

©Historian E.Lexano
Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies. Before being sunk, the prose was found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:

“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself."

"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror...

The second mirror..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther..., says no more than regret, the acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegar, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is leftover in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that is not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is leftover from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution, and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am Omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, Omni Messianic, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with overtimes, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord because he was before all of us who were his poet's servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless, vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of eghotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf..., here is not to belong to this century..., reverted to an uncertain meditation...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives the cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society Olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a microsecond device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict! But what a great solution, for someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xiphos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!
Proses from Rhodes
Of Wernarth's three mirrors, the second was stationed at Cape Prassonissi; on wings of Prosas de Rodas who were waiting for him in Kímolos; silvering in the extreme south of the western Cyclades. Following him behind Poliegos, who is on Prassonissi. Knowing that here the irrationality of his antiscientific prose, channeling reform and august prose in Hyper-meditation, will take you through the aureoles of the industrial poetic volcanoes of gems, following this journey in the necropolis of Hellenika, in familiarity with the harpies . Before being sunk, the prose prose were found to the west of the island that Ellinika is mentioned today. Here is where Wernarth with a constant suffering in his chest writes the prose in the necropolis of Hellenika, from his oratory vortex:
“I have to become a hidden ghost that closes the taverns, where it smells like a cimarrón of a trough of live gunpowder, of shelves of foreign implants, outlining parallels of Kímolos in its rigor that descends from Taurus. I must here, in these rigorous words of darkness, common in something belonging to the feather of a hummingbird in the midst of the storm of the brave steps that tell me to get to Prassonisi and the epigraph of the berries collected in the retreats of the defeated harpies, with a voice convinced of what makes them aware of the prose, more who compulsively covers them from the darkness where they are born with light and incipient accent. I have to build the intuitive of parallelism that sinks entire firmaments of poetry, rebuilding itself on itself.
"Here I am sunk that I am in the unknown ... Seeing myself only in a few, who have to find me in their magnitudes and sanctities that sprout beyond Poliegos, who remain to receive me with bells and trumpets ...

Here I am with everyone, some together with all the obeisances, and with each latch Aghio Andreas… of Saint Andrew jumping over all the crypto lines of Kímolos, husband of the daughter of Taurus, Sidis, noble and majestic inhabitants among the mansions of the abbreviation of the storms in Wahlheim, with a juxtaposed desire to inseminate *******, between Etrestlian creatures and the immateriality of the Hellenika necropolis.

Lotte, look over the abyss that unleashes the death of Young Greece ..., but re-alive in the prose that sleeps in the chapters that are about to be redeemed from the powers of those who swallow figs on high tide east of Hermes, with two coins of gold in each hand without parliament ...

Here is my storehouse, full of baskets to take to the gorges of Before Christ, reflected in the fountains of their undefeated anathemas and psalms with bulls and offices ... in anarchies of loves lost in the struggles to redeem Hecate's heirs, of my harpy who looks at the second mirror ...

Second mirror ..., the aversions of passion, whose participle is anticipated in the corridor of all who attend to the din of their own grief, of which in noun was evidenced when Wernarth with her steed Alikanto went to Werther's funeral, on the day that in Wahlheim the graffiti of the gloomy mists, gave the noun to the prose and verb, to all the conditions of Wernarth's pain, pashkein "Greek suffering”...

On the other side of the Rhine estuary, reflections of the first two mirrors, there are cults of reversal shudders, congratulations that plague the taste bond with bitterness ..., which lives close to the acrimony that transitions from sweet-bitter to bitter-acidic, to who treasures the goodness and salubrious premises of a good mirror full of composite pieces, and that have never been cracked….

Court of the three mirrors in the crypt of Werther ..., says no more than regret, acquiescence of the consent of the legal guardians, giving him for alive even though he is dead ... “what hypothetical laws affirm a man who wears clothes of a living heart in a body that you saw a soul of irrational officialdom preexisting ...

Seventeen angiosperm raptors flew from the high clarions with seventy-four of Wernarth's lamentations, sophisms of Greco-Germanic essences vinegars, in his hands of hoplite blood that writes illustrated verses of Aryan and Hellenic plant, of never cloudiness or Etrestlian logic, which she wanders alone through supposedly illustrative anti-romantic socio-bourgeois prostration in the lodge of the camaraderie of the wise foolish fingers and brave with their weapons of death, in her hands of prose that tastes like a pompous reading of loneliness and vagueness of abstract illogical, but redeemed Picnic passion and expiration.

The verse gives to the stanza what is left over in the poetry and what in the central verse arrhythmia of its cadence it gives to the prose, as a vital instinct ..., with glory and literary destitution, that's how the grunts and eyebrows of the ejaculators of successful love fall under the insidious morality of Wernarth-Werthiana.

Here is the ill-fated light-dark episode of Rhodes, the ethical pandemic over the heartbeat, more than an ideo-logic, frustrated with poorly acquired logic in dialysis from other prose that are not sonnetized.

They are the spacious, multi-different, of theories that incriminate the verb to retentive of reactionary policies with a neat effect, of which effective life is to fall asleep in the silos of consciousness in a nap behind the back of the worst dream ...

The purely assertive, with another the convictions of the extra-bourgeois class, with a certain tinge of drum major before the hated intelligentsia. Here is the new man, in the tremulous sound of others who identify with vital love, subsidizing understanding  sapiens...

Wernarth destroys treasures, which do not fit in a storehouse, being part of what is left over from the surplus, for true socialized and compulsive ones, in reflections of those who march with their heart of chaste origin, evolution and withdrawal of Hellenic actions.

Here I am with my argument in humanity, with a bouquet of flowers returned to the sender ..., we are or I am enlightened, if the dependencies of sunsets Werthians grow, with projectiles in our souls without leaving.

My delay does not exceed my progress, every day I am more reclusive of rational delay, and a simple voice that keeps silent so as not to wake the King! Here I am with my Greek roulette, one of its edges points in tragedy in the Dorus lances on the temples of the creator Wernarth, with dramas of thirst and passion, but having all the love of solitude.

I speak to the gods in their language, but they answer me with repeated nouns, I reiterate them with apothegms, and they slide me through their crowns ..., who one of them does not know who I really am, that if I am more historical and comprehensive than themselves in matters of love.

I am omni Wernarthian, I accompany those who do not sleep and do not tire, because they are my pilaster, they are my bed when they wake up from my dreams resting in their dreams of utopia that calm the currents of the disguised Prassionissi temporal.

Whatever the rival destiny, it will not be to leave alone for the Lette, made piece and scarce, in the piece of a whole man that I carry in me, omni Messiano, opposed to the distances that linens spend on whoever wears the gauze in the defenders of these little princes, who border on the pauperism of their wandering singer hormones.

My multi-versology, and urgency of oscillation, is locking the intruder, which undermines the one who offers and does not give pause to the one who symptomatically requires it…, Lotte; it annihilates the struggles of those who confine them to guilt and psychological-matriarchal authority.

I have to progress with over times, while the sun in Rhodes asks Zeus to illuminate me more, for an enthusiastic sentence to be his master and lord, because he was before all of us who were his poets servant subjects.

My successive oracles allow me to go further than close, I cannot get out, but nevertheless vehemently, I slide through the winning marks of those who institute the freedom of a scientific love, to a divisive love, of egotic economy, that shapes the iron delirium sacrosanct, and the composition of the reciprocated enmity.

I am vague, but with flammable passional decrees, of my nature as a wolf and single parent, in the shape of a man in a different personality, as a phobic wolf ..., here is not to belong to this century ..., reverted to an uncertain meditation ...

The rule and formula of my love is the intensity that makes me abhorrent, if I lose my control, say, the world that I represent here ends ... the truth of my maxim, as nothing fits in everything, I do not inspire what does not replace the whole…

I live in a half-realism, of entire externalities that make up the rules that make me a slave to austerity, that runs after simplicity…, I walk through clouds that only let me fall in the breaks of their metaphysical and rigid odes.

My basic involution is not intense; it is more than a stable system of poetic verbal sacredness, with great movement, of ethics that haunts the idiomatic devotees of the awakening of the renewed personality, but with open arms in limbo...

As an individual he foreshadows collective miraculous mysteries, contradicting the corrupt purpose of a man, who dies behind bars of his own acquiescent death. Greco-motor and promoter of systematic divinities, in the hands of magicians or millers with the instinct of a suicide ministry, even without being prepared, trying…!

Here is my dialectic, if I bring out the prosaic passion; it hurts me by giving me false lessons, only done in my field to work. Wernarth, is a believer, more believing in Werther; Lotte consul of disbelief, in the hands of the peasants to rub her abolition as a maiden, before the wiles with mendacious devotion on the harpoons of the suffocating victim...

Harpies are atheists, just as atheism martyrs them as immortal, even not giving it into the hands of their failures, Wernath enters Olympus with his steed, and it venerates him, and mythology opens its myths to him, and he despises them!

Because I have to commit suicide if here in Rhodes they sing the prose of Kímolos for me, happening at their table of superb menus and portents, with his novel that is graced with my lantern that gives cause of light, before the storm is folly before a society olympic.

My drama is hoarding and describing, the measurements in brief scenes, do not fill those that should not be measured, if I fall in love with my creatures, they self-eliminate, before the boast of the ****** right - late Werther in chains.

I am not resigned to my agreement with Zeus to divide the world equally, but I will supply myself with cults and friends on the stage of the confinement, as a liberator exclaiming unharmed...

I am not lost in my revolution, I am percussion in sounds against my own trials, enraging myself at others with failed feelings, perhaps in a felt preparatory and not being, but aware of the outline before my bishop's departure.

My triumph is to share the enthronement with the Werthian world, over, and without initials or termination of legal conditions, with the goal of artistic lines, with the art of dialogue, with the tetra-winged Lepidoptera silhouettes, four times vivified.

My parapsychological regression between flowers and rose bushes I have not conferred on the augur, nor did I doubt an appendage of a micro second device and divine inspiration, to conjure them to the last bastion of something or someone that cannot hold me back.

Idyllically, transit between the nobility and the plebs, in drama and comedy, but my explosion does not have to fear great distances, my parts being plagued in colorful themes and verses throughout the desolate world, burning in the embers of my beloved….

But my God, who is my everything today, made me have a colloquial friendship with my courting, but the imaginary…, she doesn't know… !, but I am still enthusiastic, I continue to venerate the possibility of making a mistake trying to be an enemy friend.

I bring rings in my pocket close to my essence, but a good part of that has a conflict of truth and fear, which accuses me with which finger I have to braid myself, and I accuse myself of measuring my words of seductive ruin and contrition.

Today it is up to us all to die, because I will do it for everyone. I have to return due to the fatality of an imperishable reason, before a nebulous tutelage that germinates only in past springs, what a great conflict!  But what a great solution, of someone who flourishes between loves and conflicts...

My ranks have deserted its worst category; it suffocates and does not move the feeling, only the heroic predestination, which moves my transit to Rhodes, between feelings ..., for and from others, who will never be an award ruling, on my sword Xifos!

The heroism of love is to go beyond the imperishable madness of anti-heroism, with the spirit of a clear heroine and undeniable jurisprudence of love before any pact with Leviathan ..., it is to be hoped that they will not forget to make a copy of my Contract!
Wernarth…, Proses from Rhodes
Mary Gay Kearns Jul 2019
Float me Abraham in my country’s fields
Where the white mice come forth in shields
And bargain with the great provider that
We may cup the day of peace without harm.

For in the time of sanctities the cloak glows
And we look to freedom in those fields.

Love Mary ***
wordvango Aug 2017
not an expose
I can't Kant I
am more the Freudian type
German Heil
or the deriving deviant

I am almost subconscious
in the inner sanctities
Darwin was half right
my thumbs up
my *** constantly

bachelors are neither
happy or malcontent
moreover, they are predators

so I argue
that a priori
intuition
one must preclude
is

quality quantity relation modality
is pure nomenclature and not psyche
I feel therefore I am
is was  am again was

was an am
were an I
am a me

come on I can play
Tears purify the profanities of soul,
Restores and polishes the sanctities of face,
So, the grieves help the soul,
To protect its dignity and grace,

Love strengthens the muscles of a heart,
Makes it connected with reality,
Shows it how to face anger and thunder,
Shows it the path of hope and sanctity,

Water kills if someone raw drowns into it,
But those with skills it cleans,
Learn the meaning of things around you,
Nothing is like in nature the way it seems,

Departure in love makes you strong,
To feel the value of having nothing but grieves,
You are not able to absorb her beauty,
Just enjoy thinking about the feelings at Eves.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
this weather would drive anyone mad...
maybe i'm just weird...
plenty of people: normal people:
normie SIMS
                          adore summer...
you can sometimes watch one guy
walking around the street without
a shirt... or: girl just needs to wear a bikini...
i get it...
    even i'm thinking about cycling
shirtless and donning nothing
but lycra-shorts...

                        i'm too modest:
i'll probably do the usual and put cotton
shorts on top of the lycra...
    and i probably won't cycle shirtless...
i think my hairy chest
and hairy stomach and my "mark of Cain":
my missing "pound of flesh"
might offended people... or... the opposite...
for the opposite ***...

as much as i can be a responsible person
i also know how to be a *******...
reckless... chaotic...
    i tried an experiment today...

can fury / anger cool you down?

like i always said: people don't **** me off...
things do...
that said: do some people qualify as
being tools? sure...
and i hate faulty tools...

so i was vacuuming today... because i felt
*****... and hot... and sweaty and
"teenage girl" -esque "confused":
whatever the hell that means...
for the past three days i wake up
on the floor without my pajamas...
naked: glued to the wooden floor...

gasping for air...
      ******* July! ******* atmospheric high
pressure... go! go! go! go back to Sahara or
wherever you came from...
SNOW... ICE... DARKNESS!
    
       雪 (ユキ)... コーリ... クラヤミ

(yuki... koori... kurayami)

this vacuum cleaner is ****...
first of all... the person who designed should
have just been an employee for Mr Dyson...
seriously... the cable is too short...
i have to switch from about three different
power-source outlets...
   and those hairs on what's supposed
to collect dust? too short too...
   i've been vacuuming the staircase twice...
once fast... then slow...
  
i ended up testing my idea...
can anger cool you?
can fury cool you?
                   well... first i had to wet my beard
and comb it... then i had to wet my hair
and comb it... then i asked myself:
if i get really *******
about... "a hammer you can't hammer nails
in with"... i.e. a vacuum cleaner
i can't clean with? yeah...

                like an orthodox Jew
head-banging before the Wailing Wall...
which... honestly... if those guys were kneeling...
i'd imagine a massive Ha-Shem *****
just there... imitation blow-job...
or rather: repenting for the ancestors
to mutilate them...

monotheistic lunacy...
   same in Christianity... kneeling... kneeling...
******* procrastinating...
or the **** position of the Islamic rites...
geared up, gents, for some extra-curriculum
action?!
it's one thing to be told that you came
from an ancestry of hunchbacks...
i.e. apes... and another to insult
those origins with these silly antics...

                          oh... but i do believe in a deity...
but it's all in my head...
it doesn't require Churches, statues...
sanctities and heresies or anathemas...
that's the best way: at least for me...
it's all in my head...
     and the world can be as beautiful as it already
is...

people don't **** me off... things do...
sadly some people mingle with the category of thing...
there's this guy at work...
a sad soul... deformed in a way that doesn't
appear deformed... but he has a physiognomy
that would tell you: *******...
******? not really... too weak...
   everyone at work hates him...
     well... wouldn't you if you heard:
i've been a steward for 12 years...
                        he tries to boss people around...
me? i only started last December on a whim
and i've already become a supervisor
blah blah X no. of times...
                    
it's lovely seeing society function on its original
intent of meritocracy...
right... but this guy is despised...
me? i'm... curious...
   he has terrible conversation cues too...
he tries to crack a joke or says something
and non-responsive... i was?! i wasn't?!
i don't even know anymore...
      i didn't say anything... i'm pretty sure...
and he's like: yeah, ha ha... you never say
anything to me...

weird as **** when he starts calling me
by my Finnish equivalent: Matti...
               only my father gets to call me Mateo...
thank god he didn't venture south...

i actually prefer Martin... the guy with cerebral
palsy... the one that looks jittery when standing
still... or drunk... but at least i can look into
his eyes and think:
                         oh... this world is a *****...
but i promise i won't make it harder for you...

back to the other guy... everyone at work hates
me... but... when i was supervising him?
oh man... WHAT A JINN!
perfect! i had to argue with some guys without
wristbands trying to get a pitch-side view
of the concert: clearly they bought paid-seat tickets...

i gave up... arguing / being persuaded...
blah blah this blah blah that...
i turned around and crossed my hands...
but they just kept on nagging...
    then my whittle fwend came along and worked
his magic...
it didn't take much...
just his physiognomy...
             his body language...
                              his actual use of language...
   the seriousness he applied to the profession:
yeah... "profession" in my eyes...
crowd-safety is a joke...
                     i take it seriously in terms of:
looking out for terrorists...
but compared to roofing or anything DIY related
it's a farce...

   soldiers at Buckingham Palace might also
realise that they don't have a job...
they just have a uniform
smoke and mirrors...

everyone at "work" hates him but i found
most useful... when you can't win
an "argument": just allow the most "disgusting"
person to do the work for you...

i mean: for ****'s sake... how can you win
an argument if people find you endearing,
hug you, kiss you, take selfies with you...
it's impossible... throw in a "Quasimodo"
into the mix and watch them turn their attitude...

it's called: effectively utilizing a person's
otherwise considered disadvantages to your
advantage... that's what's called:
nature abhors a vacuum...

                 i'm going to write this... drink some more
and then cycle... hopefully concentrating on
any of my possible recklessness...
hopefully not falling head first
across my bicycle's handlebars while
trying to avoid a ***-hole...

mindful: of a copper-neck...
that's the only good thing about summer...
getting a suntan...
that's it... i like looking like a lychee flesh
dipped in sunflower oil...
or that darker oil: peanut?
            
it's almost like the recurrent joke about
**** Germany... the supposed "Aryans"
waged a war against actual Aryan
inheritors... given the geographic history...
an Iranian tribe known as the Sarmatians
settled in the region otherwise
known as parts of Poland...

                            ah... sigh... i don't want
to laugh: you can't "win" something
by falsifying "said"... "truth"...
                           i guess i'm prone to a "symptom"
of... sleeper-genes...
they're waking up... it doesn't matter
whether i like it or not... it's happening: the end...

my mind has become a cauldron of events
that happened and should be forgotten
and a forgetting that should have happened...
and it has: with the immediacy of me
scratching my head... figuring out some
metaphysical arithmetic:

i don't do language formalities...
i don't do pre-scripts...
i abhor Thespians...
  as much as the ancient world abhorred
poets... clue: in Ovid...
poetry is a waste of time blah...
modern times have yet to appreciate
despising Thespians...
shadow-thieves...
                                        doppelgängers...

death's only until one's unsuspecting
tomorrow...
that said: i have a corrosive animosity
for maxim spewing: maxim regurgitating...

at least proverbs are ciphers...
maxims seem like deciphers...
lost proof on their certainty was always
going to be established by anyone
who read any other genre of literature...

- because as a ******... i abhor being regarded
as the pauper of Europe...
sure... i write in English: because it's more
convenient...
i write in the most economic language
available known to man...
    do i think that America, the FSA:
federal states of America would be more stable
if they employed an indoctrination
into resembling a rigid bilingual nation
not governed by WASPS
        (white, anglo-saxon protestants)?

Switzerland?! massive failure...
isolationist from day 1... whenever day 1 was...
and they're accustomed to...
everyday people speaking...
3 languages?!
    **** me... perhaps we'd be better off
knowing at least two... the minimum...
but then... n'ah... pointless...
the "modern miracle of literacy"
sort of backfired...

                and if not backfired then didn't
give the desired results...
the guilt of manual labour...
          forget GAY PRIDE...
back in the satellite state of the Soviet
Union that was Poland...
there was a LABOUR PRIDE DAY...
yeah: physical labour was celebrated...
appreciated...
              what, the, ****, has, your, ****,
orientation, to, do, with, whether,
you, get, a, taxi, on, time?!
                    
                                  work used to be celebrated!
not sexuality... and that's Dodo-sexuality, no?
unless you elevate prostitution
to surrogacy, no?
            well then... you have your little revolution:
i'm going to have mine...
  i don't mind slurping on the many-used
oysters' worth of ****... mind you:
they taste better...
              nope... i was listening... i listened
long enough...
                i'm tired...
                no wonder the Slavic world imploded
with Ukraine as the sacrificial lamb...
the Czechs were a priori Germanic in their
liberalism... libertarianism...

they can *******: PAKICOCKPAKICOCKPAKICOCK!

****'s sake: THINGS: HAPPEN...
you can't just cower from things happening...
might as well throw in your own
narrative... poetry shouldn't exist in
safety... poetry should exist in jeopardy...
in being branded X Y & Z...
               poetry should tease at
the egoism of Marquis de Sade...
                            it should be all about cycling while
drunk...
         because life's what? you borrowed?
you're in debt?
     or is it the inverted:
you wanted me here...
          i'm here... and this is what i am...
or rather: this is what you taught me
to become!

                          mein gott... this is sort of looking
like a self-help guru manifesto...
i'm ashamed... but then also very much
drunk and dehydrated at the same time
and i truly want this heatwave to ******* from
England...

                   i will never give up my testosternone
for my: abhorrent antic
of cycling while tipsy...
i need a coupling of testosterone + adrenaline...
i need to be crazy-stupid...
                like all the prostitutes said;
you're good-crazy..
i know i am... i'm fully invested.

— The End —