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"Vernarthiano and well-wisher name leads me to you in temporary fissure and tolondro, abjuring virginity in my maiden legion delivered in barbarism, and in blood betrothed for those who more in the finesse prolactin emulsion is renewed as a teenager, opening spaces to bring depressions of inheritance, for whom or those who found hieratic parents and children here in the disputed ****** that nests their nature.

Escaping from the beast and the libido of the criminal patron of the dynasty, which continues to flow senile gold through the scattered veins of beasts that hunt spoil, falling in love with the young and their commiseration. I swiftly attracted the henchmen who bleed before the door of the corporal and fateful destiny, opening in Hellenicidal impostor blood of the Holy Land, and in contradiction by Maccabees with immobilized blindfolded eyes, intimating the extreme virginity of a quasi Sibyl maiden, grasped in the tweezers. Of Seleuco, expired in the dark chamber of Wonthelimar, and in ardent desires that sever brains in the darkness of the cavern of Chauvet bilocated in the roadstead of Skalá. Vernarth I have come to you as a double birth, moaning descendants of the helots, phrases that found no excuses that salutely leave compassionate, like Antiochus who exhorted me to go to your solemn Investiture of the Himation. Ad mostem festinamum Eurydice said that she sang to me romantic atolls from the balcony of nowhere, unrequited I was consumed with the love that flowed through the vena cava of the sufferer in Apollo. Ezpatkul looked at the koelum or demiurge sky in his epiphany, summoning your Gerakis to station themselves near Petrobus, entrenching me tightly in the clutches of the Ibic Rings to be referred to your luminary by the seat of Leros.

My parents by the name of Demetrio and Fila brought me to Roshus on the Perian coast of Macedonia, where I was given as a gift at the regent's wedding. I am Stratony of Macedonia, the daughter of Strategy of Syria, my mother. It is I when writing this epistle, which in turn had a prosperous one, but in posterity when my consent was distanced from the same tenor, my mother was solicitously delegated to Seleucus and then to my father Antiochus. Then I shunned Demetrius II, due to his extra union with Phtia, Daughter of Olympia II of Epirus. It was enough that a link in this Seleucid genealogy was lost in the open from a sick dynasty and successions, so that they appear on the henbane embankment, and go back from Lambdas and Epsilons of consanguineous matings, betting principalities and fratricidal blood, cursing themselves in campaigns since the same that is sheltered in mutes and feelings in Judah by Olympian torments, and immortal Gods shrouding fleeting perishable itineraries of life to the tempting mayor of the puppets, and of the mortal reigns without disposition rattling in Samothrace libido, of hundreds superior, and all the enlightened contents of a captive genealogical of semi-gods trying to equalize.


Beloved Vernarthiano on Venus, anxieties made me fly to the sound of the souls of Trouvere, committing crimes in my larnax, for tears that have spread one spring afternoon, which I only saw in contained affections, being able to walk through Roshus with my mother, in the discharge of essences saturated that truncate release in the Epsilon hopper. Subtending lines and diameters towards the ends of the curved arch or broken lines, being able to refer to the circumferential buttress between the sides of the angle of my asthmatic regret…! When I removed my hand from this obituary, I saw that The Hague reigned at its lowest point, which made the ink pinch that made me a princess out of her lines, and characters that were molded in such proactive and literal numbers. Beautiful and charitable is the beautiful donna that is born flowered for nuptials of the angelic white indigo "Deus Meus Captivus", in your purpose I could be Stratonice regent of wandering honoring through the palatial corridors of my mother evading intentional and reasons of victory to our good honor, and of the audited and emphasized names of "Victorious Armies" in their real meaning in our patronymic, after the victory of Ipsos. As Argeadas, the king yielded to the prince, what his subjects receive from replicated dynasties, in retreats and shallow swells of temperament, linking liras between liras of Corinth and patronizing condescension in the dominions of Persia.

Much more than an umpteenth outrage in the bands of tolerance and knowledge, I was able to discount the years to come. Passed through our unconfessed lineage, reaching our sarcophagi in the good news by raising the frame, and lifting my mother in your tragedy by three that are tripled, knowing that they allude to Saint John the Apostle, over the loafers who drool in scabs stepdaughters of party mouths, and monarchical slaps that have united us behind the scenes, and in the interlocking followed by re continued guarantees of worship, pro-Seleuchism or Antiochism vanished in buried Diadoco briefs, adjacent to the ibid in mega nuptials or Olympic descendants, and in the relatives of the Orphism-transgenerational surrogate! Vernarth give me a taste of the well, I require a new territorial ally in your quilts to new heads branded in his autumnal Hegemon.

In the attempt to take out a dagger and put it in the night watchman, I was already amazed at the reading of the fluttering of the Gerakis, who threw the tantrum of other Gerakis with the souls of Trouvere, kidnapping half of my letter that had cut for you Vernarth with chlorinated tears of solid, towards the swallowing of the airones that intimated in bastardized allegories, containing intoxication and unsheathed unison echoes of the bronze settled in the thundering law, making the Gerakis and the Trouveres fall together in some Mycenaean jars of wine. Anger provided beds of each one for manly acts in the Patmian Olympic allegory, denying the reactions of those who become the purveyor of the riches of tragedy, in immaterial environments that discuss not having it if they only run aground in logical narratives of Demosthenes' contented spoiled bozo. Smooth sites wound me with poisonous openings on the campaign pistils and on the Áspis Koilé shields, being worth confusing against the hives of the queen mother and her drone, tolerating and yielding to her heir, with foolish demeanor in caring for him and inheriting him a procreated barbarian reign.

Now we are barbarian slaves and heirs, in unresolved conflicts of parents deprived of a loving life, by progeny that ennoble crusades that stone patrimonial alliances for consanguineous alliances that should never have prospered in the bitter toast of Stratonice worried in her borne sarcophagus, avunculated in true pro lactic godmother of the son of a nascent Zeus. We are all divided as a lineage; there is nowhere to gather more dismembered successors of Macedonian polytheists, after central efforts to reign without a crown. The same of the love that reigns without meaning, imparted from the decadent effort that worsens to resurrect the aristocracy that lies of grubs,  and the sacrosanct helminth in our Alexander the Great, preceding intercessions of the Royal Marriageable Dynasties before your most illustrious, in the new kingdom of the Lord that does not he sees himself enthroned in the black trepidations of our ill-managed partitions, by humors that flow from the couplings and bandages of who is said to be the abbot of a Vernarthian preliminary.

Vernarth, culminated in the auspices of the complete conjecture and its subsequent grievances to request your office, in subsequent claims that induce to draw the irascible thunderbolts of those who only want to make us wake up from their apostasy, alone and insubstantial, covering muddy stores of grace, which establish walled up reigns in all honor and charm of hearing the true voice of the Mashiach, with all its solemn title being able to help all those freed from the Caucasus scene, and in the edicts that nullify memories as human beings of their castrated history.

Before your letter is read, I add Stratonice as my name is, and I am aware of his reading by uttering: “The signal field has been prophesied, it has condensed the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore it must carry every corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of residual and static energetic mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. By now all will be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "
Epistle of Stratonice
NeroameeAlucard May 2016
My heart is an apocalypse
Empty
Dead and strange
Occasional signs of life
Constantly in strife
Fighting for survival in conditions so bitter
Although living in these conditions does create a kind of grit only found in wool sweaters

And to be honest I wish It was getting better
But it's not to be frank
My future seems to be like a sarcophagus, dark and dank
I wish I could find it in myself to love as much as stone cold Steve Austin drank

But My heart is an apocalypse
I can taste the tears on my lips
As you walk away
I can't see any reason that you would stay
Yazad Tafti Aug 2020
paved asphalt pass brimley and the 401 provincial highway
windows shy, hiding beneath mid door crevice
giving way for the combing wind
elvis's hairdue comes naturally at 120 km/hour
look in my rear view
her smile illuminates my world
radiates lumens past circuit driven tungsten (W)
corsets my heart into a reoriented rush of ecstatic cross spindled fibers
the joy of the bingo jackpot for the community center regular who plays their last card before going home
an "I 17" echoes through the air

but this card was misread, I 17 was a spot above the required
she was never in the backseat and she was doing us both a favor
just as the grocer who puts eggs at the top of the bag
her smile irradiated the room
her smile came straight from those high beams pleading for a head on collision

azides leaked though a break neck pillow
azides for my esophagus
leading to my sarcophagus
sodium azide is the salt responsible for the inflation of airbags ...cutting it short just like my fondest driving memory
In a sepulcher of solitude
In a palace made of pain
Sunshine finds itself hidden under robes of rain
Where happiness feels like rebellion
Joy a fetter to bemoan
Descending caverns of despair to depths of anguish yet unknown
Idols of anxiety to which I give an offering of fear
Peace laughs at my weeping while love and satisfaction jeer
In a sarcophagus of sadness
A casket constructed of my guilt
My temple of refuge made of stone
Is ground into sardonic silt
Harry Roberts Sep 2018
He Is Like Fire I'm Begging Consume Me,
Die When He's Spent Like A Sarcophagus Entomb Me,
Then When He's Hungry He's Ready To Exhume Me,
I Know The Drill So Master Resume Please.

I Am A Toy The First Doll Made For Pleasure,
Wars Have Been Won & Empires Flattened For This Treasure,
I Darken Passion I'm The Route To Your Leisure,
Intense How They Tense & ****** Without Measure.

I Am A King Maker
Blow Like A Wing Breaker,
If You Can't Ride It
Then You Can't Decide ****.

Tested These Men Against Hard & Cold Metal,
Kings Beat The Lot But Never Will Settle,
Kings Bite The Bullet When They're In Battle,
Kings Can Tell Tales But Kings Do Not Tattle.
Harry Roberts - King Maker © 17/09/18
ottaross Mar 2015
an axe lifted high overhead
swing it down
with a power borne of imprisonment
split the icy sarcophagus underfoot
the crack opens up
and the shards falls away
spring winds, flowers and the promise of summer
Dan Hess Aug 2019
In the valley of death

muted memories of life flash by

on sealed tapestries


Shimmering lilies speckle
the moon drenched chasm floor


Voices call from the shadows

whispering melodies of freedoms 

unbeknownst to mortal man



The sun persistently lingers

on the cusp of twilight

resting on the peak

of distant mountains



I trudge onward

as darkness licks at my ankles

attempting to ****** me

into unholy union

with the Sarcophagus of Truth



I do not rear my head

I am steadfast, star-bound

Powerful in my will



I will reach the mountaintop

I will see the light
South City Lady Nov 2020
words flutter as fireflies
flicking the glass
anxious, incessant,
nagging my sleep
berating decisions,
lamenting shortcomings,
tapping upon every insecurity
until they are spoken, liberated
from the heart's sarcophagus
I watch them fumbling through air
spiraling madly, luminescent
in their liberty, twirling
upon night's velvet cape
then dissipating into the ether
of forgotten memory
as thoughts expire
and settle into the fragrant satin
of freshly stained dreams
An ode to the  sleepless nights of this week, of this pandemic, and the ways we acknowledge and wrestle with our restlessness through poetry
If you choose to live in the world
Letting your freak flag fly unfurled
Beware care to know what is in store
The devil is close by keeping score

There is a choice to make
For a soul without salvation
Satan will steal, take propagate

Look at popular music and pop stars today
What Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, Beyoncé
A myriad of others have to say

Their humble beginnings innocence lost
To the evil side, they eventually reside at all cost
Their parents only saw Stardom Money Fame
They didn’t see predators playing a devious game

Look at what happened to a young Justin Bieber
He didn’t realize the price of famous fever

14 still a child wild with stars in his eyes
Bound zip tied No one spoke as he cried
Bystanders Voyeurism watched yet later denied

Drugged willing at first soon it became dark worse
Violated, broken, tattooed body to hide his shame,
Silent victim petrified, feared who was to blame

Then Jesus came into his heart saved every part
A cautionary tale of what could go wrong
To be famous for love of music a perfect song

Yes they appear to have riches a great name
But to Satan their soul is the game to claim

Selling their souls is not something a star can do
Jesus paid their  price of sin Satan can’t win
Humans deceived, IF they only knew

Devil worshipped
Witches believe demons whispers a convincing lie
Loyal to Lucifer while Jesus, they denounced deny

A stone cold sarcophagus a corpse’ byproduct
of those fated concerts, a cautionary tale
in public view, concert guests don’t die well

The war between good and evil is all around us
Most people don’t realize or care to put up a fuss

Society has become conditioned to stay home
Sedentary No longer we freely roam
Perceived safe was in our proverbial bubble
We don’t won’t can’t perceive the pending trouble




Inspired song,
Thriller
By Michael Jackson

FYI
I normally do not write poems like this; corpses, but the Webster's word of the day
sarcophagus is not a happy word
The information about Justin Bieber
P Diddy’s trial. On line

Footnote
Looking back in music history, you can see interviews where stars who sold their soul to Satan To become; famous rock gods, praising Satan Lucifer when they win a prize award
while people in the audience sit there and clap.
Lately presentations have turned to séances,
witchcraft a covenant ritual rites .
Jezebel riding Baal A golden bull in full display

A documentary on people dying at a
Travis concert crushed  by the crowd
and travis continued sinning For 45 minutes ambulance in the audience. Travis sang

Taylor Swift fans have gone to concerts and don’t remember a thing.They claim
they were in some kind of a trance.
Something wicked this way comes
pay special attention to the words in their songs it’ll blow your mind.
BLT Webster’s Word of the day challenge
February 3, 2025 sarcophagus
Sarcophagus refers to a coffin and especially a stone coffin

if you ever are bored look up interviews stars have had with their dealings with Satan and look at their music. I’m on the highway to hell. Only the good die young, witchy woman, a catchy song people don’t hear the words why is that? Entranced there was an eight hour interview compiled from all of these stars from the 70s a few from the 60s turning to the dark side listen to their music and you’ll understand why our generation has developed the way of has. Lucifer, the Pied Piper of music.
trf Oct 2017
so sick of people talking about the seasons.
we all get in an elevator with another and feel some type of way.

ding, ding, ding, ding "what number are you again, 42 right?"

"bingo, thanks." that's weird, how'd he know my floor.

"no problamo." ****, i shouldn't have said, no problamo.
what if he's latino.

"so, how about this weather huh? 94 degrees in mid October"

"yeah, I should have extended my lease in Saint-Tropez, haha"

ok, he's french maybe. phew.

ONE
big season is coming,

AND it's coming soon,

built from the relaxation,
of our inert, intelligible delinquencies.

I bought a harmonica,
I fear what she'll say,
wind sweeps your sarcophagus,
and here's what she'll play.

poooosh, shussshhhh
poooosh, shussshhhh
poooosh, shussshhhh
poooosh, shussshhhh            

Climatic consequences
felt by us all,
we are all allies
once this pier is swallowed.

Buoys will float
down city hall,
there are no lawyers
to get us all out of this.

Are we still
talking about
the turning
of leaves?

**** your

spring
fall
winter
summer and fantasies.

_TRF
                4
get real now
#4
Jane Doe Jun 2018
I haven’t shed him like I should have,
an undercoat that I didn’t need.
Too hot on my belly, stifling
and dangerous.
Heavy layers that take on water –
if they get wet they could pull me under.

I should have shed him like a snakeskin.
It’s wrapped around my throat, taut over my
thighs, my *******, my eyes.
It aches familiar, a size too small.
I’m wrapped in it like chicken meat – sterile,  
unable to grow.

His heart is a rejected *****.
It looked plump and pink but it didn’t fit.
His organs and my organs pressed together,
Hair, bone and skin, but the sepsis had set in.
Now it lives in my throat,
a bile I can taste but I can’t throw up.

I offend myself with my desire.
This tether, woven by my own fingers  
going over and over the same patterns.
His mouth, my mouth, the words we say
are not magic, not a promise
but a sarcophagus.
Anurag Mukherjee Feb 2019
They are done. I am an anagram
a terrorized, tangible motor recoil,
follow their steps with no haste,
wallow in the lapse with no taste,
swallowing the rapt kiss but no wait,
something out of the rat-noises under the bed,
something out of the sarcophagus of dead film clips
(the film in their eyes),
sunken, pouted mouths which press the buttons
of thrill to mesmerize my motions
with cycling pain, tumbler's pain,
the pain of airless strobe lights,
engraving etchings of a bad bird
on the pillar of my neck.
Yo my rap flow leave lines chalked like ****** marked hunt like a hawk could make a ant bark from the spark
Of my thought mind brought into the universe make words hurts through every verse always first bloodthirst
More than Vampire eatin' flesh is my desire through the bars of fire suckas retire life expire
Once I set the destination enter into the abomination leaving situations
******' like the United Nations slashin' bodies like Jason double dimensions tastin' from the axe bladin'
Ya whole anatomy who badder then me? It's the lyrical leatherface keep the sickles laced
In blood then wide the crud off
Cuz of ya brain residue fallin' off back to the loft
Beat the ***** til my **** soft rough and rugged **** it sip hennessey and blunts forever pullin' stunts make hataz jump
Around from the gun sounds they love to clown leavin' ya to drown
On ya esophagus cuz I'm quick to bust throw ya body in cracked sarcophagus

I rock grey skulls sippin' red bulls keep blades unda the wools packin' tools to fools who don't know the rules
Check ya boundaries or see the cemetery critics worry while I bury more threes than Curry my guns in flurry but never hurry
Deaths takes a slow toll as ya roll up **** creek and ya body starts to reek sleep
Say goodnight to the mic killed ya might
Non could fight the ***' an no biting nice with the writing brain cells fighting hyping
Me up to some wicked **** reigned from the pits of holy Grail though I sail
On mystery waves make tracks untraceable like Bermuda hit the Buddha flows to boost tha
Energy rhymes Kennedy head shot with no red dot carefully planned plots
Jesuit keep it hot with the Glocks that rock
Harder than tapes of Elvis breakin' pelvis
Hang with my spiritual elders shelter
My caged thoughts from moon lights stalked
Over my sunshine darkness verses light
Wickedness verses right zoomin' for sight
Upclose and personal we got me ammo than the Panthers Sixties so glow feel my heat beaming soon to be steaming
Alan Stallsmith Jan 2018
COZY CONVERSATION OVER COFFEE
By Alan Stallsmith

And I'm acclimated to sabotage
With my very own hands
Who needs enemies?
When I have me. Understand?

I craft my own jail cells
With very fine steel
I build my own graveyards
The sarcophagus is real!

Now I don't mean to boast
But I undermine well
And when it comes to subterfuge
I am the reason Rome fell

I've mastered the art
Of public smiles and covert pain
For when someone needs consoling
You know this guy is game!

I try to dress to impress
To be disguised as a yuppy
I'm the guy who cries wolf
When it's an adorable puppy

Flawless self-affliction
It's an addiction of sorts
Healthy and beaming?
Or suffering for sport?

I'll paint you a beautiful picture
Of rainbows and golden sun
Then I'll secretly torch it
And scream "What have YOU done?!"

Oh my dear friend!
Look at the time!
Thanks for letting me vent
But I don't want to whine!

This coffee is amazing
It's just the boost I was needing
It's a shame about your arms
Never leave a lesion bleeding!

I have a psychiatrist appointment
Glad my self awareness is great
At least the weather looks grand
I really hope I'm not too late!

So just remember I'm happy
I have never been better
And I brought you a gift
I hope you like sweaters!
(not that ye wondered,
but simply tubby like totally tubularly clear
The Epic of Gilgamesh will not be extolled here).

Though thoroughly well mapped, parsed,
     scrutinized vibrant wonders zoom
plethora, sans newly discovered life forms
     cradled with fecund Gaia's womb
abound within unlikely places

     such as mossy bearded faces
     nestling, pronouncing,
     and regaling pharaohs sarcophagus tomb
oceanographers also find organic entities
     adorning, kickstarting,

     and thriving within extremely
     remote temperature zones,
     where just enough telly tubby wiggle room
prevails for microscopic
     Verizon patronizing Grand Poobah

     barking orders unicellular viziers heed,
     while latter bedecked
     with itty bitty plume
invisible to the naked eye, yet within
     subatomic world wide web

     bit players air heir loom
appearing larger
     then cereal grain re: life,
     an arrogant, bumptious, and conceited Don
     doth trump his young

     unbridled, reprobate, and ornery baron as groom
material to check mate
     distracted checkered populace,
     where raucous, rebellious, riotous
     majority lumpenproletariat fuss and fume

cuz gaudy Mar-a-Lago hiss poe tate
     tow headed (faux towering
     Taj Mahal doppelganger),
     via slow vac didst **** socialist rowdy
bot tinny Rajah,

     whose apprenticeship to exhume
(pro bone know) spy bots
     miserably condemned from the get go
     as president erupted rabidly trying to doom
rousing, scenting, and trawling

     non-convincing "witch hunt,"
     yet incontrovertible evidence carelessly
     swept hurriedly under the rug
     (by Russ Shins) via broom,
thus a sudden spike

     visa vis master card er...
     comeuppance will bring ringleader down
     with strep away poison
     nano trumps all abloom.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now in summer re:
     this Dom minion doth attest
intention to write
     a boot equinox got out best
head, although pleasurable
     to loose imagination off chest

so thank you for
     letting me be a cerebral guest
and now...no dilly dallying,
     cuz another writing assign
     requires responding
     to Matthew Scott Harris's behest!
z Apr 2016
What's the opposite of haunted?
I left work today and saw a ghost in the afternoon light in a vacant classroom
It filled the room like a soft voice in silence does
Like something was just born, or something was close to dying
It was strange not seeing a bed or a curtain in there;
Only the strange blinds, the reflective wood floors and drawing benches stacked like stones
The avenues and streets fileted out beyond the dusty windows like a sarcophagus in a museum
I wanted to enter but willingly decided not to
Because if I did I was afraid for that moment I spent breathing at the threshold
That I would never leave again.
Amanda Stoddard Sep 2014
You took your words and with them you stitched together my lips and reminded me why my voice is so crippling. You made me realize that nothing I say to you will ever triumph over the negative things I do. The hands that reach over to hold me at night are the same ones that you used to speak the truth I think I've always known. Brutal, were your words and they shook me from the inside. You never look at what we are, you only look at what has been before. The deceit and treachery you've been apart of has now been taken out on me. I shouldn't have to pay for others mistakes. I start to wonder if the reason for your harsh judgment is because you hate yourself more than you think you do. But I hate myself too and all I want is to love everyone I see equally, so what does that mean for you? The person I knew has now become a mere shadow in the faded distance and I can't put into words anymore how yours remind me why I'm starting to speak less. The sad fact is I've never cared for someone so much and I've never had someone I care so much about make me feel the way I do about myself. The moment you came into my life I felt beautiful and soon that beauty slowly faded. I started to wonder why I was wilting and dying slowly and then I realized there's no sun where I am and the source of nutrients are scarce. The energy I have left has been used to keep me alive and I can't be your burden anymore. These words are my sarcophagus and I hope you enjoy the funeral because this eulogy had ended.
Tom Shields Aug 2022
Shower curtain fall
hop, skip, jump, roll and collect them all
pretty shiny collection in the ball, a fist
never missed, like this, the equation
life divided by a shower curtain
time over everything that happens over time
equals life, divided by the fine line
cutting into the divine sea-brine grind
left on the ponderances played out to the extreme
wearing down a weary diminished resigned, unrefined, strip-mined mind
unkind, peek and time winds clockwork gears tight until the hindsight plight cannot fight
it takes machine might to resist explosive pressure under binds that never designed
sold souls a tin soldier in bolder eyes of better beholders beauty knows there is precious sculptures
where all that rests is a clay boulder

Better to rest
a marble in a grander arena than realized by the stumbling discoverer
sliced in half on Solomon's knowledge, acknowledged for potential
only a fourth, half for each half and half of that for half the effort
for half the price for half the blade
for half the cleaning of half the clay
leaving less than a fraction of a copy of the golem made
cleaned off the shovel that digs the grave that buries the victims of infanticide
dead crybabies, laid to rest at last, jumping jacks and skipping ropes
whips and nooses, caltrops and rubber *****
one grave dirt ire, eye invoked, spirit higher, fire high voices spooked at wind through smoke
on the wind a specter spoke
this clay tin soldier laid to rest in a toy chest sarcophagus
his jaw dislocated and lever actioned from the back, with a wind up key
wooden, stiff, disregarded and disconnected, eternally watchful;
a vigilant veteran from the pile of junk that forms his tomb is he.
write
please read and enjoy
God's Oracle Aug 2020
Have you ever wondered why the our bodies made from flesh empowered through the blood and yet deep within the Human mind is invented the reasonable logical ideology of common reason, sense, wisdom and knowledge come from. The simple idea that we as alive, conscious,  intelligent and versatile unique type of creature within the grasp of the animal kingdom considering us humans mammals. Ever since we as species commenced to use language as means of communication that's when everything we know of that is of Ages Of Old the common theory of us Humans evolved to become the only species to use the power of reasoning and problem resolving minds allowing the human race to create through trial and error our first societies made a trading and landing system to work together as a community of people who with sharing ideas on life dilemmas as a whole faced together it's problems yet was smart and clever enough to create new inventions of ways on how to solve all their struggles in times long past. Where Humanity made a turning point was in the emergence of different religions and totally distinct ways they view the Afterlife how to get to remain alive yet made out of ethereal essence instead of a body made out of flesh bone and blood? As the story is told through and shared from tribe to tribe place to place city to city and country to country people viewed living differently making small yet direct changes in their livelihood way to view right from wrong or even yet the color of people's skin. With each emergence of a World religion came it's story events ****** and ending coming to a focal point that all religions claim there is an afterlife that follows a Deity that first proclaims to be God or a God that made all in all at a time when not even time existed. From there things speaking in layman's terms all religions rely on narrating an elaborate complex beautiful story of how all things came to be. Yet retains it's main purpose in being made into a religious sect in the first place...to place a peaceful mental picture of what we can only imagine being there would be like...ultimate sense of bliss and joy. A safe haven. However Humanity as a whole always have retained the constant taint of being double minded creatures. Therefore a duality was formed to maintain the what so called state of balance between good and evil. Right or Wrong. A mere simple choice we all make daily without fail. What will I choose to follow today? Run with God or play with the Devil? Yet deep down I truly believe hope and pray that what ancient history dictates occurred must have some truth there within all that collection of gospel books put together and constructed in such a unique secret divine and holy way for those Holy Books all assure they are the one true way to get to Paradise. Yet deep within our carnal shells waiting to become too old to breathe and finally give into death there is where it all begins going back as pure essence of spirit "the soul" escapes to be freed from his physical mortal shell to go back to it's original form ... a ethereal essence made of different shades of light and darkness. Going back to the Creator to be sentenced into eternal life with God or eternal separation from him and his throne. Nevertheless, that may be an example of the Christian faith system other religions are different. At the present moment in time still humanity is mostly composed of majority of people are deep down skeptical and agnostic about the way they see religion and dogma. We as a species (the Human Race) ever since the introduction of language came to be...that is when the way we think inspect look and investigate things completely in a moral sense saying using common sense and logic and reason...we become over time more wiser smarter and more clever giving the birth to by simply subjecting another alternative to a simple 1 way rule and yet humanity has devised a way to create a 2nd rule overriding the first one. To make things clear here we we're once perfect eternal beings with no knowledge of any sort of taint from sin but yet once we began taking advantage of our reason we slowly build small doubts within ourselves with time they become a real doubt giving the opportunity to create a new way to change, shift or make something new out of nothingness. That allowed that small doubts became big doubts then finally tried to defy God's only rule in the Garden Of Eden in Paradise. The downfall became Humanity's loss of eternal attributes and the birth of sin which with time fully matures into death of the now physical body the fleshly sarcophagus containing your individual Soul Matter. The main point of why I share this knowledge with you is to keep you aware, awake and always remind yourself that you have the right to have questions and want logical simple explanation of how it came to be why and for what purpose. It is all a decision a choice we all must make once we are awake and aware do I want to live for the world? Or do I choose to pick up my cross and follow Jesus? Life&Death.
Pray for our World to go back to
James Preston May 2018
Matter disintegrates,
flying objects dissolve back into insect forms,
to try and fathom the ill will of wandering parasitical urchins,
bar brawlers,
an incomprehensible mould has latched on to the beards of the Sedentary,
Lieutenant horoscope and his band of merry men
have fourteen times predicted the tumultuous reckoning,
where the lizards roll back into the cracks and breed with the *** butts.

dancing to a birdsong the most irritating,
chirp and roll and sit under the black azure,
swimming into the cataracting waterfalls of black sludge
accompanied by the ale bellies of ancient degenerates,
and linger in the neon lit sarcophagus dreaming of finer things,
with optimistic party poppers at the ready.


I spoke to high priest of white linen table etiquette,
he offered me a drink of the green elixir,
the taste of rancid sherry,
and I spoke to god almighty,
he had a few problems,
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ he said to me, the transcendent agony aunt,
so I gave him my spare change on the matter,
but now I’am lost in the ominous eternal skies,
like a haggard bird who is unable to land,
debasing all the relics,
I flit through the dark clouds and nearly perish in the ice rains,
I have caught a chill,
but, nevertheless, I float on, consuming the velvet sunsets and chirping my songs over insignificant mole hills,
All the time battling what the hermit astrology told me was a zinc deficiency,
One day I hope to bathe in the tranquil silk waters,
with a cup of tea and a biscuit,
find salvation and give inconsistent childhood memories a cuddle,
but now is not the time for folly dreams,
I must continue into the delirious horizon,
and listen to the sounds of hidden amorphous beasts writhing in agony,
because I fear I have picked up the cosmic bar tab,
and played gin rummy with all of heavens problem children,
the splinters of the sour harvest caught between my teeth,
lost in the gloomy overhang of the sleepless willow,
trying to glue the atoms back together with my prit-stick.


In the cool, pearly nights, I dream of lands without contours or maps,
and I can make out, in the grumbling silhouette, what was once someone’s memory,
the flies are circling the diseased dog along the sun scorched path,
the stitches of his wounds tighten in the heat creating sores,
A white hot, stiff, agony,
the trees are out of breath,
the expanse of the moment, like an endless ocean evaporating, is too much to bear,
I melt into the cracks,
and the mountains and planets drip with me,
matter disintegrates as we surrender to the ferocious will of the ineffable gloop,
but then a painful shriek rings across the sky,
the sound of metallic pink,
A byzantine woman sits below a fruit tree complaining of belly gripe,
I find myself inexorably drawn over,
moving fluidly through epochs, across galaxies, funnelling myself through volcanic fissures,
permeating day dreams and two way mirrors,
riding in the bellies of celestial giants and on the backs of mythical locusts,
creating my own rivers and waving goodbye to the misanthropic tribesman,
When I find her - there is nowt but silence,
her presence reminiscent of a glass lake with blink-less eyes,
I delicately pluck an apple from the tree, the most exquisitely green one, and hand it to her,
‘Cheers mush’ she says, in an earthquake monotone,
and with a wry smile and a nod I head off on my way.
Susan N Aassahde Oct 2020
turnip hoist yarn
empty sarcophagus
petunia raise wick
Evan Stephens Sep 2023
H----,
You leave for the broad south
in four days, to rasp a new curl

from old timber. Your destiny
is obliged to subdivide again,

fresh and wild. In the basement
of your goodbye I was filled

with a familiar senescence:
old wreaths, nerve-headed,

are hammered to inner doors
where I hide atomic thoughts

and hot-heart steam valves;
muffled click-clacks ricochet

in a containing pink sarcophagus.
How appropriate that I left

in the melting middle of the rain,
the road seething and spitting,

puddled rugs of mercury skating
across Saturday's lap.

H----, this life is strange and brief
& your escape to far sun country

is high adventure; but I lament
your absence, all the same.
Yours, Evan
Wk kortas Jun 2020
He'd made what he'd believed the requisite sacrifices,
At least mildly painful but fully necessary,
Striving to keep a certain arm's-length objectivity
In order to carry out his craft
So that it was not tainted by sentiment,
Detachment serving as antiseptic,
In the hopes divining the purposes of God or whatever,
And thus giving it the proper exposition,
So he'd set about the process of finding some celestial thread,
Traipsing both interstate and back road,
Standing forlornly before crumbling Catskill hotels,
Abandoned bath-houses and resorts in Sharon Springs,
The sarcophagus-like state office building in Binghamton
(Hopelessly poisoned before it could ever be occupied,
Casting a baleful shadow over the city's ragged downtown)
The remnants of the Strand over in Ithaca,
Once beautiful lady of vaudeville
Now nesting-place-***-latrine for pigeons
Cooing and trilling at him insistently,
As if they spoke some code he must be able to cipher,
The sprawling auto graveyard
Cradled in the elbow-crook of an on-ramp in Cortland,
The black-eye front ends of ancient Buicks and Datsuns
A series of inscrutable crossword puzzle rows,
All of these things whispering intermittently to him
But providing no revelation, save a gut feeling
That the epiphany he sought was forever beyond him,
And in the mad act of a man beyond dejection,
He pulled his car into some sad rest area,
No more than a picnic table and a port-a-john,
Wandering over to the edge of the scrubby woods
Where teens fornicated and drunks urinated,
And pulled up a fistful of ragged flowering weeds
Pulling of the petals one by one
In the manner of some sad, jilted, loved-then-unloved juvenile
Contemplating how deeply he dwells among the forsaken.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
i should do this more often: pop me head-fly
into the spider's web of "free flowing information"...
just hearing the nationalists
is enough to pickle me...
      europe is... england... france...
                         germany... italy...
                          there's hardly anything concerning
spain... if...
     and geographically speaking:
                  the rest has drowned in the iron sea
east and south of the vistula river...
wound-up monkey-and-drum toy...
         can you be considered a native speaker...
when... you hijacked the language aged 8
and... started speaking it...
in what the natives would take 8 years to speak?
is it like the age of consensual ***?
i mean: i was jerking off aged 7...
                             speaking a english circa 8...
native... what if i did a crash-course from
my own essence... to absorb something?
           my my to mind: "europe"...
                           but of course this old envy of
russia...
                         this old envy of russia...
native: born... and the 1st / 2nd generation immigrants
cite: and bred...
well the born: perhaps... and the bred:
that's also a tad bit: perhaps...
        i am just regurgitating the shackles
of a soap prison...
                                  oh hell: should i still mind
everyone who only cites Orwell...
doesn't bother with Huxley: no real enough
i am led to believe...
too much science... not enough:
sociology - the readily available "science"
with words as true designating vectors of / for
observation...
no.... i don't think i'll be coming back for
"air" any time soon...
    too much Orwell that's read like a bible...
it stopped being funny...
it stopped being worthwhile to "tap into the source"...
i'm very much in minding an appreciation
for Dickens... i can actually say...
Shakespeare can be in the canon...
but... Shakespeare doesn't have to be in the canon...
all the modern poets can be worthwhile
instead... as long as... Dickens can replace...
a Charlotte Brontë in the prose section:
cross-my-heart twice and tie my lips into
a cocarde / rosette of what's
           otherwise designated for shoelaces...
native is: not born...
     what about self-******?
            how about: self-inbreeding?
             oh god forbid i'd come into contact
with the reasoning: of borrowing peers...
    and then returning to my shadowy-relatives...
as i: being the shadowy-"relative" myself...
and then back toward my peers...
after a while... what peers?!
         the case for full-integration would be
settled if you were to forget your mother tongue...
altogether! and perhaps learn some french...
how about i'd much prefer some...
deutschezunge?
  why? well... the grammatical structure of
french is very much akin to polish...
but i forgot all grammar of the mutterzunge
when acquiring this host-parasite...
         and... well the grammatical structure
of german is very much: english...
    how about i learn french after i've learned
german and swedish?
****... nope! no can do!
the masters of pedagogy know a 100m spring
from a 110m hurdle race...
eh... if learning a language is only about
the lexicon: the baggge of nouns...
nouns are easy... can sometimes by loaned...
but no one tells you when you're 8...
circa e.g.: i was here in english and german...
but, again circa: here, i was...
it's the most circa archaic example...
i don't have the time to pour minutes of attention
on a correct: sharpening of the misnomer:
if in use...
           no... i'm not too fond of reading Orwell
like a bible... it's not like:
homage to catalonia or...
   down and out in paris and london...
                 perhaps i'll get to that...
         when i come across a tale of two cities...
it's comparable to that time i went to
the Cheltenham Literary festival...
booked a lecture on 'ookovski...
     walked out after 15 minutes...
                    because i just started my pint of
guinness and i wasn't in a hurry:
i've heard all of this before!
      "heard" i've read all of these anecdotes!
                         - could i claim to be fond of my
"brothers" and "sisters"...
            do only the english speaking émigré
have a brotherhood and a sisterhood solidarity
abroad?
      i don't know... if a quarter of the world
is yours...
i guess you can't really be an emigrant...
you must be an expatriate...
   doesn't work the other way round:
immigrant... invader...
this language of coming and going...
there's no expatriate concept...
there's the: "in exile"... which... ha... my "fellow"
countrymen?
             a real patchwork of Somme
when or when not using the: in vogue words...
needs?! who has needs of this sort of:
need for consolidation...
                 i'm just pedantic and i'm seeing
the double-standard nuance...
                belly-button boys already know that
they're the cream of the crop in Kenya though...
it's like drilling into diamond
with a copper drill...
         you'd sooner hear a penguin bark...
this is enough... i'd not going to pickle over this...
there's a Dickens tomorrow!
i better stay there... and thank god i'm reading
an 19th century edition of this book...
the ninth gate sort of feel to it...
it's almost like reading a satanic work...
   given the numbers of years...
since this book was last read...
   i am actually giving this book my body...
i'm airing it...
i want this... artifact of mid 19th century
workmanship... to be aired...
with all the **** stink **** and perfume of
the coming to mid-21st century...
                unlike a wine...
          oh no... this is much more than wine...
a wine is uncorked: c'est la vie!
        this standard edition...
         the gresham publishing company -
34 & 35 southhampton street strand london...
if... given the right musing to scribble such:
*******... but by tomorrow... a return to?
do i really need to give myself a sense of...
the allure of horror and a distant harrowing?
a book is not a piece of furniture...
when reading i'm inhaling scents from...
this sarcophagus... being given as a present...
and it was not read...
     the binding only gives way to my hands...
it was given... passed down...
from a relative that... had some sort of
hierarhical position in the Indian Raj...
                            it's not a wine: it's not some
c'est la vie: as alluded to already...
poetry... b'ah... give me the Dickensian paragraph!
and i'll show you the devil turn into a cat...
purr-n-curl into a ball of wool by the fireplace...
with a smile... as **** sweet as...
     if the ghost of a pig would be ever inclined
to agree: i... better be... scortched on a barbie...
with a smile... as **** sweet as...
the sort of blocks of fudge sold on the royal mile...
edinburgh...
      a Dickensian paragraph:
or a Shakespearian sonnet... ah ha ha ha ha!
that's... a comparison?
that's like saying: the haiku is a very european
invention... when there's the prose-poetry
of horace!
                           and now work into all of this:
what i worked when writing it...
     the ninth gate ost (wolciech kilar)...
             just a little bit of salt & pepper detail:
to mind...
                                this europe of the nationalists...
it's only... a quarter of a working brain...
but of course: these are the...
          meisterklasse folk: they kept the italians
in the picture: for being the 6 nation's punching bag
good sports...
but as for the greeks?
to the P(ortugal)
            i (tally)
            G (those sons of *******!)
           S (pain)...              comes to mind...
the kingdom of the vandals... in northern africa...
or... the outbreeding ****** via
the saracens on sicily... etc.               etc.
but!                  democracy still needs to be... cited!
a europe from the megaphone of:
    talk of europe: is it... a continent?
              talk of foreign affairs: already one's own...
talk of borders...
ah yes... fear of the mountains not being: enough...
it would take either fire!
or the seas! to... come up with... a top hat
a tux and walking stick...
but no accomplished: pianist-composer!

   what are these alternatives?
           - das Inselbewohner konto
          - der Inselbewohner konto
           - die Inselbewohner konto...
ah... then... the everyman ritual problem...
how does english and german...
consolidate: the definite article (the)
   with the adverb (there)...
                      that's implicit of: being a tease...
because the alternative is...
    (the islanders' account) -
               ah... but that's plural... -wohner...
but somehow not:
                                 inselbewohNERS...
rubric of grammatical nuance + details...
a complete mood bog...

   the original title: will remain so...
i have to intentions to complete this detour!
in the reflexive: the reflection is stashed
      encompasses yesterday...
for the title... at least...
                 an islander's account...
      the account of an islander...
   die / der / das....            konto...
           von ein inselboweh(n)er.... cf. karl homann /
andrea suchanek:
die inselbewohner lernen sie als einen
vertrauenswürdigen mitmenschen....
                       of the female folk:
                         inselbewohner(in) - minor, pedantic
details... worthy of any index known to man...
or any cf. thereby to be appropriated...
for no apparent conclusion or...
a wizened hair to be: shared among the populace...

as ever: i tell myself enough...
unlike reading... it is never enough...
                 there's this fetish... once you write enough
of english: of...  englischschrapnell...
you start to... looking for... the älterebindung!
from where: the anglo-sächsisch?
                       sächsisch: die nachbar zu die thüringer?
it can only come naturally...
             after all the empire building...
one perhaps should look... to the root and origin
of the sprout?

enough! tomorrow with the sparrows...
a morning...
nothing but:
these words these nails: this page a coffin!
Prosperity Dec 2020
Apostle Of A Star,
Hidden In The Mist And Killed A Fiend In Innocence,
The Prey I Scent It From Afar,
     The Euphony Of Her Screams, In The Distance Of The Hills,
As An Angel When It's Soared,
    Faint As In The Autumn, Blood And Saint Of All The Fallen, From The Heavens To The Shore,
     A Forest Full Of Whispers And The Lake Of Reminiscence,
She Is The Present In Despair,
Left A Victim, Cadaverous,
Ascended,
    My Chosen One,
Forever Resting, A Sarcophagus,
Evan Stephens Jun 2019
i.
The sky grinds
under my heel
& scatters.

When the pool
stills, there's only
your face.

ii.
Below
larch branch,
below
cloud mark -
your words
echo
in my
blue thought.

iii.
Centuries ago
I wrote to you
"je suys vostre
sans de partier."

iv.
Sleep falls
to the floor,
its strings cut
by your hand
running over
my face.

v.
We move
shadow to
shadow in
this maze
of sun.

vi.
We hold hands
as night folds
& folds. Your
hand is soft
as song.

vii.
We make
love under
a coil, a
swan's moon,
a sea disc.

viii.
Autumn
in Paris,
streets paved
orange and red,
& my eyes saying
"want you."

ix.
You know what
champagne does
to me, but you
pour it anyway.

x.
"She was hiding
in lemon leaves
& apple blossoms."
-Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati,
Love Under The Rain, IX

xi.
The rain
in Dublin
makes me
think of
your wet hair
shining in
the doorway.

xii.
I get up early
to start the coffee.
You wake to
the sound of
water boiling.
When I appear
I bring morning
on my lips.

xiii.
Please draw
while I watch
in awe.
Please draw
as ice thaws
in my scotch.
Please draw
while I watch.

xiv.
I'll remove
the paper

butterflies
from your

ears as
you fall

asleep on
the couch,

little dove
in her nest.

xv.
I poach two eggs
for your breakfast,
with quince
& pear. The sun
journeys to us
from yesterday.
The cat's in the
window and
coffee steeps.
Perhaps this
is what lives
are made of.

xvi.
The image
of the nape
of your neck
as you watch
a movie late
on a cold night
full of snow thick
as dough, licked
with wind -
it's irresistible.

xvii.
We're in the
Rothko room at
the National Gallery,
translating white
square, blue band,
yellow over yellow,
black into black.
We move a little
closer together
as the canvases
mirror our
yearning.

xviii.
I read about
old Sumerian
gods, like
Inanna.
She could
never survive
in a world
where you
walk the earth.

xix.
Doing yoga in a
cement chamber
under the city,
muscles shaking.
Grateful for you
amid the ghosts
of streetcars.

**.
We bury time
in a plastic
sarcophagus
right in the
front yard,
casual as
a yam.

xxi.
Ulysses
and you,
the cork
and bottle.

"And then he asked
me would I yes."

xxii.
The smoke
cures the
whiskey.

The whiskey
spills
like tide.

The tongue's
tide seeks
your ear.

The ear
hunts
your thought.

The thought
wafts
like smoke.

xxiii.
Blood peel,
ginger
cumulus,
pink air
like chiffon,
a gloaming
song.

xxiv.
Swans mate
for life.
This wait
is a knife.
Dull rain
over K.
In my veins,
your sleighs.

xxv.
Silver thread
knotted cloud -
the moon's
broadcasting
through the
cindered air.
Your raw sienna
eye captures mine,
& in one moment
the entire night
is abandoned
to your arms.

xxvi.
The twilight
is imperial,
spreading
over that
moment
between
our past
& our future.

xxvii.
I still see you,
brush in hand,
red curving.
You seduced
with every line.

xxviii.
You breathe
life into my
world: the
field of wild
mint, the owls
in the cemetery,
the silver slash
of streetlamp,
the cream Impala.
Everything I see
is filled with us.

xxix.
You're the beat
within my chest.
I feel complete,
you're the beat
throbbing sweet
& I'm blessed -
you're the beat
within my chest.
Riz Mack Jul 2024
I don't sleep
I levitate over the street
I'll dog walk Bo Peep before I talk sheep
I'm offbeat

I could dip a toe in your tea
and have you sip it thinking sugar never tasted this sweet
I'm low key

but only goin as low as a C
'cause it's some sight to see when you mess with the B
that's not me

Just give me some THC
maybe an e if I'm feeling upbeat
LSD
so I still don't sleep
I procrastinate for half a week
making gaping holes in sheets
having affairs with pharaohs and jeez -
where did he ever find they hos?
please

Them hos, excuse me
grammar's not what it used to be
before we were locked in our homes
by abusey wankers for profit
not ours, come off it
to build bankers coffers over some coughing

I'll take the coffin over the fear
open sarcophagus(es)
like some cheery old boffin on Hatshepsut -
and she's oot, how weird
I could've sworn she was left right here

Seems she was out all along
wrapped us up like a song
but don't get it wrong
this one's not finished
you made it this far already
stick with it

There isn't a limit conceived in time
that wasn't upheaved by an adamant mind
don't put faith in imagined lines
you
cosmic blizzard
ride the Pacific
wave with the light like some diamond wizard

Enlighten the night with your hieroglyphics
wield your worth
its lot
intrinsic
to the world and all that's in it
make today your favourite lyric
and sing it
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKbxbXjvyyo
What you see is what ya get
See the ****
We go through only to see through
The ******* everyday I'm plottin' a rotting
My minds close to a sarcophagus from my mental surplus
From takin' aim at my brain and the negative thangs
That I try to drain get it got it good I stay holding down my hood and if I could
Change the world from the ghetto boys and girls
and avoid the swirl keep a shine to rhymes
Like Qatars pearls rockin'  the world
Its mind time to realign the design
sunstar child is about to incline no rewind
Fast forward back to days of way back fillin' **** stacks
And the bars that
Hit nothing but Clutch Robert Horry these ****** still bore me with they story huh



mind sick and twisted as a pretzel
Pushing metals to ya mental potency detrimental
Stackin' vizerials for my imperials
Grow miracles
See me no so go catch a blow of the chrome pistol
Soften ya melon no tellin'
N I ain't talkin' about gelan' soon to be a skeleton
A Broken bristle see ya soul whistle whispers
Sighing to the afterworld ya swirl see the girls
Sirens admiring the firing while I'm hiring
Demons smiling take me in through the shots of Gin brings the outer inner within
Monsterous souls stretchin' across the corticals
Shinin' like a jewelry stones my third eye
Brailin' the scales of hells cast from a shell
Inhale the aroma of the universe
Troublsome til I touch the hearse
Polish pains with the lyrical cortisol

Know the protocol never expose the soul
It's a killer instincts never to blink thousand yard stare
I don't care got the black holes glare
A worm hole driving in souls welcome to the end
Where none can go pass the aurors glow
Stacks hit harder than Joe Jackson we get actions
From the guns stacking too many lacking I stay backin'
Myself never talk **** to invoke a mafias hit
Fools still ******* they mothers *** I see ya ****
Let the bullets ******* then stick you into
The funeral with the rest of ya fam this is a jam that I'll know ya can't slam
Me into the gravel and I'll travel around the world
With no passport but I pass ports to sort
Out my money ain't nothing funny only to a dummy

— The End —