I **** on your grave for I have had too much to drink!
A glass 'o ginger beer and shrimp crackers I ate today.
Thou art not to fall! To tartuffery for a drink is as good as the last.
But alas, I am not to drink.
For my heart is heavy with woe.
Those stoics! They bring me much misery.
Oh the stoics, with their logically given truths that are naught but prejudice! Prejudice in truth they claim, liars.

Oh the stoics, with their ****** analogies of nature and so fourth.
To be! Like nature, is to be indifferent and prodigal.
That's probably why we love the intelligent uncaring character. He is nature.
She too! O' who's heart is full of love! She brings me roses and kisses upon my lips. She too, is nature. Stupid also, unbelievably crass.
Is crassness then, what we call nature? Then it is he! He! Who bring us our daily news who is unnatural. But then who is the preacher?
No, nature is to live. To live! Hah! A joke! To live is not a command for you cannot conceptualize living without living.
You'd do better as a pretty little scarab, but he doesn't drink ginger beer.

So too, our conclusion is to be natural. But not the scarab. To live, obviously. To be correct! by our own prejudice. And to reject divinely given truths. I do not know how I would feel about children of my own, we'll see when I have one.

Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.

so cool.

demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage

sleepover
sleepless

starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.

pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity

rotten thing.

you ain't the boss of me

paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap

heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.

oh how special.

yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.

these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.


drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.

Tell me, my dear,   why      you keep

that golden sun beetle      tied so       tightly around your neck?

You say       that you feel naked without it, as

                           it hangs gently

        over your *******.

                         But let me tell you something.

I feel naked without you wrapped around my neck.

                      I am totally and completely exposed without your love

       to shield me from the night.

But your arms are not a ribbon.

                                  I cannot keep you on

a leash.

             Nor do I want to.

Darling, you are           the most valuable thing in the universe            to me.

And because             you mean so much,                     I must let you fly free.

I cannot keep you tied around my neck like the scarab on yours.

I can only hope that you'd willingly hang around.

Chum floats the pool
encircled by sharks and piranha
a pity, nature's fool
as fearful teeth do their work.
Could they be as bad as I?
Apex predator, Invasive species
where it means to die
as a means to live.
Growth from a spineless cherub
to a spiteful formless entity
possessing a cunning golden scarab
controlling wheels of fortune.
Slaves to our own demands
aren't we antagonists to someone else?
With machinations of wicked plans
to justify righteous intentions.
Hypocrites line the tank
tapping their fingers in rumination
Abandoning morals, faces left blank.

I am not your foil, I am a mirror.

Her eyes are the lighthouse of the Pharos,
Alexandrian, bronze-mirrored fire flung round
The gloaming coastal sorrow like sand-glittered spears.

Her praying mantis limbs of light,
Sever-poised for needlepoint strike
At the jeweled glint of wings in dim, rare-seen limits,
Now one with her rasping sea of scarab beetle husks.

The scarab sits atop its collected sphere
Wielding its mental sextant
It chases the sun
And it gives its life direction

Man sits atop the same
How we yearn for unreachable ideals
The gold of perfection
Ra, the sun

So scarab we aren't much different
We spend our lives with eyes fixed on the past
Blind to the future
We roll our cherished ***** into so many obstacles
Purely out of our condition
Strike the baring rock and become lost.

We climb back up on our ball
To find our golden god
And continue as if before
Our endless journey to find Tum

Imprinting herself around me
   a tenderly etched embrace
Integrity of heart and soul
   intact, time shan't erase

A scarab if a beetle
   a nova if a star
An amulet of conviction
   pulsing light from afar

My hand is open to her
   my life freely given
To be loved simply by loving
   ancient wisdom recently rewritten

Shepard Leopard print not calligraphy double "L's" lively as llamas lily roll roots lull underwater dreams felt from the events of hypnotized by the words of the orator, an ores rating is the basis of the all purpose flowering behind the veil, human as satiated, red as sunsets lewd as an anagram of wed rings marry Saturn on this mourning of the death of time, rocks felt sediment may ties tan in the Sun pelts peeled layered in the wind steaming serpentine smokes coils in the sky Clouds the equipment of the buster Organs play louder than church hymns reigns power blood men straighten in their pews at the sound of the root of all evil the mouth of the whale begging for the message more "S's" in saliva drool without one of Oh now bow before the bow arc in the Know a Self flooded urge elevated surfaced by the pit of the concrete, open your abstract the path leopard prints in the mud escape the boar snarling winters Solar is the limit speed time for the Scarab dry enough for the role of matter being dense as ******. In no sense cures us from our aged protractor, human after all is how I robot rock.

I am earth breathing fire hearing wind moving water beneath my meat eating feet. I stare through the ghost riding I am Equine the warship of the Poised den at landings end I devour funnel cakes within the three circles, I merge the warmth and cool blending the reflections with its shadow commanding paddle cyclical backstroke the Frog's moment chosen amp powered transition form and fathom an alternate realm, I dropped a meteor on a puddle world displacing half of all livin; Lanced a Wasp's nest as a Dragoon steals an egg as a test.

Thine temple is an edifice, holy, ever-reaching the overhanging of cliff's, step by step I walketh; a journey I only canst travel. Thou hast guided me on the long road's, wherein soul's get lost and caught in the world's tempting channel. O' blest refinement, God hath freed me from confinement; as the angel yea the angel he sent to me was thee;
Sanctified I am, inside of thine wing's. In commitment shalt I bring, in song's I shalt ablaze in glory with thee wherein the mind's of two shalt cling. O' mine hymn, O' mine diamond .
On a turret I shalt keepeth watch, when the round ball we loveth smoke's up thus, and drop's; beyond fear and falsehood talk's, we shalt walk in a grove,
henceforth the evil staying below, ourn cheeks, colored into snow that fall's starlit, warm-bits. Ourn finger's warm, ourn toe's kick to hot spit by the kissing over-satisfaction. Ourn coroner's laced inside with baguettes, daily deeds like seeds groweth from fountains with nets, nets to catch ourn amour' like open door's we shalt enter. Ourn heart's at the center exploding into a universal call to all other cherub's, seraph's, archangel's, stomping the scarab's. As eternity draweth us as the lost city of gold.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-filipino rose dedicated

but that could be said of anywhere.
However, some places
seem to have hypnotic hips and easy eyes
with a mischevious, seductive scarab grin.
Like magic, it pulls me in.
Here, labels like good or bad are trite,  
there is only this magnetic whirling
energy culling myself and others inside
simply because we picked up the phone and showed up.

But now it's our responsibility to find balance
amidst serene listless apathy on the beach
and party hardy into the midnight arty energy scene jack & coke down the rabbit hole we go.

Some Bedouins say Dahab means "time  goes,"
which has me convinced Moses and his folks weren't lost
in terms of location but lost when it relates to time,
trying to find a middle path
between excess and sloth
in this south Sinai town.


Yes, not two but three schools of thought,
forming a triangle in this hypnotizing spiral;
two points of excess and one of balance!
All three balance each other,
and it's hell trying to stay in the center of this eye
of this metaphorical storm of enlightenment.
Naturally, gravitational forces pull some to the
gray matter island headspace of echoed sins
and carnivorous lascivious pandemonium.  
Not everyone will find what they seek on the warm beaches here,
or the raving, bubble foam dance parties in strobe light nights.
That's just the way it is;
there's not enough room for everyone in the center.

And this is where we learn to accept ones place,
because only then can we move on to another plane,
on another beach with more to learn and some to teach.

The space of the body of an *** is a good thing,
as long as the face
of the poet is Black;     keeping ur hands out of the war,
the head of the dead;
The heat of the land of years of snooch in the darkness;
he has the white feet of the Queen to do all that, you learn to **** when u're young;  & 1 have thought of the Green American Jesus,
      coming out of the Big chosen field of the Gold find;
the beauty of the standard of a living being; the sun,
           the ancient fortunes of money are an iron barred jail cell;
           ******* War is hell, the city,       the future of the goddess of death,
the stars of the blood of the females; In place of the word ***** is a great sea of ​​six poets; Called by the name of the Kids,
              her hair in roller thinking of a Skinny hand to love
              & to hold,
            but she  lost the baby at the door;               but it's better
what w/ the fire living in the sky;          the Moon's true history
of the happy girl's marriage [Media General]          
was a Dream told to Wall Street Roy; Igor, drunk then married the air base
opening where her American father heard she was made of gold;
a person writing in English w/ hand around a cool beverage
in the middle of a part of Greece that was a highly rich in fresh water  
& should it come into his heart,
he was willing to see that new-born children
                      are the real saints but the work  
   of turning it all around & walking through
                              the three states of yellow;
is the nature of lateness,                  however, it was full of the stars'
              yearning to feel
the Book of the Medusa; the son of ugly red wild beasts
     was on the way, walking onto a small amount of a kid in
     pieces,                                     & suffering the rock;
              the stone Guy's aquarium flooded in the year
     of the age of Maria Brown, gay mothers
     leaving us to take up arms;
in                    the month of the lips, but where there is the spirit
of the osculating dear friend of the mistress    & the deep things
of course to form;              Virginia Civil Society, as it appears that
at 1 a.m., I am writing the best of Ivan;  the wet Russian girl-child
fills w/ smoke            & 1 & 1 will say to the soul of the song
                               dancing to the evil of smoking firebrands,
          the material of the window
whose mirror is the revolutionary
perfection of God; Secret of the underdog,                  the invisible things
of the guys, including the blind man;   modern history turned into reality;
standing & listening to music,                    she was asked if she read a lot;
of eating the ***** in the field                               free of a stripper's cares

enough to talk rings way around the plate
of Standard club strippers,
Kissing & Falling over;                                      then leading to the house
                                                  once up on their feet again;
        The war the death of the good of the land of the poet;
          Nigeria within the body of an ***
pulled out of the fire by the head
of the mutilated snooch;              & the fixed period of the heat of the feet
                                of the
                                                   Princess of all others in the dark;
& for him a white stone, & for her fresh **** in the field because,
                            for 1,
                            because he is considered too green,
                       & the Americans own the Big Knives,
                       that they conduct to the chosen;
            The beauty in the methods that have been prepared;
by the goddess of the Sun,            |      the star of the old iron one:
& the sister that had been defiled       by the blood of the female,
        & the price of the fortunes   of war is great glory to the sea,
                                                     then the city would be hell,
                        & out of six places come the acts of the poet;
But love has become a lost child;  1 thought the skinny kids
in the air were really the opening of the Moon's seminal story:
[Media: General]  but they were only |      | Dreams told to the
Wall Street Journal,
get Igor drunk & he'll lead the way
            to the American Air Base's
                      glory hole
                         where
a Golden man is writing in English by hand
  & comes in from the cold
  hole &                                                shall be given drink in the middle
of Sparta of Greece,          as they had been waiting for Him to come on
                         the  first,
where the water is deep;         & a new boy is out w/ his new toy,            all   out except for the work;          To walk in the same amount of time
as just the small amount of time;                            of
                             ­      red high-spirited kids cutting it to pieces,
& they shall strike the ugly son of the stone cut out of the rock,
it is the sorrow of the fisheries,
not the Guys living in the time of Mary Brown;       
  leaving the arms of mothers
                     & the gay press,
                     at which time these ladies' love runs deep in Virginia
deploying among civil society, it appears that the mind is the best;
                          writing about you & us wet in the Russian 1000's;
                        1 will say that it is filled w/ the music of 1000 Bad dances;
& these fires;           this is the perfect picture of the revolutionary
                measures        taken
                through the window
                into the dog's secret invisible,
    because it is blind;      modern history            has become reality;
      1 asked the girls listening to music & reading a lot;
    not because 1 hate them: but for the expression of a man made of iron
     in order to be allowed to sit w/ the dog keeping watch
on the territory;    which consists in speaking
                        w/ the carelessness of his toes,  
& a sparkled stripper in the Strippers English Club    |    dances to show
                                she knows
                                  her way                 around the plate wear
                                       [testimony to the house of legs]:
The head of the inside of a she-*** out of the fire of death
for the good of the land of poets;                           War & Nigerian snooch
that fixed the period of the ****** feet of the African Princess         in the dark; the heat of the fact that it is said,               |            to him, |
a white stone lost in the green of the field,  |
& w/ it with the sacred scarab; South America knows knives,    
choosing &                          Ready to be born into the first path into form;
1 thought the skinny kids,        were already up in the air
but the door of the moon's seminal story has not yet been opened:
                | -}[Media: General]{- |    dreamily told the Wall Street
John that Igor was drunkenly leading everyone to the American
        Air Base's glory hole where the golden heads of the fathers
bobbed up & down;
who can write,        For example, in English,
                        from the hand to the heart of Greece;              from the cold;
we shall give drink to the first;                         |    that it will not be lacking
in the waters of the great deep;                                The child without a toy
   making a new effort to walk in the small amount of space
   that the sons of the high-spirited kids have cut into pieces;
           his being deformed & the amount of red in the stone;
                    which had been hewn out of the rock of sorrow
on the earnings of a woman,           the fish that we bought;
the guy is a writer of histories; in the time of Mary Brown;
husbands,   & wives are the weapons of the bottomless pit;
leaving the ladies gay,                               love has flown to
| Virginia;                                  Deploying the wine-presses
                                at a time that pertained to civil society,  
to the life of the mind,                                  to be a woman,
it seems that it is the best way for you, & us to write
                                                     of the wet Russians;
                                                it is what gets the evil out of the music;
  I filled 1 Cup so far w/ inflammation in the perfect image
  of the dog
  in the window; blind revolutionary measuring
                                        Secrets w/ invisible instruments,
                                   because modern history is the truth;
                                   1 asked the girl        
          standing beside me listening to
                                   music
if she read a lot;  1 did not think that she had a desire to do so,            so far,
&   yet she may be awakened out of the devil w/ the sword;   Doth not your fellowship w/ the black dog in the field
preclude breaking the covenant; that is to talk about the carelessness
of his fingers sparking against a stripper's back;             | Or of a meeting of the shifting
                                   Tectonic plates below the
                                                       English Isles,
          having sent the sun-burnt strippers
          spinning in the House of see-through underwear,
          considering
                                    the ways of the club;    
                                    her budding feelings
                                                        ­                                            & beautiful shining feet

high altitudes and attitudes


my wooden altar is not a large one, yet it floats
above this mountain town in planks of rotting wood.

soft peaks rise behind the tunnel of garbage that builds
in drifts along my temple railings

at this altitude i assumed i would inhale the air of gods, elevated
so much more than physically above the grit and rattlesnakes


but the smell of hot trash is on the wind
as i exude his poison in red splashes of desert fauna and



a smile sways at my mouth, bloodless,
as i descend back into scarab

You're the knight
I'm your steed
There are signs
I can't read
There are things
I can't be
The choir sings
When you see
An engagement ring
Will set me free

But you turn into a beast
And I'm your prey feast
So I hide in the crease
Between best and least
Between sinner and priest
Between molasses and grease
I hide from a monster
That looks like a lobster
Mixed with a mobster
Using a humanoid claw
To impose martial law
To avoid my small flaws

You were my Goliath of reliance
Until we collided with defiance
And I didn't know how to cope
With a lycanthrope

You're a mixture of Jackie Chan and Jackie Kennedy
You're in between human man and human centipede
You walk through the quiet land as I hide in the trees
The hourglass empties as the sand tickles like fleas
You're a monster unreal
When this way I must feel
You have the power to give or take my heart
And you've used that power from the start

You're a Tyrannosaurus rex
When you flex
You're a scarab beetle
When you're evil
The combination of the two
Is the reason my anxiety grew

You're a demon
That can ****** loneliness
You're the reason
I've become a bony mess
When I get things off my chest
To expose my organs
And you call it just fun
So I realize you're the one
From the emotions you take
And the emotions I can't fake

So meet me in the shed
And give me Pumpkinhead
To forget the blood I've bled
And the taste of mud I'm fed
So you can be my monster
I'm not worth

the hand that rubs my body down
is soft: softly veined &
of a powder-white translucence; transcribed
from dover chalks to run down my
chest, backs of my thighs.

the hand that rubs my body down
curves in sweet musics 'round my soul;
the shrill but beaut'ous rasp of skin
on skin
-- of fingertips tracing strange poetry
    along my spine.

the hand that rubs my body down
holds in its palm a sacred oil;
anointing me at midnight hour. muted
bewitchments; burns the candle
down to a nub.

the hand that rubs my body down
calls for christ in attics of sunday
afternoon ...          crosses its fingers in
spiteful fits
of piousness.

the hand that rubs my body down
takes the shape of golden scarab;
sets aflame my eyes of beaming azure &
finds in me a willing servant.

the hand that rubs my body down
wakes me at dawn, partnered  
with an extension of pinpointed
warmth: the touch of her breath upon my cheek.

Majestic is the scarab,
whose beauty persists
in the favor of people;
we behold it and say,
"How creative is God."
Mesmerized, I forget
how literally today
becomes yesterday--I forget
how potent a drug
beauty is.

In an ocean of night, dreaming of a closed dining space / We were snooping in on a harsh conversation of strangers that we knew / Towards dawn you spoke / as real in the dream as an apparition in the real / of Father and Mother / of them cruising off on a road trip / You faltered at a word I recollect but won't spell / It absorbed into whale song ticking to a time piece / itching to signal morning / and I could feel the depth of many fathoms  floating over a waking to Spring / like being pressed against a cherry blossom trunk / in a tug of war, a push and pull / Let's go Jungian on this, he is much more pleasant / I did see a bumble bee yesterday, not a golden scarab, although that could have been a circadian premonition / and I woke up to a shower of blossoms //

I am not your friend
I am the enemy
Of the end
That you embrace
With open arms
And open palms
With a name drawn
Onto clouds
And carved
Into skin

Its should be as natural as breathing
But, its as painful as bleeding
No suture for these open wounds
No future
To fate we're bound

I am all you have
I am the answer
To the riddles past
Raven and writing desk
Oedipus answered man
Its all I am
With a name and a face
And eyes that can see
Eyes that blink
And a hungry sphinx

It should be as open as the sky
But, its a dark and dysmal cave
Our hearts become arrows
In truth of the scarab
We shoot wide and narrow

The end of which we seek
Will not be peace
Fall on me now
Or follow me not

Refuse to call her Sensei falsely,
Respect a quality untimed to a technologic beep,
a beat more ancient than the tribal drum flow,
a wind more cold than the the Summit in Winter

flying Panthers as I walk through the door of my dreams, rolling over never a choice a gym dreary, rolling over never a choice a hymn ready no longer, resounding a frequent smile in simile, my two pairs of winds high in might bathe detritus with delight feathers at my finger tips, my eyes see me as my own Polyhedron and geometry, spiraling in a torrent of heart beats, charging my batteries for three years a hundred sixty-six weaknesses feel the eel's surface carry my mind's liquid purpose no knowledge for certain that the folks to my left knew the light of tomorrow hands intertwined homogenized in ****** desire function scarce Scarab singing Jazz music freely the dirt rotates feeling the stampede atop the Earth the near challenge is knowing who's shadow is whose or the ortho- light casts veils of it's own.

The soul's propose it's own flow the ego a serpent hungers forwards slithering towards the greens with flames on it's breath seeing the birds take flight above head a prey uncaught until evolution is now leaning towards radio hearing the frequent tunes as ribs to the cavity of a god's chest emanating the tree as high as Saturn the rings around our hands, the halo above His head, the debris collects the King in his Place. All are racing space to the widest in diameter, the scope of a day only governed by the light's loop around our perspective of "el dia y todo el mundo" as he please he moves as he moves he pleases, the winter cold cries for dusk earlier and earlier whatever takes to be the (one)Tidal a lunar crescent in hand bearing Psyche as a Moon as the key to stand, Hope lives in the dark, I pander a door around the corner lives the Lucy painting her soul's truth daily ignoring the outside chronology and the trigger of social trigger, Quickness to cut through and the jungle of introverted hyper-defensiveness I carry the torch of ages through my genes trenches giving in Lapis Lazuli and the Brew he brews, Pick an arcana and Spit on the text before you read the book backwards and burn the pages on around or atop of aQuirkiness of quarks as I part eyes elementary in school zones ticketed for seeing the invisible truth- daring to run for the North to south soon to dissect into the tree. Self a fear, a fear a self force seeks wrath angelic as Templars Archon for King Jame's Ire. Breed a triplicate not shadow nor shade, a vision neither Light nor Astral but a Visage of the Sane, an Image of the Same, a Nephilim of Samael, an interest of the Identity of Unknown total to the Matrices of the Evils of Man

Scarab

By: Yisselakh

Intro:

The beetle climbs the wall of reality
Rolling the sun into place, into the sky of dreams

Verse:

So the beetle rolls around the Sun
Like in dust, our soul rolls around
And they say we're guided by the stars
Or is it our hearts
Or is it our hearts
Is it our hearts

Bridge:

Is this just poetry, is this just art
Is it really the truth of what we are
I'll never truly know
You'll never truly know
We'll never truly know

Pre-Chorus:

What the wise men say
The fools will never follow
If you say so if you say so
That's how they always go
That's how they always go

Chorus:

But when her heart of gold
Shines warmly on your mold
On countless fateful noons
Your heart and your soul
Your shell like sun upon the moon

Post-Chorus:

You'll know
You'll know
You'll know
And you'll believe
And you'll believe

CODA Verse:

So the beetle rolls around the Sun
Like in dust, our soul rolls around
Like they say we're guided by the stars
And all of our hearts
And all of our hearts
All of our hearts

In between the crevasse, the edges of *******,
Two boldly jutting stingers perpendicularly putting
A slick gripping upon a slim tantalum cigarette,
A discreet bayonette from weapons that should have kept

Their secrets, saved their wars, retained their scores
To themselves, mourned in their shells, sat in the corners of their skin and bone cells,
Weeping through fingernails.

The acid cannot wave between the lips,
Absorbed, contained inside their grips,
Decidedly encased inside like bottled ships
That cannot sail from inside a deafly, deathly speaking slip.

Those circled, muscled sinking feelings
Driven cold by air, the scarab dealings
Flying flus, thus rabid reelings,
Blades cantankerous on wings revealing.

Bottled, at stop, on gums that go.
Bottled razorlings, at stop, on gums that go.

I chase the Scarab until the morning glows
With a winged friend I mistreat following a henchman's horse
To the Dunes we ride eyeing the night sky waning
The face of my child entreats for me to be weary.

A diamond in the raw, uncut was never the most valuable.
a board game logic parks upon the boardwalk of Santa Cruz
A friend would never charge for you to stay in a hotel they owned,
a game is a game only if one refrains from believing in consequence
as reality, that time is a space left between motions created by decision
evidenced by interaction precise a dreams manifested sequenced as love ever after.

A price is one custom we have all come to be adapted too, yet how are the best things in life free, if Jewels are the most expensive?

Date written: June 18, 2024
yisselakh@myyahoo.com

Sacred Beetle

By: Yisselakh

Intro:

The beetle climbs the wall of reality
Rolling the sun into place, into the sky of dreams

Verse:

So the beetle rolls around the Sun
Like in dust, our soul rolls around
And they say we're guided by the stars
Or is it our hearts
Or is it our hearts
Is it our hearts

Bridge:

Is this just poetry, is this just art
Is it really the truth of what we are
I'll never truly know
You'll never truly know
We'll never truly know

Pre-Chorus:

What the wise men say
The fools will never follow
If you say so if you say so
That's how they always go
That's how they always go

Chorus:

But when her heart of gold
Shines warmly on your mold
On countless fateful noons
Your heart and your soul
Your shell like sun upon the moon

Post-Chorus:

You'll know
You'll know
You'll know
And you'll believe
And you'll believe

CODA Verse:

So the beetle rolls around the Sun
Like in dust, our soul rolls around
Like they say we're guided by the stars
And all of our hearts
And all of our hearts
All of our hearts

i

Get some rest mine empress
Thine mind is full of doubt's;
Afraid I shalt walketh away
Afraid of me walking out;

ii

Get some sleep
Mine queen;
Tommorrow thou shalt awaken
And again to talk to me.

iii

Get some shut-eye mine seraph
None shalt separate us;
None jealous one's
None scarab's.

iv

Get some peace mine rose
Didst thou not knoweth;
I'll be at thy side, we'll gloweth
Triumphantly as tower's.

v

Get some siesta mine lass
For the morn shalt cometh fast;
I'll be there at thy side, staring through thine glass
Glass eye's, that I shalt never walketh from.....

Get some peace mine Reyna......



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication

The man woke up
Looked toward his reflection
In his vision
Was a human, with a beetle's head
His wife of several weeks
Unleashed a gasp
"Why has this happened?"
The man replied
"I have become Insecta, my true self, a pest."

bind onto stillness -
(impenetrably on stone)
scarab's shrill sounded.

Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.

so cool.

demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage

sleepover
sleepless

starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.

pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity

rotten thing.

you ain't the boss of me

paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap

heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.

oh how special.

yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.

these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.


drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.

**** just got real
I'm about to cop another feel
Of the undeniable truth
Take me to the fountain of youth
Settle me in the light
Obliterate any other view in sight

An emotional pontoon
Strikes a balloon
Like the ***** of a needle
It's time to worship the scarab beetle

Your world bursts
Dignity quenching of thirst
The illusions released
Mind games deceased
The fantasy shatters
As if nothing else matters

The moment it hits you
There's nothing left to do
It's a sigh of relief
Eyes induced like an ancient chief

The truth shall set you free
What a wonderful world it would be
If every waking moment
Hikes its way to this descent
Eyes wide open
The dark side must repent

Give me one good reason
Leave me in this pleasant season
Let the tide stay high
Washing away negativity dry

It's a deep realization
Soothing sensation
It was all part of my dream
Letting out some steam
My thoughts just never stop
Meanwhile, the kite string should eventually pop.

It's nearing that time
Music's calling for a new chime
Next freight train is a coming
I'm on the borderline running
Who's all aboard?
I'm about ready to strike another chord.

Greate is thy Sin, since Sin is never Small:
     And Monstrous Moles of Sin Call home thy Soule.
About their Mountainous Molehills they do Crawle.
     Play thou (and win) a Game of Whacke-a-Mole.
     Unto the Moles be Deadly as an asp.  
     Beware, take Care, nor Swat the pettish wasp.

The Harebrain'd Sinners Sins to him are toyes;
     Theyre Entertainments, Gambols, Games with Dice.
The Madbrain'd Sinners Sins to him are joyes
     Untill he's made to paye in full their price.
     The Crackbrain'd Sin-addicted Scarab bug
     That liveth but for Sin to Hell is Drug.

Accretion,
                     Tis I seek!
Permission,
                     Of ones love to keep!
Partition,
                     I gaze for none!
Secretion,
                     Of child play fun!
Direction,
                     To giveth me her hand!
Completion,
                      A wedded band!
Ommision,
                       I want none more!
Suspition,
                       Please close thy store!
Assumption's,
                       I enquireth zilch!
Corruption,
                       Sleeps with filth!
Attention,
                       Wrap me as waddling infant!
Kitchen's,
                       To cook a meal of terrace's far and distant!
Affectation,
                       Of two fallen cherub's!
Alleviation,
                       Of the bug's and scarab's!
Abstraction,
                       I paint as a picture,
Benedictions,
                       Of one pellet, two triggers!
Complications,
                       Of breathing do I feel,
Irrigations,
                       Another deathly pill!
Saturation,
                       Man made queens to beasts!
Irritation,
                       Where art thou? Queen of settled feast?
Obliteration,
                       I lurk the high hilled tops!
Incarceration,
                        Where ghoul's meet thy cops!
Palliation,
                        To make sensual love in darker nights,
Excruciation,
                        Where art thou light?
*******,
                        Of kings and consort souls,
Acceptation,
                        Wilt thou come mine love?

Slayers remain survivors. Being chased by laser guided nano spiders. I'm running away avoid razor wires. Seems like the sorcerers are first. Dark forces put to work. Unleashing evil elements on to the earth. In the 80's my mom lived by the Euphrates escaping a clan full of crazys who tried to steal and clone her baby. Gods earth. One half cobra. One half Noah. Both are evil I thought I taught you the quotient. At a mountain all alone. A broad head stone shooting arrow heads at the fake warrior thrones.

Let he who is not lost show me your home and he who is without sin write me a poem.

From the innocuous line of questioning. The scarab from the sky taught me all  interpretations of language are indefinite.

Mine incarnation streched like William Wallace of Scotland upon this old timber trunk, mine head is dunked in a *** of needing and haveth nots, for didst the world forget the gots?
Ripper's rip out thine gut's by spoons, the feeling of a balloon as thine heart's pricked by human needle.......

Scarab's and Beatles crawleth in dung, when they sucketh they sucketh hard from thy dud's and put thee in confinement wherein realignment is fully needed....    

Handcuffed to solitary hole!!!

I lie in bed and close my eyes
Knowing I go to my next demise.
There he sits and there he waits
My torturous wraith at hells dark gates

Grabbing me in his claws
Grisly smile petrudes from jaws
Tightly bounds me in barbed wire
My allegiance is his one desire

Tattered scarab, rusty knife
Yet no move to take my life
Slowly starts to part the skin
And slowly slides his hand in

Grabs my love
My happy, my peace
My grateful, my smile

Locked away in a chest.  
Only returned for a quest
an eye for an eye
A heart for a heart

Gabriels fallen
Gabriels demise
He shall not rise
Dont give in to those lying eyes

Eli wanted to bury the bodies
in the Irish girl's *** but she
wouldn't bend over until he
finally hit her w/ the shovel &
knocked her flat out & rolled
her over in the sun feeling
like a scarab paying homage
to the earth's abundance of
****: an endless pile going
back to the very first *******;
itself made of pure **** & after
emptying the big hole, Eli fills
it w/ its own dirt; the Irish girl
at one w/ the pasture, sound
asleep on the sloping hill; her
*** filled w/ bodies, Eli pats
the dirt down to a low mound