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Samridhi Feb 2014
my test results showed divergent.
but she told me not to talk about it,
at least not here, or anywhere. ever.
he told me i could not be found about. never.
but they did, they eventually did.
they injected me- with serums, different kinds of them.
and i became their ultimate little experiment gem.
one of a kind.
every stimulation- every serum injected, i denied.
i was useless.
but then he came - my love. my Four. my Tobias
to my rescue.
i promised. not to put myself into danger,
like as i always did.
but i could not let him die. Caleb. my brother. my blood.
i had to save them. all of them.
death serum.
i could. resist.
but before that- he picks up a fight -
wounded in his wheel chair. paralyzed.
but still manages to, that little twa -
stab.
pain.
i see bloo-
thick red blo-
mom? but you're dea-
it's okay sweety, she says.
where am i?
in a better place.
you gave up your life Tris- for them.
i died?
yes honey, you died, an *allegiant.
Kind of been obsessed with the Divergent trilogy for the past few weeks.
Sorry for the spoilers though.
First time. not perfect. i know!
but hey, at least i tried :)
Seven shots of tequila and one or three cocktails later I lifted my phone.
In my camera I thought about how beautiful you would say I am.
So into that camera I began to spill.
I rambled on. I fumbled words. I laughed. My voiced cracked. Club music played behind me.
I still hit send because I am an idiot.
Days pass and night comes. I am in your bed. My head on your shoulder as my fingers toy with the soft patch of hair on your chest.
Please? you ask as your finger lingers over the button. You had already watched it more than once and wanted to watch it with me.
How was I going to say no?
And, so I watched myself drunk with truth serum tell you my passion, my love, my devotion, my fears, my hopes for us.
I can hear your heart quicken as your  grip on my hip tightens. The moment the video ends you are rolling me to my back. The weight of you makes me wet as you capture my mouth and pour your returned passion. love, fear, and hope into a kiss.
Your mouth and teeth move from breast to ******* over and over as you take long strides into my silky smoothness. I don't know where one ****** ends and another begins  You capture my mouth and we drink from each other in long desperate gulps.
It had been too long since love had been kind.
Since love had been real.
You are hanging on as if I could leave you at any minute. You're in me as deep as you can go and ******* my bottom lip as I moan. My pretty  pink-then candy red ****** then gets your attention and I marvel at your long your lashes are, And, then those lust filled diamond eyes flutter open and I lose my ******* mind.  The heat soaks my porcelain thighs. You don't want to let go. you dont want the moment to end. You hang on bury your face in me and breathe me in. I feel your love and desperation more than I ever thought I would be allowed to witness.
What you need to know and never once doubt is that Tequila was not speaking.
I was.
I want this more than I have wanted anything in a long time.
I want us.
I want you.
My blue eyed mushroom hunting nerd.  I love you.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Dreams of a Child
Created: Jan 23, 2011 5:44 AM
Finished: Jan 30, 2011 4:23 AM
Posted here  Jan 2014
Warning:
a very, very long poem, but within , I promise,
there is a precise stanza about, for you.  
Take it as my gift.
Let me know which you took home to play.

~~~~~~~


Some poets care not
for the
discipline of rules,
laws of punctuation.

Why bother brother,
with putting poems
in antiquated jailhouses,
prisons of vertical bars,
or afford the reader,
the courtesy of horizontal lines?

Question and quotations marks
these day refuted,
as a Catcher In The Rye
conspiracy symbology of big lies,,
political interventionism,
to the creative, most natural
right to be crude.  

Inconvenient impositions,
symbolic flailings, of an
over regulated civilization
in the throes of declination

Punkuation is but a
societal annoyance to
today's creative geniuses,
periods, commas,
nothing more than
a pause to think -
who needs 'em?
when we want to stink
up the atmosphere with vitriols
of half truths and inhuman
but oh so gleeful,
concentrated disparagement
of any person worthy of
nationwide late night mocking merriment.

Such free spirits, vivid animations,
within me do not reign,
though upon occasion,
boy got permission slips  
for breaking bad by invention
of an occasional new word.

New words, white truffles
vocabulic incantations,
my own cupcake creations,
meant to burr, or purr,
their tasty meanings, always,
were readily apparent.

Sometimes we rhyme,
sometimes  we can't;
doth not a reading of a
poetic periodic table
of rants, chants
love poems, and paeans
to a shhhh! pretend,
overarching, poesy ego
require some minimalist format?

How I envy you,
kind observer,
possessor of literary powers
untoward and untold,
delicate touches of a fingertip
rule and rue
poetic invention.

You can zoom away or in
for a closer examination
of unscripted revelations,
incinerate them like an
yesterday's newspaper,
thus demonstrate contempt for
less-than-historic ruminations,
as time has done before.

Witness the crumbled ruins of Ozymandias,
king of kings,
and how the critic's machinations
with a dash of tabasco time,
his works, now museum pieces,
in the Tate Modern's room of
Laughable Human Aspirations.

Don't panic, sigh or groan,
kind observer,
infection inflictions,
content of discontentment,  
ancient whinings that the publisher
long ago listed as discontinued,
will not herein unfold.

What has all these mumbled asides
to do with the Dreams of a Child?

Apologies prolific I distribute
for this long winded profligate prologue;
and even for prior invasions
of your contemplative fantasias,
but my intention certain:
**** out the weak chaff eaters,
feigners of faux interest,
who stanzas ago deserted us,
this confessional lore.

These prior lines conceived
to mislead and deceive,
to refer and deter
send away, the hangers-on
who litter our lives,
with whimpered falsehoods.


So, we begin anew:

Today's lecture entitled
Dreams of a Child
were formatted on a silver disc;
this communication's originations,
seedlings of block
roman black letters
on background of cleansing white,
re things that jar me in the night.

Easy slights that waken
from a fitful, pitted rest,
mental paintings
natured in gem colors,
tourmaline auras,
and vibratto hues
of blue zircons.  .  

I have never lain upon the couch,
in the inner holy of holies,
where one whispers
to the Father Confessor
an original composition,
subject, title and inspiration
of said unique origination,
decidedly of one's own choosing,
roots of the essay's telling,
harvested in the root garden
of one's dreams,
where grow herbs,
spicy ones,
flavors of childhood.

The lush and wooded smells
of a forest of childhood scars,
and it's concomitant
putrefying, fruited rot,
awoke and brokered
a stilted, tremulous sleep.

Went to bed a a man
of modest success,
of modest scenes,
a bond trader, who trades
exactly that:
his word, his bond,
his blessing to his
deal constructions,
all of which, ended with an
irrevocable cri of "Done!"

Yet like you,
I am oft undone.

Dreams.

In truth, not dreams, but
spectral moments of
our lives relived,
a melange of ancient lyrics,
taunts of childhood abusers and
peer humilators
who could
teach the CIA
torture techniques
of WORD boarding, par excellent.

Angelic faces of human ****
that birthed in me a holy duality,
anger and a,
love of words,
my vaccination serum.

Granted a love of
human kindness
from teachers who cherished their
high and mighty tight
to publicly humiliate,
knowing full well
that human laws could not
attempt to have them
justly incarcerated.

Where, where were
the supervisors
who let me be spit upon
in the back seat of a
Fifty's station wagon,
by the brothers of
a sainted dead shepherd?

I am still eight,
sitting on a stoop in the
modest side of town,
towel in hand, so handy,
to wipe the tears shed
for cause,
for the car-pool of suburban boys
who "forgot" to pick me up for
Sunday swim night.  

In high school,
in the back row,
I silently ******
the juice of a Sarte lemon and
essayed a term paper,
upon multiple mirrored
reflections of a man
called Camus.

As another self styled, only living
teenage expert
on "alien nations"
received with pride and trepidation,
a sentence of Ninety Eight,
on my term paper,
but the pedantic predators
deemed it an accident
for I, was  inscribed in their
Upper East Side
Coda of Prejudice,
as merely,
"just" a
man of USDA,
B grade quality intellect.  

Hand me downs
I did not get
as I was the
younger, sole brother,
but worn lint lines
of humiliation
when and where my pants
were "let down"
to accommodate growth spurts
were my growing marks of Cain.

Those growth lines
were economic reality signs,
and were rich fodder for
childhood monsters,
Scions of Income Superiority
who lived in ranch homes in
two car, color tv garage slums,
wearing band new Levis.

In the Sixties,
time of my unsilent spring
wore a cross of
teenage hood,
my hair,
worn long,
Jesus style

Worn with labor pride,
for it was
Made in the USA,
I was a most conventional
revolutionary.

In the parochial jail
of educated guesses,
where society's lesson plans
of all that was bad
were O so well taught,
I was apart, ahead,
of Our Crowd,
but not too, radically.  

But a spiteful
Principal of No Principle,
deemed my locks a
disruptive influence,
so to exorcise my rebel streak,
so to crucify his "Jesus Freak,"
so to exercise his diminutive spirit
a pompous uber man,
he had me shorn
like a sheep,
thrice
in just one day,

He loved his full employment
of his pharoic entitlement,
The Educator's Power of Abuse,

I was so denuded
of human strength,
the Italian barbers of the
East 86th Street subway station,
wept for me,
their cri du coeur,
Angels in Heaven did hear
and from God
did dare demand
an explanation!

He roared in manner celestial,
"Is he not my child too,
and if he be treated
in style *******,
it is purposed and willful."

Pornographic compilations of
slaps across a child's face,
I've got plenty
of and in My Space,
should you care to
add your own,
down under,
got plenty of room
for all comers    

In a Facebook world,
I pride, not pretend,
that having fewer "friends"  
is my honest and true
reflection of who I am, and,
life lessons learned -
quality, not quantity.  

Victims of discrimination
can be most discriminating
in matters of
human games, associations.  
****** or word,
lack of taking care
is not heart healthy.

Tried to forgive
the despotic progenitors,
of some of that which
is good within me
that, irony of ironies,
they can claim the title,
creator;

Tried to give them
what I had gotten -
from the happy malcontented  
evil spreaders,

That grace, grace is
the only methodology,
an inestimable but
valuable lost leader,
the only way
to survive on
this planet of
hardtack and
caste striation.  

Though still quick to anger
at the cutters and denigrators
I am quick still to
confess my own failings, and forgive those
of plain and honest folk.

Unfortunately, kind observer,
you had to share my brunt,
syllabic Iwo Jima battles
of a decaying verbal moonscape
to reach the denouement,
for now we have,
mostly arrived

Most likely you too
have long ago
deserted me like
so many others,
no matter,
this modulated breath
was born and released
from my heaving chest and
as I knew it,
know this:

My Absaloms
where ever you be,
presumably and hopefully in hell,
I give you thanks
and a mini bar drink
of absolution.
a tin medal of appreciation,
for the
Marked Improvement
you inadvertently nurtured
in this restless,
voyagered soul.

My ancient enemies
till now, be advised,
forgive and forget
was and has not  
fully formed
in my penitential template,

Unlike your natural capacity
for cruelty and mean
birthed unto you
in your third rate
genetic melange,
forgiveness is taught
in a Master Class
at a famous school of Ethical Drama,
that I did not attend

Though resident in
a better place,
my root garden,
the bitter herbs you planted
still grow but,
are welcome in sweet brotherhood,
until the selah days
of just one flavor.

Though the universe's expansion
is of a pace such that
time and space definitions
will stretch and warp
and need be
refined, replaced,
the governing principle here.
need not be rephrased.  

For goodness
from evil
doth come
and should your
evil spectres
once more try
for resurrection
in my benighted
dream world.
you will find the doors
locked and barred,
upon them a sign
not verbose,

**Done.
Whew.
Kerri May 2015
Always  in the spotlight,
but coddled by the darkness
A bright, colorful flower
that never wanted to bloom
She pulled the sheer, black curtains
over her eyes,
welcoming the night
An arrow shooting into the Midnight moon
swallowed whole by wicked sin
Flirting with the Devil
and soaking in the evil serum
She turned her face away from
the beacon in the night
never to return again
Leaving to the world
just a ghost of a little girl
Emanuel Martinez Aug 2011
Lilies and wine.
You're drunk with love.
And night's all shine.

So you starve and you crave.
Just a little bit more of Cupid's touch.
Puffed smoke hearts surrounding the time.
Present once more the universe sparks in your soul.
Lousy noises melting into harmonies so fine.

Lilies and wine.
You're drunk with love.
And night's all shine.

Your heart's secreting the serum of life.
Love is filling the hourglass of your time.
Now the pearl has found its light.
No pressure but weightlessness abounds.

Lilies and wine.
You're drunk with love.
And night's all shine.

Hold on firecely, lose yourself in beautiful time.
Tears of love and joy heal your wounds.
Flowers all fine, one you are, floating on air.
Swept out of reason, but your heart is too fine.

Lilies and wine.
You're drunk with love.
And night's all shine.

Capture the flower in your arms.
And drink the serum like wine.
Love is uplifting, and bare, taking you swiftly.
August 1, 2011
ethyreal Jul 2013
You breathed gin.
This is blood for you.
Your hands held your hair and your eyes shut.
The alcohol lulled your brain to black.

It escaped your veins,
Diluted by 37.5% truth serum.

Gasping at the
Divine realisation
Where slurred lips
Contradicted
Your once straight-faced,
Certainly-certain speakings
Of your very crooked lie.

So crooked, it wound his heart around yours.
But that ball of yarn unravelled in an instant.
And the jumper you knit together,
Came apart
Stitch by stitch.

In my fogged memory,
I had choked myself that night
With a bottle and a ball of yarn.
Gene Jun 2013
Quiet and uneasy.  
The voiceless breeze at my back was thickly draped with irregular design.
There I was... staring at my warped reflection in the remoteness ahead of me.
A  revelation violated my over crowded mind and before I could even fathom my displacement,
the moon started melting.

As if calling out to werewolves,  the hypnotizing moon started dripping moonlight.
Glowing moon drops crashed to the ground and I found myself surrounded by the dreams of a thousand  kings.
Beyond the limitations of clockwork, I found myself surrounded and under siege by the visions of a thousand visionaries.

There I was.
A captive to crowns of light.
Taken.

A hostage to a deserted kaleidoscope of angelic halos...
So many blinding halos, all riddled with hidden wisdom and rare moon drop truth.
Halos infected with unfound secrets handed over to the chosen...
Secrets handed over by the masters of celestial emptiness themselves.

Like euphoric dreams within our nightmares...  
the same nightmares  found within our lost dreams...
The same lost and misunderstood dreams that dwell within a moon drops angelic halo.
Rare truth and untouched wisdom were  just too pure for reality.

It would take the hallucinations of a thousand truth serums for us to conceive thier virtue.

*Gene
truth se·***  
A drug supposedly able to induce a state in which a person cannot lie.

© June 2013 E. Little
zebra Jan 2019
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise

ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers

gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection

finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit

look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi  
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull

black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets

*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals

paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip

babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
neth jones Nov 2022
my eyes are heady    **** bloating
                                       from within the sun
       white embellishment lasers out  
                  lending provision
     setting life   to the organic cog and clock
provoking muted growth  to retch a bloom
              leading
                                     ­ spending
                                                       ­         seeding

my tread  destroys nothing
each step    frictionless  
patterning little hovering eddies
                              a fraction above ground
minimal is my disruption
enough    only to promote a deeper observation
    tender fanning     of the life that i am fawning over

how to feel this spritely at all times ?   t'would be a spell
                                                 a fondled thing

         it’s from our night of shared tether
our infection threw out an extra pleasurable souvenir
it carried its energy    into the ensuing day

i am launched affection
beckoned     into the true employment of my surroundings
carrying my socks and shoes in one hand
and my heart?  it is a possession of the senses
i am truly led
i am emitting
Tammy Cusick Oct 2014
Contempress,
Red mouthed darkness,
You weave your webs and spit out death,
Serum of poison lies in between your chest,
I cannot reach in for that coffin lies my rest.
I spread your ashes across my skin,
Black out my eyes and begin to fall,
Across my eyelids I feel you crawl,
In my head,
Inside my brain,
The serum of you,
A sweet taste of pain.
A widow of you,
The shadows across the weave,
Pull out your infecting vangs,
Leave all to grieve.
A widow of you beautiful and divine.
You, yourself, are on an hour glass of time.
Oh crimson red!
Her hourglass of dread!
You cannot pray upon the living dead,
The soulless walkers in which you crawl right inside.
With you red widow,
You divide,
Heaven or Hell where will you reside?
Vain in you I abide!
When will this web go?
Time is the enemy,
Young or Old,
Beauty is forever,
Externally resting in our soul.
ANANDO SEN May 2010
Your white bosoms releasing that white serum.
That curvaceous mound feeds humanity,
That makes the biggest humanity via motherhood wisdom.

Your pink ******* arousing that tempest blood.
That soft hill becoming hard,
That hardens which heightens the adulthood.

Your black ***** taming sin.
That concealed shape popping out to provoke,
That provokes to **** feminism in mean.
The short poetic piece defines the portion of the feminine torso in three different ways. The language and understanding is simple yet astounding. The three different interpretations of the female ***** are not intended to evoke any kind of vulgarity but appraise the different roles played by the woman *****. The script is an attempt to entice topical readership in a different and dignified way.
Àŧùl Dec 2016
Preventing contamination,
A constant challenge in cell culture.
Contamination not only affects,
The culture in question and,
Costs time and money,
But also endangers the reproducibility of results.

No cell culture problem,
Is as universal as that of culture loss
Due to contamination.

Generally, contamination may be separated,
Into categories of microbial,
And eukaryotic contamination.

Examples of microbial contamination include:
Bacteria (including Mycoplasma),
Fungi and yeast;
Eukaryotic contamination includes:
Cross-contamination with other cell lines.

Bacteria, yeast and fungi,
The three more common types of contamination,
But luckily these forms are often detectable,
Under the microscope and,
By visual cues,
Like colour or turbidity changes in the medium.

Mycoplasma is a small genus of bacteria,
That lack a cell wall and for this reason,
They remain unaffected by common antibiotics.
They are also difficult to detect,
With standard microscopes,
Due to their size, about 0.1 μm in diameter,
And the fact that they often attach to host cells.


To prevent contamination,
Use 70% ethanol for disinfecting,
Equipment & surfaces,
Related to cell culture.
Sterile filter the media first,
Before bringing to the lab.

Fetal Bovine Serum,
A potential source of contamination,
Contains mycoplasma.
Filter it at 0.1 μm, or,
Gamma irradiate it.
Aseptic technique,
Necessary.

The laboratory workers be the last,
But not the least source of contamination.
Teach them the ideal laboratory practices,
To ensure asepticity in a laboratory.
Source: American Laboratory

For revising an important topic from Animal Cell Culture.

HP Poem #1299
©Atul Kaushal
Says Vernarth: “Khaire to my beloved beings that surround me, including my ***** that move their tails to the rhythm of my awakening. To you my dear Brother, I stayed with my ceramic asleep and I could not sip from the last harvest of ideas and its temporary forks, which came from my parapsychologies. I am delighted among these blankets that smell like cornfields that prevented me from seeing him closer when I already had them in my hands. Now I not only see beyond what my arm measures in its omega, where my own estimating what flower I have to carry and see what it will have to carry in me!

Once upon a time, seven donkeys woke up, the first one who did it went to look for bread, milk, and honey, the second played the tambourine for his master, the third sprinkled the flowers with holy water, the fourth was vernacular in the others, the fifth was in charge of carrying stones and logs in bundles to make the elbows and the masts of the beams, the sixth reconciled the morning with the sun to have a clear day, and the seventh brought the akratismós on a tray, which brought a colt on its back and in a wineskin, bringing juice from the Procoro winepress and Akratos wine, which the colt eventually moved with its leg so that it could be served. Seeing that he gave signs of awakening and opening his bleary eyes, the seven of them laughed and brayed when they saw that he could not hold himself, but when he saw one of them who had had temporary amnesia, he faced him in the sunny morning so that he would face to the wind from the coast that began to bring them figs, like an Ariston or early lunch to strengthen him on his head, more remote of all because he thought too much. The third donkey would make two tortillas from neighboring cornfields that had just been baked, these he used as plates or trays to roll the fruits, vegetables, and barley bread. Vernarth laughs along with them and hugs them again. The containers that accompanied him had the solidity to fill with a few liters of water enough to bathe, after having fiddled with the ******, which reminded him of Orion, but of the meatus that would now be used to ink the thread of the spindle, which pretended to be divine. with hemp and cotton to rub the woods that he had destined for the main timber of the façade. Then he puts on his himation and on it the fibula that protected the serum from his right shoulder. He takes some pieces of logs and lights a bonfire to cook infusions and chalks of his personal medicine, from the collection of his private demiurge, Borker. He placed his tools behind a florilegium, where he received his astragalus by means of his jumping donkeys, and sometimes they would turn around him for hours to soften his immediate floor so that he would not be bothered by the rubbing of the grass and his pectoralis would over-sensitize. But in the end, they traced with him as seven divine golden numbers, which were added one next to the other, for each birth of his mother having to use a third of the womb to shelter them, like equid specimens in their 14 months of age. gestation. As if they were pollen sacs that were the origin of the androecium of all creation in the gynoecium sector. The morphology of this analogical floral relationship alludes to the anthos or flower that matures in the expression of the animals that surrounded Vernarth, and its filaments that derived from the spindle and its promised threads that connected with the fertile connection of the donkeys, making present the cellular magnetism of father and mother for them. Almost like a sordid weight that could not be supported in his genome, it was the serum that sweetly emerged from the nectary of his shoulder, rather close to the sternum, but his burritos produced good moments of the company for him, knowing that if he ran his hands over his satin back, he also longed to ***** the bristles of his stiff hairs, which decided his species, like bristly donkeys only pending his immunity.

Saint John and Etréstles approach and they say to him:
Etréstles comments: “It is said that I must be near you, just as I was in the forests near Piacenza, or after setting sail from Sardinia or Hylates. Then arriving on the coasts of Florence, La Spezia and finally Genoa, it is said that not far from here in Messolonghi, there are books that are written for you, they are wonderful, and everyone reads it, it is called Vernarth Alexandri Magni Macedonis officer Primum "Vernarth First Commander of Alexander the Great." It is said that there is a dispute over the guarantee of your magical verses for those who write it and for those who read it, as an experience that most pleases those who transcribe it because when you stop your verses, they mention that their infantry tale has not reached them. , which is being reborn in all necropolises, such as the Koumeterium of Messolonghi. It is said that there is an extreme reason for unity in the Divine Number of Gold that extends through the seas of Troy and Athens, in the patronage of Fidas for his agora of with the disciple of Agoracritus. It is said between June 21 and 24 the Sun or Shemesh for you, it begins to move away and flushes in its suspicious perihelion, it is said that we will dance in the sacred space, and Archimedes will dance together with us with his Elves, and it is said because I say it! We will have Mother Nature knocking her down at our melted feet, full of ****** Bern olive trees and rotten grasses that announce the freedom to be united, together with all the books in the world, under her great Hellenic library that will never stop going and running after the last leaves of the apocalypse "

Saint John intervenes: "My half reason, is my whole heart, my whole heart is my extreme half, which totalizes the segments of the magic of always surviving and resurrecting in the golden number, thus its length squeezes the shortest way to go behind of the donkeys and lose their memory, if not half sheep of my reason and my heart guiding them "

Neither the Oniros duo nor the third would impede Verrnarth to embrace them, but he was in his purging, behind a severe veil, but from the ductile ectoplasm that already separated them from their ethereal physical plane, it was only possible with donkeys to pass from one dimension to another. other. Thus the arcs of the circle of the sun surpassed the rule of being contained in the supreme analogy from above and below, only the points of ab / cb went beyond the spiritual eclectic portal, to attract them to ab / ac, hinting at the midpoint of the Equidae that brayed to thank Saint John for the Apostle who could be close to him and caress his ears, which were the highest and golden point of his omega garden.
Golden Donkeys
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?

I am an addict, not a poet.
Alex Apples Mar 2010
One look at you is all it takes
An injection of your kiss and glow
And my will just breaks
I think you know

I was a liar before I met you
Now your tenderness makes me weak
How can I lie so near to goodness
When I cannot even speak?
King Panda Aug 2017
I am unsure of the geology
of where you’re from.

I expect there exists
shelves and sheaths

pale grey-yellow
like serum in the blood

and rocks resembling
sun-weathered lobster

carapaces.
all of this enclosed by

a festoon of green pine—
its regalia cut sonic

and naked
wrung and wrung again

by august.
on the edge

a cabin is hemmed on
the skirt of ocean—

spikes of molding logs
propped and resting

akimbo.
a wave comes in.

a wave goes out.
a wave stays to shake

your hand.
introduces itself as

sensate verge
and wonderment.

home.

I can only imagine what
it is for you.
Janette Jan 2013
Taste me with all of your senses
Inhale my essence......breathe me in deep.....






Darkness pressed against hunger..

Sliding my tongue, I drew it in like a feast
Savouring the taste as it passed my lips...



Shadows cast silken threads
Screaming desire!
Spinning silken webs around my body,
Searing my skin, as hot breath spilled itself
Against my salted flesh...


Moisture and heat fused,
Savage, pulsating, lingering, where wicked hovered
Sleek, against my heart’s beat...



Black satin shivered beneath wildfire hips;
Slow dancing a sweetened heat,
Writhing beneath the shimmer-gleam;
As I lay for him, lathed by the parched desert of his
Relentless tongue...wearing me wet....


I moaned across his taut flesh,
Strewn beneath the sliding wander of skin thrusts,
Drowning in a plum-dark eclipse of heat!
Where tenderness lay opened for him...



Teasing breaths rushed kisses between thighs
Quivering,
Wanting to break free, the restraints,
Stretching my body beneath his tasting..


I felt the essence beating ****** tempo's,
Passion succumbing to insatiable need;
And I gave him my body's silk-white,
Trembling under the furtive delirium of our fever...


The fierce moon eclipsed
A serum to slide my quickened breath;
And his eyes watched, deep in dark, unchanging depths,
As I lay naked in his arms....................
I heard your voice whisper to my heart.....and I waited, for I loved you then, though I never knew your path would ever cross my own......but we fell into step in the shade of a mountain where beyond forever nestles against our hearts..... J
John F McCullagh Aug 2014
When Ebola’s fever begins to rage,
The prognosis isn’t nice,
Monoclonal antibodies
are needed from three mice.
The mice must first become exposed
to a weakened viral strain.
Their antibodies harvested
and combined with those of man.
Strangely the proteins that we need
are grown best in a ****.
A modified tobacco plant
will do the job indeed.
The serum, that derives from plants,
had not had human trials.
(but eight of ten young chimpanzees
endorse  what’s in that vial.)
Our missionaries, sick unto death
were clearly in no position
to refuse to try the medicine
that might provide remission.
Their rebound was miraculous.
To Atlanta now they fly.
Man finds himself in debt to a mouse.
“Good job, little guy!”
Mapp is a biotech company that produces the serum that has apparently saved two American missionaries from the Ebola virus. Their approach involves recombinant DNA to harvest antibodies from mice exposed to fragments of a dead ebola virus. Tobacco plants are used as a host to grow the monoclonal antibodies in volume to produce the serum
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
You were the broken boy
The misguided little toy
No one believed that you would
No one ever thought you could

But you sure got your revenge
Drawing X's on the faces of
Little girls who said they'd never bend
And now that power's in your hands
Why would you stop at Senseless Stares,
No One Cares, and Just for Fun
Why not attack The One Who Got Away
And she came, and she stayed too long

Your mouth didn't move
It didn't have to
Cause she heard you loud and clear:
"You've done everything you should
But I've got debts to pay
And my collectors think it would
Be best to delay
This game
Just for our amusement
Just to feed your delusion
Just to add some fusion
To our boring little days"

Your sewing circle of assumption grew
An immaculate consumption of a lie
Cause we know fiction holds the truth
And now the townspeople echo laughter
Everywhere she goes
Shouting,
"Look it's a freak, let's take a peek
Look it's the freak, let's take a piece,
Or why not take it all"

You got the blessing
And you had the day-old blues
She got the curse
So you hand her the noose
With a smile
And the passing of a ruse

The last one without a chair
When the music stops
The last one holding the gourd-
Pain is always passed on
To the one not willing to
Dish it out
In accordance with the norm

Now the little horror's
Slain but standing
All for the sake of judgment,
Scarlet letters and a grudge
And your summer lovin' torture party

But she never underestimated you
She wanted to believe in you
She should've hit the floor
And it should've ended there
You should've let her hit the floor
But you had eleven more stations to score

Run away with your aching
Your little savior is now
Bashed, ripped and torn
But he has designs on you
A tune to block out all the tunes
Your little girl can't play
On her pretty, lame guitar

You and your kin
Hope you all drown in all your
Videotape
Your cosmic movie
Will have an ugly face
And when you reach the junkyard
I hope she gives you paper cuts

Mountain by Mountain
Link by Chain
Tuft by Tuft
A High Crest wave
Will wash you both away
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
I'm just getting in the bath,
Someone else wrote the letter,
I don't want to make a. Mess.

Draw me the water
I point at the tap
Burden no family
Hold my head under icecaps.

Merkel Cells, diluted sensation,
The end of fingertips cant feel your
Flesh.
Shriveling in the cold,
Shivering to stop freezing,
But I cant. What am I doing?
Can I want this now, errectores pilorum erected.
Have I set motion to,
Cogs in a watch I cant adjust.

my lungs mark absolute zero
this is me sitting in chemistry class
english
10th grade
asking sam to suffocate with me
every alvioli is pinned by ****** as thick as knitting needles
my chest is permafrost
my sternum, antarctica
the ribs hollow out
capillary beds lose all the haem
out of their erythrocytes

I'm losing St. Elmo's Fire.

The baths still panting out,
Water roars, gushing spout.
Proud the current sweeps me through,
The porcelain lining this white hell bathroom.
It's bone cannot hide from my blood,
As if I'm isotope 226 of Radium.
Heat seeking marrow.
My serum is Hodgkins Lymphoma,
Tearing through sheeting tile,
Like a young cancer child,
Afflicted,
Leukemia,
No chance,
No good blood left,
To let.


Soon, it will all be gone, and the rivers that
freeze in my arms, and the ribs that are icicles
form, and the atrial canal is not like Venice,
it is the Rhine in winter, the Volga during
the solstice.

Spring will never come again.
Spring slipped its head into the bath water, like my own.
This is about a movie i watched about a guy who wrote suicide notes for people, he said 30 percent actually do it.
KxBird May 2017
The serum made from
Venomous leaves dripping poison
Fire smoke that puffs ectasy
And the flesh that needs it so desperately.
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
It's the chemicals on my lips and in my brain
Steady inhale
Shaking exhale
I am not the same
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
It was the cigarette, or it was the rock
It was the alcohol, it was **** on my laptop
Sweet euphoric self destruction
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
I didn't know the first time would lead to this. An ******* sensation sealed with deaths kiss.
Like morphine in my veins oh god oh god what a thrill
As the stress leaves my body
I bind my name to addictions will
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
I drank that serum fast
Toxic infection with intent to last.
But I was unaware
Of the intense hard grip metal could bear
As it bites at my flesh, fangs fully exposed to tear, leaving my porcelain canvas to wear, a shade of red stitched with despair.
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
The dagger cuts, shallow and deep
It leaves me numb as my emotions rush to feast
on that flavor of being leaked
Out of the open wounds that cry freedom from me.
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
Rust knows nothing of me, for my heart and mind are still beating as wild chaotic company. And I feel overwhelmed, circumstances have driven me to
Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat.
My one faithful friend
Giving me strength and peace of mind.
While threatening my life all at the same time.
Everyday for 3 years I kept this glutton healthy and by my side
Releasing me of anxiety
Relieving me of strife
Ruining my chances of ever being alright and leaves ridges in the soft spots of my arms and thighs.
Repeat repeat repeat all day and all night, drink the serum at your own risk you're signing away the last sane piece of your mind.
It was the cigarette , it was the rock
It was alcohol, it was **** on my laptop.
For me it was a blade that I happily obeyed.
Lines on my body was the price that would be paid.
I don't do it anymore but the glutton still knows my name
Saying Release. Relief. Ruin. Repeat. Is an offer that can't be beat.
But like the scalding lungs and nostrils of addicts using who'd had enough.  I furiously tell you there's a way, the exit sign illuminates above a door labeled "self love"
judy smith Mar 2016
Daisy Lowe‘s body positivity and refusal to bow to fashion industry pressures have cemented her place as one of Britain’s hottest exports.

From international catwalks to Pirelli calendars, the 27-year-old’s career in front of the camera has gone from strength to strength - all because she’s unapologetically herself.

To celebrate her latest endeavour - a partnership with lingerie brand Triumph UK - the model sat down with The Huffington Post UK to let us in on her secrets.

What does having a positive body image mean to you?

Being comfortable in your own skin, embracing all your flaws and accepting that you are who you are.

Being individual is a beautiful thing.

Where does your confidence come from?

It’s definitely something any person living in today’s society has to learn and grow up to achieve. I’m still working on it on a daily basis.

Everything that I put into my body makes a difference. How much I work out makes a difference. Surrounding myself with people I can laugh a lot with and around whom I can be 100% myself.

What advice would you give to those struggling with self-image?

Love the parts of you that you don’t enjoy so much and be kind to yourself - that’s something that I have to constantly remind myself to do. Go and do something that inspires you or makes you happy.

How do you banish self doubt on bad days?

Meditation and mindfulness helps. Having a check-in with yourself and trying really hard to be present.

We can look outside ourselves and think about what other people are doing, -especially with social media - but if you can try your best in the exact moment that’s all that matters, because that’s all that really exists.

What would you like to see change in the fashion industry?

There’s a lot more room for variation as far as models go - we should be promoting that all shapes, sizes and ethnicities are beautiful.

It would be lovely for plus size models not to be called ‘plus size’ - they’re being used for the same jobs. We’re all just models - wearing beautiful clothes that make people feel good about themselves and helping designers to sell their creations. I’d love to see more ‘in-between’ size models too.

How do you decide what to wear in the morning?

The darker and greyer the world is outside, the more I wear bright colours - as long as you’re sunny in yourself! I’m such a creature of comfort – I’m a huge fan of pulling on a pair of stretchy comfy jeans (Lowe swears by high-waisted styles by Paige, Frame and J Brand) and I love a bit of cashmere.

Jewellery wise, I always wear Crystal necklaces or chains by Loquet. I’m also a fan of a cute tea dress and ballet shoes. I love that Brigitte Bardot/Jane Birkin 60s/70s vibe mixed up with a bit of 90s grunge.

What are your favourite shopping spots?

Lark Vintage in Somerset is amazing, and in London I love Mairead Lewin Vintage. Those are top secret - I never usually tell anyone those.

Brand wise, I love James Perse, Cocoa Cashmere, Erdem, Simone Rocha and Ganni - I have a leather jacket from there I haven’t taken off for a year. I also have a troubling Saint Laurent addiction.

Talk me through your daily skincare routine.

I love the P50 W Lotion by Biologique Recherche, it’s done absolute wonders for my skin and makes it much more clear.

I also swear by the Crème de la Mer Genaissance de la Mer serum, moisturising soft cream and eye concentrate.

For my body, I use Aesop A Rose By Any Other Name cleanser and Balance Me for their luxurious moisturisers and body oils made with natural ingredients.

What are your makeup bag staples?

Tom Ford is a go-to. I use the Traceless Perfecting Foundation, which has SPF, and the concealing pen around my nose and eyes.

I like to keep my makeup really simple, so I’ll use the Laura Mercier Paint Wash liquid lip colour in petal pink on both my lips and cheeks.

For eyes, I swear by Tom Ford Waterproof Extreme Mascara and Kevin Aucoin eyelash curlers.

What’s the best tip you’ve picked up from a makeup artist?

My makeup artist would **** me if I ever slept in my makeup. Another great tip is to make sure you conceal around your nose. If your nose is red it makes your whole complexion look uneven.

Also, always apply lipstick all the way into the corners of your mouth to continue the line.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in the name of beauty?

When I was younger I used to make these weird DIY face masks with my friends. We made one with mashed banana, avocado, honey and peanut butter. Peanut butter on active teenage skin was not the best idea.

Any other beauty secrets you can let us in on?

My facialist Arezoo Kaviani is amazing. She’s a real healer at heart. She does a deep cleansing ****** with extraction and LED light therapy.

I also tried a collagen wave ****** recently, which was great.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Glenn McCrary Aug 2011
Along a narrow, vacant street at 2 a.m.



Underneath the threatening lights of peril



An act of ******* was taking place between



A beautiful cigarette and the orifice of my lips





Halloween had not yet dawned upon us



Yet as I walk Jack-O-Lanterns smile at me



Displaying minor quakes of bloodthirsty evil



While a serum of scorn soaks my tongue





With a heartless trick of ice, cold malice



Summoning the entire town to its kneecaps



Devils regurgitate lullabies resembling the sound



Of nails ****** a chalkboard sparing no mercy





Arousing the hopeless romantics



To awaken a graveyard



And **** the corpses until they're



Resurrected from their comas





As the nymphomaniacs ice



Their frozen flesh with *****



Painting an ocean of abstract thoughts



Across the edges of their frames of mind





Do morticians make up the majority



Of necrophilia related crimes?



Maybe so but, I bet they had never felt



A ****** so dry and so cold





Yet still the thrill of chills tickle these criminal's spines



While they measure their screams careful not to awaken



The beautifully disgusting corpses that lie before them



They turn their heads only to find a pair of scarlet eyes





Gawking at them from within a cowardly shield of fear



Darkness was it's home, Mother to all its desires



In my opinion it was just a phase; A massacre encaged
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Tribal maternal's terrace
***** by carnivorous shipmen
Earth over ran
By Marxist's and ditty wit's!!!

Hold thine lingo
Release thy spit
Oh vertebrate of underworld grief...

Tend to thine flock
Cut thine beef,

As in the cattle thou hath becometh...

For the serum doth runneth
Wherein thine swords becameth thy first choice....

Where is thy voice?
God of technology
Made science thy hobby
Made gentlewoman thy footstool......

As thou hath runneth a muck

And made thy queen thy second elect!!!!

For I just bet
That thineself shalt lose to all thy debts....
Rangzeb Hussain Jul 2010
VI

“Hearken, all ye there!”

Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis

It began, as these things tend to do, with a quartz encrusted howl,
Lamenting under the crystalline shadows of Leda’s heartrending growl,
Her ravished moon bled and sank into the vocal cords of guilt coated cowards,
“Come back, come back! Oh, frivolous sanity thou art truly unjust, most unkind!”
Right here in this lonely place did my Darling dear spill devotion onto spiced dust,
She swayed on the rickety ridge surveying her sapphire kingdom’s splintered trust,
There it lay glittering, her city of cities, nothing now but a jeweled corpse.

V

“Know ye not of the oft-told tale of the drinking-well at World’s End?”

Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco

My Lady who did fire the lyre of Orpheus, she weeps there in the misty chilled cold,
Wild it is, all about her the night wind nibbles at the skin clothing her fractured soul,
Cacophonic waves of regret silently scurry to labyrinths entombed with truths bold,
“Come back, come back! Oh, to my tempestuous ***** hasten with thy canticles!”
The symphonic fingers of fog pluck a requiem upon her autumn flavoured hair,
My Queen is attired for her banquet at tables far beyond Persephone’s desolate tears,
On the precipice her figure rises for the final faithful leap into Styx’s stratosphere.

IV

“Behold now the dread eyes of Hades, see how they hunger blood at the boil!”

Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro

Carnivorous tasted memory plagues the betrayed Minotaur’s desired deliriums,
On these haunted shores I clutched her close and eagerly inhaled love’s elusive serum,
Legend has it a suicide was here on this very cliff-top, ‘twas a true Roman centurion,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let us under Demeter’s enchanted orchards lie!”
My obsidian-eyed Beauty gathers her eggs and over the fearful edge she unfurls them,
Closer to the dead of Euphrates she steps, I to madness hurtle as one condemned,
Bind savage Cerberus for the solitary reign of the wolf is fate for all hanged men.

III

“Prometheus thou hast drunk Pandora’s poisons, what sayest now the Titans?”

Tres Tres Tres

Golden fleeced days into the fleshy ground of Morpheus’s realm did seep away,
How well spent they were not even immortal Calypso shall decipher nor say,
Would that mine myopic ears had been shorn and tossed into Pompeii’s crisp clay,
“Come back, come back! Oh, gentle Maid no more, I beg thee stay awhile yet!”
What was it? Was it me? No, no, it could not be me for I was Achilles buried asleep,
How little we then knew, we two did partake of the stinging, you the wasp I the bee,
Mayhap ‘twas this unlocked the plumed towers to thy curled universe tunneled deep?

II

“Therefore did the Serpent spake and pronounce a judgment most nefarious!”

Dos Dos

She thinks back, my Lady fairer than Medea, she remembers a time happier,
Really there was, hear yet my credo, once upon-a-time there was no doubting terror,
But then a thing did into our guarded haven breach and wreathe about my treasure,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let me slake my thirst with thy honeyed spirit!”
My flesh did crawl, my fangs grew sharp, my spittle ran down and my fur stood taut,
The jawbone stiffened and all the while I burnt like an infernal phoenix caught,
Oh, my sweetly crazed fruit, did I for real the horror upon you wrought?

I

“Would that thou didst offer me thy riches upon the hour of the violet twilight...”

Uno

Wolfsbane moon, high above it rose in that final cracking of sacramental bones,
My Lady much wrong did you I, forever for this will the beast in me atone,
Now, at this baleful hour has the wolf left you on the edge of an embryonic cyclone,
“And so to the Elysian Fields where insanity fertilizes the soul do I embark...”
You cross the Rubicon and glide into the obliterating arms of Plutonic eternity,
The wolf, me, is left clawing your hooded red robe with absolutely no certainty,
I see you sailing upon Neptune’s trident, forever adrift on oceans of eternal cruelty.

N

“Seekest thou sanctuary in the hinterlands where the man with one eye is King?”

Cero...

pretium libertas est nex**



©Rangzeb Hussain
Onoma Jan 2019
forehead to forehead,

eye to eye.

women will always

be my truth serum.

the only ones who can

turn my gibberish into

absolute poetry.
blankpoems Jun 2013
Tell me what you know and don't hold back.

I want to know the secrets
that shade your soul.

I want you to love my darkest hours
and the days I want so badly to disappear.

Please don't make me regret loving you,
make me regret lusting after you.

Make me regret the decision to stay
and please regret your decision to stray.

You told me you loved me when you were drunk
and I guess I believed you because whiskey is
a sort of truth serum.

You know that well enough now from all the nights
I'd stumble home and into your arms,
telling you everything through teardrops and
cigarette breath.

I don't know why you still loved me after that.

And I'm starting to think that maybe you didn't.
13 Jul 2014
To the one who hosts competitions…  
Which ******* gave you the right?  
I wouldn’t listen to your rules even if you paid me.  
Nor would I let you tell me how I would write my poem.  
I could write something totally not related to your competition and submit it.  
Maybe I’ll **** your girlfriend and let you read about how it went.  
She didn’t take your name when she came(just so you know)  

Who said you could take such liberties?  
I’m gonna bash your head in with an exhaust pipe  
And when it dents and gains a sharp edge I’ll scrape your eye with it  
Just one, because I want you to see…  
You wanna host competitions, do ya? Meet my little match  
Ever wondered how a lit match feels in your nostril?  
If I sparked it and let the gunpowder catch flame in your nose, how wonderful would that feel?  
Listen here Mr. you asked for this by hosting it… there’s no backing out now…  
I still have a few things to run you over with.  
**** umbrella? no splash guard? ugh… too messy…  
Ah my favorite! the serpent’s tongue.  
For that I’ll first have to break your jaw, then hold your tongue out  
Then I’ll stretch your tongue out with clamps and slice it right down the middle  
Such a fitting exercise. For you.  
You have become what you really are.  
I’ll leave your manny parts intact… I know how we are when It comes to those.  
I will tell you though, you won’t be able to use em ever again… sorry about the irony.  

Lets get down to business, shall we?  
I hate you. You know why.  
I’m gonna inject you with a pain enhancing serum.  
Then I will administer XXXX ***  
It’s an ancient technique of entertaining someone.  
Dating all the way back to almost 900 AD  
It was banned, sadly, in the last century.  
Anyway, you’re lucky I have knowledge of this  
It won’t spoil our fun… lets start with the obvious places  
Eye lids, lips, ears, finger tips, toes, arm pits, the *******, the wrists….etc….  
You shouldn’t bother keeping count, that’s my job  
But I highly doubt you’ll even live past number 233.
Posted on December 14, 2013
Christian Ek Apr 2014
I ask you to show me art.
Tear the normal apart.
Weary first impressions, I want to see you fall apart.
Smeared make-up like smeared paint on the artist hand.
Let’s save time and truly start.
I have notebooks full of holes.
Little do we know until one shows.
Their insides spilling out insights.
Spark an incent, in a instance, the smoke clears the tense and suspense out of a safe room where your nature can be exposed.
A cup containing wine acts like a truth serum.
Songs meaning equal same rhythms.
Candle light dancing paradigm.
Here we will meet on the same page.
Jas Dec 2017
Paved in cobblestone
glittering hues of gold
Down my throat you go
and
I am home;
Burning and rolling in tar
scathing down that road
while
I remain with holes
infiltrate my blood stream,
make me crazy with desire
cause your cousin
unlike you
gives me fire
I'm a ****** to this feeling
but you laid a glaze that left me swooning
I'm in chains
a slave to your being
when you shove me with
the tip of your tongue
my purity is gone
and
I'm sitting in a river of me, wasted
Pinot Grigio (2016)

— The End —