Perfect: I used that word once to talk about you
as if you were a doll with limbs made of plastic:
stiff and whimsical and subject to the niggardly
commands of the conscious- yet you, who thinks
as aggressively as any doll-house builder do not
construct your own set-pieces; instead you
pirouette into one carefully constructed day to the
next as you delicately
stride
from bed to shower to wardrobe to mirror to desktop to
window to mirror to mirror to
mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them
all-
and the staid look on your face when the mirror gives no
answer
because it can’t. Checkered skirt, sharp eyelashes, wary
jumper, almost heels. Perfect, you might think
for a moment before your eyes roll gently from self
to mirror
to self
to mirror
to mirror
the self. What was
it that you were looking for if all it does is lead
you back to your skin? Meanwhile, the snow
stutters softly from above as if God had dandruff-
perfect- and it all gently glazes the spongy surface of the world like
flawless coconut icing on some sorry party cake- perfect- and the morning
bell rings impossibly on time like the last
breath you thought was your last- perfect- and somewhere in
America I use words to remind you of the little
unreachables
of perfection that both start and end with your perfectly
snow-pale skin, where somewhere in
America and somewhere on
your thighs perfect ridges of red have formed themselves like
plastic scratches on a Barbie which we both think
are little but we both know
are big
because you are not plastic.

                                               At nighttime our feet
skip on the icy brick pathways that lead from
the dorm-rooms to the library and we shiver
as the snowflakes bob in and out of our bodies
like thoughts
that seem funny but aren’t quite- they melt away
as soon as they stumble upon our skin. From our mouths
cloudy puffs of being flutter out- little butterflies affirming
out listless snowflake-filled minds, sperming out ice-clouds
from our mouths, our mouths, our mouths; birthing friendship.
Breath, visible, is laughter. I trip and swear and momentarily
skate
across a sudden ice-surface as you speak another ice-breath. We
arrive
at the library but dart towards the empty right-side, the science
classrooms. We hope
to examine the thought-skirmishes on your right thigh, to turn  
and change this hopeless world-spinning into centrifuge
separation-
make apparent the light from the dark
                        the firmament from the void
                        the flesh from the plastic, the-
here we are as you talk
about your family and I
try my best to look you
in the eye so I
can become
your eyes
even when
normally
I
am
so
vehemently
against

staring

at the soul-gates of another being-
here we are as you talk;
God is still missing from the centrifuge
of the endlessly turning world- your
axis
is your skin yet
you trust it
not. The salads without dressing,
        the weighing scales,
        the taste of bile at the back of your
throat-
all for skin that
       you
do
not
      trust.
All for flesh that you think is plastic
so
     you
     cut.
      
             Enough
talk because the bell cuts through the flesh
of our conversation. Enough
talk because the world insists on
turning still
and forcing us to revolve
with it. Enough
breathing, enough
snow, enough
life. I remember you saying
that the ratios of your face are wrong;
that certain equilibriums do not exist between
your cheeks your lips your eyes your life…I remember the science
classrooms where parts of you were as mathematical as the architecture... I remember how
you keep thinking your flesh is plastic… You forget how
inglorious the nature of these words is. The problem
with human thought, with the ratios of your face, with the
geometric structures that cut across your thighs, with the
statistical neatness with which your family decomposes;
the problem with our conception of perfect is how
awkwardly it both exists and does not exist for us to
see.
The ratios of your face which you think are broken are
the same miracles I wonder about as you laugh. The incorrect distance
from your cheek to your eye which you think is wrong is the same
lightyear which separates the stars from the planets. The curvature
of your stomach is the bending of a spacetime to accommodate
the way the air must move to let your body occupy the space and time in which it
exists.
The ratios you speak of spring from your own limitlessness, your own
perfect imperfections , imperfect perfections-
strange oddities and unfathomable beauties and yes. Yes,
even the ridges across your right thigh are minute, red,
gasping
grand-canyons of
flesh,
of human, of breathing clay
flesh-
           never
plastic;
            always
worthy.
            
              Recently the voices in my head have been getting louder,
telling me all sorts of things about how the snow ought to bury me
in its mercilessness. They mention also that my words bear no meaning,
my thoughts even less so. Assumedly, the ridges across your thigh
carry such spectres as well but, I messaged you before you went to bed
about coming out and having an adventure because tick-tock-tick-tock…tick…tock…tick-
the last bell of the day is going to ring soon and the voices and ridges
will assert themselves again with the bedtime silence, but check your Facebook
messages and come outside and let’s go skipping with your friends across
the century-old polished prep-school brick pathways that smell archaic because it’s

snowing outside and it’s lovely.

We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.

After comparing lives with you for years
I see how I’ve been losing: all the while
I’ve met a different gauge of girl from yours.
Grant that, and all the rest makes sense as well:
My mortification at your pushovers,
Your mystification at my fecklessness—
Everything proves we play in separate leagues.
Before, I couldn’t credit your intrigues
Because I thought all girls the same, but yes,
You bag real birds, though they’re from alien covers.


Now I believe your staggering skirmishes
In train, tutorial and telephone booth,
The wife whose husband watched away matches
While she behaved so badly in a bath,
And all the rest who beckon from that world
Described on Sundays only, where to want
Is straightway to be wanted, seek to find,
And no one gets upset or seems to mind
At what you say to them, or what you don’t:
A world where all the nonsense is annulled,


And beauty is accepted slang for yes.
But equally, haven’t you noticed mine?
They have their world, not much compared with yours,
But where they work, and age, and put off men
By being unattractive, or too shy,
Or having morals—anyhow, none give in:
Some of them go quite rigid with disgust
At anything but marriage: that’s all lust
And so not worth considering; they begin
Fetching your hat, so that you have to lie


Till everything’s confused: you mine away
For months, both of you, till the collapse comes
Into remorse, tears, and wondering why
You ever start such boring barren games
—But there, don’t mind my saeva indignatio:
I’m happier now I’ve got things clear, although
It’s strange we never meet each other’s sort:
There should be equal chances, I’d’ve thought.
Must finish now. One day perhaps I’ll know
What makes you be so lucky in your ratio


—One of those ‘more things’, could it be? Horatio.

Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.

Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishes, spreads a chorus
of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into
one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.

The sea-mist green of the bowl's bottom is a dark throat of sky crossed by
quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing faces.

Colours, bright and blazing
Colours, dark and drab
Colours all around us
Colours we can grab
Wear your colours proudly
In almost all you do
But, be careful with your colours
Others have colours too

Black and White
Red and Blue
Orange, Green as well
Blue and Grey
Dark or Light
Colours show and tell

Your colours tell us lots of things
Like which team you support
But, wear your colours carefully
Or you'll end up in court

Colours can cause skirmishes
Colours can cause wars
Colours can cause arguements
Colours break down doors

Wear your colours proudly
No matter what they be
But, A White Hood worn in Harlem
And you'll be hanging from a tree

Colours are religion
Colours are your soul
Colours show your preference
Colours make you whole

I don't know what your colour is
In fact I just don't care
I only know your colours
Let others know you're there

Black and White
Red and Blue
Orange, Green as well
Blue and Grey
Dark or Light
Colours show and tell

Colours push the envelope
Colours blur the lines
Colours make a challenge
Colours show whats mine
Colours make us happy
Colours take away
Colours help us know ourselves
Colours make our day

Wear your colours proudly
Be it red, or black or pink
Yellow, Green or Orange
No matter what folks think
But, wear your colours safely
Wear them and be proud that you are seen
But, be careful what they say because
Remember just what colours mean
This is not written as a warning
I just want you to be proud
Of what colours signify you
Wear them out and wear them loud

Black and White
Red and Blue
Orange, Green as well
Blue and Grey
Dark or Light
Colours show and tell

she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.

"i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter"

we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.

that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.

you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.

"...reasons. things can have many..."

stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.

"the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film"

you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.

we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.

I never hear them when they speak
only hours later
in the painfully lit basement of my home
with earphones and patience
do their words reach me
such was the case last October
I was driving through Wilderness, Virginia
for the first time and happened to pass
Saunders Field and caught sight of the plaque
that stood at the bottom of the hill
and a trail that led into the woods
where the fierce skirmishes took place
it was a bit chilly and windy
and the road nearby was busy with passing cars
not an ideal place for an EVP session
but I felt compelled to try
and walked the edge of the woods
then a short portion of the trail
I asked many questions directly to anyone
who may be listening
'How many souls perished here?'
'Are you one of those souls?'
'Did you suffer?'
'Why do you stay or visit this place?'
as usual, I heard no voices during the 18 minutes
of questioning
however, the presence was undeniable
I was not alone here
this I knew
on the way back down the hill to leave
I reached out one final time;
'I have about 20 seconds left, so if you'd like
to say something, please say it now'
again I heard nothing, turned the recorder off
and departed

it was several days before I could return home
and review my recording
but my curiosity as always
grew stronger the longer I had to wait
I was disappointed as I began to listen
nothing heard as each minute passed
only the whisper of wind and cars
until I came to my final question in those last moments...
'I have about 20 seconds left, so if you'd like
to say something, please say it now.'

'Leave me under the ground........human'

Blood stains have dried,
Battlefield gone silent.
A war has waged,
The peaceful turned violent.

Weapons used and abused,
They litter the ground,
The bodies removed,
Leaving only empty sounds.

A winner. A winner?
Who can win such games?
The blood pain poured out,
Tribute to misguided aims.

The winner lies in who lives,
Who manages to survive.
He that learns to love the war,
Lies on the winning side.

This war was not ordinary,
No quibbling little parts.
This was war of the worst,
That of two bitter hearts.

The battlefield, now in ruin,
Was not always so.
Once it was a field of beauty,
Where life and love did grow.

Slowly, slowly, over time,
The field began to die.
The caring became careless,
Battle beginning with a lie.

Skirmishes and little tussles,
First seemed so ordinary.
But each ended without resolve,
Leaving both sides wary.

Then finally a skirmish broke,
Into what both had feared.
It seemed then the war begun,
The ending quickly neared.

Full fledged attacks, raining down,
Left wounds open and bleeding.
Pain and hatred flowed together,
To watch the love receding.

Tirelessly both sides battled,
Seeming doomed to contend.
Until the day the black notes played,
And one side saw an end.

He saw that she now loved the pain,
Got high on each ****** drop.
He knew that to continue was loss,
That it all must come to stop.

He won the war by losing,
By losing the last of his heart.
He crawled away, clutching scars,
Knowing he must depart.

A winner, winner? Yes indeed,
It is he who can survive.
She lost herself to the blood lust,
And he scarcely saved his life.

I was he who crawled away,
I lost my heart by choosing.
Though scars still remain,
I won the war by losing.

About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
****** on Stoli, reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats,
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm détente between us.

No love is given on the surface that doesn't come from within

From out and within

Let souls pierce you

Deep deep and deep

Sleep and set sail on that which spins and doesn't sink

Jump from tree to tree and let words be your leaf

Speak speak and speak

Speak when spoken to or speak to be heard

Her the slight jesters that make you think

Think think and think

The mind is a thing

A weapon a computer

A chip in a computer where hummingbirds and motherboards meet

Meet meet and meet

We seek interaction

Whether daily skirmishes with thy neighborhood or a nuisance on a foot so fleet

Fleet fleet and fleet

Run away from violent objections

Run towards the power to be the strongest version of you

Or what you could be

Be be and be

Be yourself when you speak greet meet and fleet

Act out your soul deep

I run for years, I run from fires
And frowns and harsh words and barking dogs
I run to love and away from disenchantment
I rush to judgment and retreat from skirmishes
I run headlong into many arms and bounce from chest to chest.

I fall spinning over cliffs and across boundaries
I swim fervently up tributaries and tumble over falls
The longer I go, the farther and faster I run
Almost as if the distance in itself were an achievement
Still at the end to be moveless, and not one remembers me.

Oct. 15 2010

The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.

Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.

We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.

We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.

We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.

Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.

I remember by name
The Miss,  Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.

Septuagint prince scriding on scrivello detail
Emerges from the frogmarch grave of revenants sheepish about ghoulish masquerade
The tribes whittle puckered shibboleths and charismatic vengeance evades
The henpeck of roosters harmonizing sand into grassy knolls of carapace cathedral light
Walks beyond the whimsical despair the conniving conservatories of manufactured fright
Spurned by smokestack confusion above a plastered reconnaissance of abundant life flocking between small awakenings curtailed by fulgurant swelters of blistering white
The spectral dance assumes primordial shades to dampen the windowed elegance of betrayal complicit in the haze
Mojo’s rise and fall with moonshot decades flashing intimacy lived twice barking like a squelched gyrovague relishing the kantikoys of burlesque night
And yet among the bemused stars unbuttoned by the prolixity of the Russia ruse the smear indelible flaunts with decadence in the pleonasm of sluggish articles of flight
How long must the messianic age shelter the nebbich halls of crambazzled piety in science to an upbringing of oligochrome
How many dastardly wernaggles of the rusticated elitism flomp with desultory banquets reminiscent of boiling Rome
Incinerated in an ageless day revived only after a historic lapse of barbarity in the ferule exacted such immeasurable despair
That the prejudice of pride is forever shelved as redundant because the filigrees of geometry only permit curvature in flatness
Convex movements captured in still-framed pillories refract nothing but Blazing Saddles of a caricature full-bloom sun
Yet we marvel at storybook ghosts and the isangelous carapace of marauding instincts forever brave and encaged
Erratic by delivery but sciamachy knows no identifiable age
Scrawny fossarians dig entrenched charnels voraginous with skeletons of brackish regelation enthused by immemorial decay
Must we abridge a hearty ocean in a month’s sublime regaled design of trespasses of unsung heyday spaying its weakest defrocked knight
Armed to the Teeth we seek the terminus of apocalyptic capsules destined for gluttons braving annihilation in the vacuum of orbital planes plain only to the ken of the keenest sight
No we make no petitions in prayer for this Soft Parade of vigor verging on flair
We ransack littoral virtues in nexility bronzed with Stayin’ Alive shoes in remission of staircase blight
Beamish in beatitudes of milquetoast pregnancies of salted Matzah brimming in the yeasts of cesspool emergent from scarecrow metaphors flagrant hauteur gliding on air
Witness the spearhead of revolution in the metagnomy of oracular aubades to future brimstone caverns
Lurking like counterstrokes in revision blackguarded by the feisty prowl of outpaced labtebricole whipsaws of timber readied into foisted brown-brick comestion of elegant emerald errors
Dancing with galactic improvidence concealed by the rigor of lurched liars enthroned with prerogatives of stain-glass adumbration
We parcel up parsecs because clairvoyance among titans is a swank in need of 20/08 visions spectral in the clouds of all prominent registries of memory
Lost to faint delicacies of swift serpents outlasting gnats in the tabernacles of ribald ecbolic promontories on the verge of futile tomorrow pastimes spinsters flummox with slimmerback rigmarole flanged by whinks and escorted by the maskirovka of positive bears in absolute value alone
Yet Enola Gay found its destruction profitable to hominist lore enough to attenuate its evaporation of suffrage in the glint of pervasive remedies to stranded gore
Embanked on the sidelines of conquistador flaunts that a Titanic missive of classy regard found the damsel at the steerage slipping on zalkengur irony the anticlimax of lore
Traipsing fellowship of many a ring is a phony artifice for an ostentation that bellows so loudly when isolated perjury must not whimper but sing
The loudest plaudits afforded to a parallax incumbent white horse in the shadow of Dark Horse occultism a barbed flying wing of the West becoming the king of behest
Scurrilous are many jeers because their similes are baseline just as much as the storged conglomerate behind ensnared rapture looming with less ecstasy and blunt fear remains the kilmarge of simple foresight wrinkled behind the sum of many tears
We await our Creator’s Throne insuperable even with the blandishment of piecemeal craters that are superlative bolides of the weirdest attenuated into the spectrum of eldritch weird
Yet the riches of hobohemia found in “invisible lockets” worn by the travesty of jerseys measuring up to Roadhouse beer
The cartels of citadel cascades built on mountebank fortunes reaped from venal psephology collectively embody the unconscious gamut of javelin cloaks of sardonic sneer
Threnodies written long ago in the Hidden Tracks of sophistry welcome the intermissions of antiquity abridging the donnybrooks of charlatans bossed around by facetious gibes of manicured belletrist humid enough that evaporation itself of rarefied tabacosis has few if any peers
Yet the peerless sketch thrombosis in the oxygeusia of deceptive schadenfreude only to topple jengadangles that glabrous gravity muscles to barely if it all steer
In a vacant reality eager for surrealist bounty the sidereal question of moribund placards supplanted by vibrant living semaphores fixates upon figments of acatalepsy rather than ruddy enumerations of partition despite beloved chalky rudiments filibustering with courtesy rather than jeer
Amicable are ravenous betrayals for chieftains cloffined by warm sapwood integral to equated tantamount mountains festooning firmaments in quaffed delights rigid and keen
The most welcomed blasphemy fragrant with jejune originality celluloid enamors splenetic with sprees of perishable profanity lurking ever more obscene
Regaled in the modest jostle is the forsifamiliation of heterodyne dins of honest applause from the blackguarded periphery among which there are no visible beacons no visible stars
Scarred by diacope enumerated in prescient revelry the trollops of tune and attunement magnetize a riveting weld of seamless geometry that is permeable to ineffable lychgates both porous with prowess and ajar against a golfer’s remediable par
Wizened ghosts flirt with tucked bushes in the forlorn deserts jolted by oasis and flagrant with confection torn asunder by wide-eyed gallantry skipping stones on ataraxia from a distraught afar
That lake of goldmines is scattershot with limey limelight squandered on profligate wrikponds of propinquity but not prolixity in scores and bounties of exoticism in glaikery’s fugitive charm
In proximity there is usucaption but the usufruct of sustainable obelisks to liberty must have the forbearance to bear many witnessed eyes to the Right to Bear Arms
Skirmishes of benighted fracking obsolescence ragged with vitriol and poison-ivy nostalgia flaunt the bromides of algedonic flash over consequences that many disregard
Spiraling with vertiginous pain the scowl of obligation is both seamstress of emblazoned effronteries and the proper reflection of seasoned but not seasonable garb
This barbed quandary riddled with rapacious tendency mixed with myopic bonhomie devours a rickety cacophony of diminutive scopes of ******’s glare to prove each atomic indivisible atrocity a carbonated fulmination heavily barbed
This is all why the killjoys monopolize their gangster vices behind tinted windows and chockablock morality are uxorious bridewells for the bridgewater of garbology sketched by vanity in the outrecuidance of gallionic chasms of an absolute value of firebrand regard
No difference does it make if the recoil is whimpered by hordes of sheep in pretenses of authenticity or whether decapitated delopes emerge from visagist dacoitage snuffed like flavors orbiting self-injury by clockwork towers apace to outlast tertiary bribes for secondary bards
The atocia of freckles in recognition of frail pinnacles summited by daily alpine dilettantist dualisms of polarity are a gullywasher to cleanse and launder indelible regrets carved by aboriginal pottery to memorialize primordial penury
As the slick oleaginous tilts of wicked smart Northeasters swarm the hindsight of Southern Weather afflicted by tempests beleaguered first on recapitulations of Calvary and then deposited evidence upon bourgeoisie
Fumes of the modest flambeaus torching sunken apostasies of hungry spasms of the wind meeting the brusque celerity of the ribald waves rarely etch sublime hint in etch-a-sketch lapses of untimely mobility
Instead that perspicacity of conservatory silence bludgeons Lisbon in the fright before the fall of so many a Phoenix in a foreign land can bear the assaults of the heaved seas
Lambent upon a craggy regularity extinguished by sentinels of the tattered womb for a grimace of prestige by primipara seduction we find no justice of known and knowable terminal disease
Figurative in spoken wisps that predate evaporated concepts of precipitous time the triumph of exalted adoration belongs to hubris but vacant of the prideful decline of crime
To each outspoken verve witnessed on sublunary turf the absolution is nearer to fertility than the craggy soil is to dirt as blemished prowess is a furlough to the sensitive pink tucked manifold beneath each authentic skirt
Liberated by ophelimity but flexed by vicarious pomp in serenade only of hauteur for the hottest we slice and dice a cavern of temptations regardless of enumerated patterns of clearly lopsided dice
We think we live and die but You Only Live Twice in ******* to the oriental bolides of meteoric meteorology preeminent in governing plantations of rice
In jubilant proclamation, I graft from venereal skin a renewed girth of purpose that all enchanted fantasia is a birthright of pleasure more than a vapid drawl of purpose
Glitter bores the scintillation of a denuded naked glory of gore because intimacy is antecedent and consequent to immovable revolutionary procreation of service
To conclude this homily the apothecary in persiflage renounces the role of kilns in both poverty and pottery because his shaken dreams are yelps of a disgusted ornery camaraderie
Listless by oracular dreams of titanic parvenus immune to the sway of tentative croons of Suburban Muse because the grisly subversion of vetust honor that honors not verdict but version of ghastly spools of flimsy epitaphs and not the paragon surgeon is the downfall of a diatribe of petty men
Littering their taradiddles on owleries in overclocked jaundice drowning for purpose among hatcheries of the privvy roosters that own the consequence of audacious pens
Dodgy in interrogation, flummoxed with deracination, isolated by time for time’s recapitulation of surrender in katzenjammer vibes it is time for gossamer servant surfers to borrow nine and hang ten
But the noose of the wednongue nun specializes in puritanical Model Ts for DeLoreans trendsetting years ago because listless lethargy benights the glory that cineastes already won
Teeming on the brink of tomorrow is the progeny of hopeless yesteryear engraved on the iconoclasm of the weak after the next debacle because the Earth after Christ has already borne a Ton
Liturgies revised to reflect corsair trigonometry aimed forever at zephyrs of plight bathe in July 3rd infamy doctored by Generators and Generations before and beyond Walter White menacing the saber with imperious might
Flowered in the nuisance of death is the womb of the arena participant to infinite relapses of contention gladiatorial only when the shunamitism of shanachies sheds serpentine grit for the blench of ligonies of redoubled sight
Towering from the knave inferno of a tramontane elusive cordial imitation of captive citizens of attentive sites the illusion is the vanguard of centuries guarded gingerly by Canada Dry sprites
Rollicking in vehement magpiety attuned to machismo if marginally the sultry philander of naked ruse medicates the charmed Apache Indian on his brief encounters with limousine cruise
Stark in sunken destination glimpsing coal-fire recursive ironies the cloned subversion is a golden calf so effete because it never moos about instinctual muse relegated by twin terrors riddled with sparkplug truce
Limited by scopes enlarged by scales mired in funereal pyres to rigmarole sensationalism worthy of nativist coercion and pivoted lyres the riddle of terminus remains an acquiescent scoff, cough and quaff that never expires
It reaches planetary dread of vast distances regaled against gambits of the spread so the richest sourdough appeases the riper vipers of the nested bed
Recalcitrant with frugal uxorious creed the leader of esquivalience is the headless horseman of innumerable tractions but no mouth to feed
He digests the gallop of the gallant interregnum specious in caitiff ploys and the recessive allele of commiserations against the piety of apolaustic joy because rambunctious speed always attracts a resignation professed from the tailspin of a crass voyage of ludic greed
Tricksters boast of passionate lubrications of finessed bread recocted from useless toasts glowering with insipid pallor as heat and humidity reckon billows of hype congregated more in cisterns of apostasy for remark than a marksman headshot of a Head Hunter wed tightly to a pregnable visions of proactive Ghost
Recidivism and time have a vendetta against verdant drolleries coated by waxen plenilune accordions rampant with polyacoustic rhymes
The tridents of mercurial weather bent on the ineffable vacillations of whether are the brazen opponent of Sterling fatherhood of life’s only father the clockwork animation of a living patronage of eternal existence cobbled from immutable time
To the glory of the Father the sun shades its whimpers and the moon alights as the frontispiece of nocturnal revisions to the New York Times but the hues of rocketed ingenuity coax the ingratiated few to the laureates of genius reckoned with both designation and superlative artifacts of pristine design
Haunted by Green-Light Politics for Greener-Eyed Ladies masquerading in star-crossed tomes of existential dread of lollygagged playful mischief tucked in the coach as he leads his team with sophrosyne feel-good invictive treacle we witness the fumiducts of fortune blitzing Hail Mary contrition with earnest specialty in defense of offensive precision
Games won by the squirrel are outnumbered by the stars in the heavens flagrantly devoid of specialized electricity enough to encapsulate the ommateum of collectivized insights found only in the most evolved sequence of cell division
Incarcerated by the scrappy schlep of bad beats and bronzed chariots roiled by the momentum of angular spears we seek oracular transcendence that cements decades into the span of days that portend the deliverance of future years from past and present fears
Presiding as proctor in the redacted exoneration of crash-course pilots glowering with the effluvium of recensed perdition the heyday of one becomes the mayday of anarchy tested only by the alacrity of the summation of its beloved yet maligned cheers
Against a prosperity hard-won by earnest husbandry commandeered by gammerstang notoriety spawning the recrimination of star power into centupled peers negligent of zero-sum opinionation wagered by Country Club fraternities embedded in the taxonomy of wilted hackumber for hegiras minimized by outcry but cemented by Dear Johns’ twinged with sultry pleonexia in taxed tears
So with the whipsaw of the individual between the collective funnel and the idiosyncratic insubordination that amplifies outcry galvanized throes of insemination built on cross-pollination is melliferous to a pretense of alchemy outstretched to sidereal wonder
Hardest to guess is intimacy clothed in Platonic virtues crumbling because puritanical pilgrimage is appraised as a joyous thunder for a abnegation from all potential blunders
To wager such a life is a depredation of the abundance that John breathes as a ceremonial birthright cast aside by latent regrets stampeding the realm of nosocomial reflections of the pallor of a lurid squander
So we are left to bemuse the decrepit bodewash of realism taken to such a virulent extreme it leaves few artifacts of nostalgia to croon about and ponder and fewer abstractions to yield to manicures of elegant troponder
Diminutive sinews in the intertesselations of heft profess a fidelity of notoriety carving life before and after death
Unsung by the beadledom of the usucaption of exotic tailored musician brutes upon my landlocked assault of chryselephantine usufruct I lampoon nescience as it lurks in murky graveyards of anoegenetic zombies covered in thick pigments of piggish soot
Yet this fuliginous bronteum of warped clarity transfixed by the ulterior wednongues of atrocious spans of provenance jilting providence makes betting interests of rivalry outcomes harder to win earnest roots
The trees of the gamboled skittish resignation of checkered blinks obscuring the curtailed discernment of bedizened slogans of future campaigns yet distasteful in ornery churning the bootstrapped tie their tethered laces to their acquired boots
Barnstorming through afflicted spandrels of abeyance shepherded by notions of public dereliction by imperium of centrobaric centripetal philters of concubine rhymes I surge beneath cordial flonky redhibition because of redshorts in estimable traction cemented by supernal design
Weak in luster my potent pollination for synergistic aplomb evades the fringe of corrugated affections mounted upon quixotic escapades of jockeyed statistics flourishing by reticence rather than frazzling the prolix emulation filibustering the mundane ignorance but garnering the harvest of the plevisable sequence from prime to prime indivisible by liberty alone or complicit with cadence sublime
Finishing the sermons of modern apostasy to a gallant cause my laments outnumber the muzzles belonging to the quorum of begrudged applause in the rawest spectacle of unheralded genius clawing insistently at the heart of electric gravity
The nuances of plausible nuisance bicker in emerald harlots of the tantamount nature of derelict frikmag to calculated prosodemic solidarity around insanity because the vein of the golden ore should see ivoride as nullification and inanity
We all stoop on counterfeit stencils of pretense hearkening a clairvoyant sun to droop for closer inspection but detective remonstrance is outmoded by dreary witless defections
Thus the drawl scrawled by the genius flonky in gadzookerie but gilded in rhapsodies of ineffable cadence fighting orthodoxy to a relegated draw sketches the outline of the special talents of lying claws
Because stipulated in the vast oversight that predicates reprisals of retches glazing in obtuse effronteries with eccedentesiast odontoloxia we witness the corrosion of race and gender into pontificating audits of nomadic treason in a fortress militarized by niche applause
Trickling from repcrevel faucets implicit degradation is a casual casualty of an abbreviated motive gestured in ponderous stupidity to distract abiding legislation into the giggled gaggle of tinsellated glitter
Fatuous by vacuums of gaudy prizes worthy only of token motions rather than locomotive strains of virulent and compassionate respect lapsed on vigors of vehement regret is a sing-song ridicule of a still-framed pillory erected as the obstacle that gouges the riddles of impediment and deprives the luxury of preferential emolument siphoned off to lurid jeers of mockery propaganda sizzling in the cauldrons of tilted marginalization
So we witness the faded declension of the hubris of fair-weather camaraderie as a flux dispersal of invidious buoyant bloviated streaks of temporal grit into inverted revelry never shared by the proper ubiquity of streams of personal recompense for plodding fragments of invasion
If I veer away from bickering cackles of denounced preeminence swiveled to face the shadows upon the great cavern of insuperable bounds of fickle human ignorance I deplore the vaunted toadies that shrink my shadow and diminish my viable conceptual and vibrant footprints
Few extinct creatures know the annihilation of petty fame quaffed on Whiskey Bars I never met because the insipid banal pleonasms of restructured irony grimace at my complexion as the scent of the game alerts the foibles of a champion begotten once before as a shark-tank prince
Livid is my grief in the aborning moral quandary of sunken priority overlapping with piebald skeumorphs of retches of blinkered allegiance faltering prior to the primary day of my true awakening because the completion of nesiote subterfuge  rusts on creaky hinges of noncommittal regressions of pointed but pointless deluge
I spar with the augury of irrelevance with a five-pointed star bequeathing rigid but plentiful provision to assist with more than a petty dime of tithe to a 20/20 flash of perfect prescience and hallowed vision
The eve of all destruction is the lollygag of subordinate squawks redacting convenient priorities on the slowpoke walks through teenage immaturity found in the infamous “talk” that the world is governed by evasion in supremacy rather than by the bywords of the perennial stocks in sublime stalks
This nation perishes with my visionary clarity because the bifocal constraints of delimited defenestration remands my custody beneath ****** upheaval documented by useless historians of deliberation in gaffe and ammunition for agitprop flickering away the aubades of praise for the stilted pretense of sclerotic values inflexible to authorship thus scuttled by crowdsourced dictatorship
How sad a spate that the welters of sciamachy hide behind the glaring shadow of immeasurable genius for an unwarranted earwig to steal the echoes of my thunder and poison the servitude of the minions to companionship to highlight aggrieved infamy over walloping feats of refrain found in an isolated rather than protracted celebrity
The guilt of the reproachable beams through the frikmag of tyrannical bouts of circular wernaggle as I carve spherical reckoning that outstretches in all viable directions so that “The Mailman” and the Male Man both succeed in historic insurrection
Flashy benumbed brutish ferules of ferocious dainty dances with an arbitrary cage highlighted among a voiceless heyday for an auditorium which perceives insanity more dangerous than inanity is a profane stipulation by wrinkled mediagenic hubris which scours planetary limitations for excuse to recourse and recourse to excuse
We find marvels in subtlety finicky on the apothegms of heterochrony divergent even further from syndication as the regimented nuances of abuse become plucky daredevils that cozen robust vital sapwood from anglers seizing by seizure the roundabout logic of the innumerable minority characterized forever obtuse
I writhe in delicate contortions of flexed directional bypass surmounting orthodromic velocities capering with the anenometers that spar against spangled enthusiasm only to become an anointed slave of the flagging moral resolve fulminating a huffed crusade with silentiums of false asylum for true achievement brusque against any resourceful tempest scurrying the hidebound illusion of pandemonium for scrappy shenanigans of vergers and emptied pews griping with the dearth of the day-to-day despite the known tomorrow
We cannot affix primary focus upon constellated wasms of puckered abstention borrowed from a maskirovka of secret hedonism wed to many vices among wives but deprived of sacrosanct remuneration for abiding expenses yet an atoll upon a continent decisive in its aborning revolution
Ribald wiseacres of a jovial dismay flanged on rectiserial exaggerations of sebastomania is a stranded frigate of a fugitive escapism wandering with nomadic insistence against cosseted blackguard of assertion without plenipotentiary verdicts against the suborned crater of overstated flimsy truculence in sardonic dissolution
In trespass of a reservation of recoiled tender of tutelage proctoring unseemly haggardly refuse to creak into noisome and noisy cacophony armed by centurions of merciless scorn that lackadaisical winter belies the meteoric riches of autumn mainour fungible with the retches of remorseful decay dangling retreat above entreaty for exasperated wednongues lacking curiosity or the backbite of counterfeit engastrimyths seeding an unknowing complicity to fallacy forked over by chiefs and chefs to an amounted dubiety reserves the armaments of glib sedition for inopportune blacklists by a whitewashed Listerine amenable to launder travestime into oversight rather than belabor banal graft upon the agelasts of a toilsome operose labor to trivialize Herculean monuments to creativity as backwater residence of restive plucky percurrent revivals of infamy as a primary thorn rather than a secondary abreaction
Sentinels swift to the expedited squalor intrepid in sclerotic simpers of renowned defalcation bludgeoned by the tridents of harmonized trauma healing the brayed complaint while regaining the quixotic statute of plevisable mobility belongs to the froward counterpunch to the flippant underminnow of savagery yet among noble personage a blip on furloughs rather than a singed diacope perishing in Wasting Light for denuded darkness to supplant the vacated stage of ironic upbringing bartered from a treasury of obsolete wasms of trivial shadows in the amounted lineage of time.
Elected by the purblind fudged cadge of intransigent solidarity behind unhinged proclamations of lewd lunacy the reset of wibble-wabble and conflagrations of trenchant visibility will cloud the cloudiest tempest with hurricane-force devastation by the healing stripes of the piebald idiosyncrasy of gerrymandered defamation failing where insular regeneration outlasts hamartia and blinkered foibles of girouettism to pillory the excess but not transmogrify the whittled progress of seminal generativity unbounded by harped lyres of discord for secret concords of select femicide
With outstretched hands I point to the tapestry of the Heavens as eternal folksy witness that to endear the temperance of time bullishly roaring on the laureates of prolific servitude to the malleable substance of capered argument the enigmatic punctuation outweighs the baragnosis of miscreant opportune glares at personal prospect for aggrieved sockdolagers of redstrall over the filigrees of innate geometry to cackle above the shouted gnash and the dissoluble squirms of blackened cremation of living memories into insipid fracking of sapwood caitiffs flowing on the motion of discredit rather than honor in valuable endeavor for future genuflection
Totems value me as much as they stalk grazed hinderbaggle of cosmetic devolution of ragged popcorn theatrics in the desuetude of normative ethics beneath the carcass of rotten dastardly cowardice brandishing an ulterior discretion beneath the level of the lowest stoop of any breed founded on loyalty verging into flagrant snipers of integrity for the integral unshakable paragon of broad illumination the guidepost for many spectral truths overshadowed by one miserly fool flummoxing with albatross without the overhang  of pluvious integrity shepherding his hauteur in zig-zagged wallops rather than buoyant serenades
Thus entrenched in juicy poignant barricades against virulent spawn of the katzenjammers of squawking femicide I spout the blossom, bequeath the gift, renounce the delusion and form a formidable bastion against depredated valleys blemished from sight by intolerable patches of darkened verdure hiding from commonwealth perception the pearl of ecumenical salvation swimming in the naked tongues of honest profession dancing with conventional demarcated demerits of Rimbaud ramshackle deracination as a humdrum belittled squander of a prop of craven filibuster rather than beavers outsmarting the delignated destruction of habitat because of outright distaste for plucky individuation above the squalor of relativism in minor octaves of gnashed betrayal rigged by hamsters rather than owned by the men trigger-happy with rat race motivation only to the servitude of degrees rather than plausible recovery embedded into the fabric of fickle society
Hidebound tomes fishing for destruction but grappling with the enormity of the plagued pitfall of ceramic skirmish with brittle conscience emerge with epincion rather than sulk in brooded hyperbole of convenient drapes of flocks postulating irrelevance clearly in the light of the truest day frolicking with gigantic swaddles of curated support etching masterpieces of traipse into the frescades of future calenture beyond the petty misestimation of hemitery politics
Thus the weapon serves two masters of row rather than regatta and the besieged rankles the testy predicament to a teased poetry riveted by years of rhapsody rather than moments of tomfoolery emergent victorious rather than dilapidated by what-could-have-been chary brinkmanship on the precipice of modern sacrilege
To instruct the herds of men to hoard and the wisdom of the wise to circulate that apothegm of reclamation owns superlative traction fundamental to whimsical festivity even forsaken on a churlish masquerade outmantled by frenetic activity famigerated by the true Richter Scale of public fanfaronade because justice is truth and only in germane truth beyond germ scares will decrepit scarecrows demolish their Fear Factor even when the gullible squirm for nexility on bounded continents rather than novantique frontiers
Conscription demarches for assembly beyond relegation and celebrity above frays of discordant rumination feasting advenient rather than cherishing internal and integral the virtuoso wrabble of residue generations churning wheels of acceleration rather than quibbling extinguished vitality as principal complaint exercised in negligent abodes of facetious barnacles to outlandish freckles in the majestic pulchritude of a Titanic salvation beyond and considering the curglaff of sunken resources pitted to my registry by slot-machine audiences incognizant of brittle whittled henpecks of adoring truth and perdurable verve
We sink and die by destructive tongues but abide and live by righteous exemplary prowess capable of scraping the towering canvass of the firmament and the retches of the deepest sea inhabited by any curiosity worthy of emolument
So in token liturgy I decry sidelong cursory squandered affronts that drive the Jehus madcap with fractious celerities of formal destitution rampant on flonky menace rather than modern hypertrophy
In The End, we see triumph in every nuance and bristling concord with every perspiration of ennobled effort truckling into serrated selachostomous and fractious bromides of wrecking-ball fashionistas fumigating cultural pederasty with subtle bailiwick but ragged travesties of taxidermy celluloid
Marvel in-between the serenade and grandstand and cull the turnverein of triumph from banished evasive rundles of the outlasted calculus to neuter the estranged and to estrange the atocia of vibrant surreal vibes no stranger to an alien hand in a desolate world.

There is no prize for winning fights
There are no spectators nor screams
There are just long nights and troubled dreams
We play by worldly rules
We are punished by the same
By them we are fools and dubbed insane
Outcasts we are and outcasts we'll be
Until one day we can show them why and bid them see.

The Captains and the Kings depart
Conflict’s flag descends the mast,
Skirmishes of battle stilled
Recriminations put to past.

A pageantry is in the air
Banners snap to stiff sea breeze,
White dust stirs as multitudes
Retreat in legions to the seas.

War retreats to motes of peace
Lost and honoured are deceased,
Weary troops are homeward bound
With mortal sins repealed by priest.

A stillness on the fields of mud
Skyward points artillery’s snout,
Cordite’s stink conceals the blood
Of legends made in battle’s route.

A stillness in the ringing ears
As corporals wend their weary way
To embarkation’s khaki fleet
Which wallows short in ocean sway.

A weariness of bone and limb
Bloodshot eyes glaze over now
Trudging to Creation’s Hymn
Juxtaposed by war... somehow?

Whitecaps on the ocean spray
The Captains and the Kings depart,
Repatriation’s cloak descends
To wrap war’s futile, cold, black heart.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
9 September 2011

Keeping watch all along the battlements of the heart and mind
solitude is hard won, and its defence sees many skirmishes .
But sooner than you would think this singular advantage is yours,
and you arrived and travel this road reaping an eternity of promises.

I'm in my place.
A tiny space I've claimed for myself.

Though I share this spot,
right now it's mine.

With the door latched shut,
I leave the disorderly world,
just an arm-span away.

In my makeshift asylum,
I still hear calls from the outside.
Beckoning and inviting me into
the unrelenting foray...
Pointless skirmishes,
and mistimed altercations.

When all I want is...
To be alone; be empty
and devoid of unruly thoughts in my husk.
Because in the rare silence,
I desperately seek peace.

Peace with my past.
Peace with myself.
So I don't eat myself whole.
Because my world still needs me.

I will love you after-wars
I will love you before-wars
I will love you during-wars

7th grade: ESL class...
I thought afterwards was “after-wars”
it wasn't until I took English 101 that I learned the proper spelling/meaning of this word
meanwhile I constructed a whole theory as to the origin/definition of such word:

such word according to the carlito's little immigrant dictionary is used to describe that time in which one is fatigued by so many battles, fights, skirmishes, attacks, abuse... and begins to see and feel all things around in a slow but certain process of apacigüe
that very moment in which one feels the cool air caressing each wound, each bitter memory.
Like a teaspoon full of honey after coughing to the point of bleeding.
The moment in which the universe seems to have mercy of/on the oppressed: when grandma's hoarse singing and laughter suddenly emanated and filled our hearts with a sense of peace after-wars:

Guadalajara en un llano
Mexico en una laguna
me he de comer esa tuna
aunque me espine la mano

during-wars: our time, in the middle of societal scrutiny. See? They don't seem to care much at sight, yet their thoughts of exclusion tend to disembowel us, hang us in public and use us as examples of what can happen when you bend or brake the rules. Yet it is not hate but love that can save us... and them. You and I, by practicing this horrendous act of resistance called “amor” are in fact saving the world, or at least diminishing the painful moments.

And one day, I promise you we will touch the stars... after-wars.

none left behind except the final few
who dragging feet had given in to fear
and felt the cold now in the still dark air
there was no doubt but that each of them knew
no help would come not even what was due
since out beyond stood no one who would care
about such folk and none with heart to spare
for such as perish in cold morning dew
now liberation is the glory word
for when the yoke is taken off our backs
but that is not what happened on that night
the actual story’s complex and absurd
involving battles skirmishes and tax
with weeping loss of kindred truth and right

While he was in the alchemical session with Valekiria with the ***** lushness in the veins of his beloved, he felt instantly the arrival of some mounts. Etréstles, goes out and looks around the store and makes sure that Alexander the Great's entourage was there. I brought him a letter. Etréstles alerts Mardiath and the others. As the General pulls out his Leonatus, he dismounts and approaches the tent where his chief commander Vernarth was. He sees him surrounded by probes, which were like branches inserted by his right pectoral and his main veins.

Alexander the Great says:

Khaire, "I wish you joy" my great Commander Vernarth ...!!. He raises his hands, clicking with his hands to scatter some tiny earrings, to grind them on his face, they were sent by the Falangists, paying homage to him. They were like pieces of the horse's leashes with gold fillets that they ripped with the hooves of the cavalry from the armor of the bruised containers. With the tips of his fingers up his face and his hands up he appealed the presence of Zeus, and then bowed.

The last time I saw your individual, we had alternated to see the enormous over-proportioned bravery that Vernarth imposed on the battle. Here you arranged your army so that we could face everywhere, forming a large rectangle that we could face attacks from anywhere. I saw millions of Arrows fall on our army, I paid attention to you, your Lord Vernarth, who went with your wounded right breastplate, also semi hanging your Hoplite breastplate. You had legs and shoulders with impostor arrows that did not detract you from continuing with the ****** ramming of the enemy infants who were incapable of you. You mounted Alikanto and with all the momentum in an act of extreme madness you ravaged the insistent enemy ranks. There was the last great moment that I could see about your great courage and bravery to decapitate the enemy troops. Today we have defeated and I will go after Darío after his flight, which is what the world did behind him who should never have dared against our alliance with our army.

Vernarth replies:
All plunged into the Dorus and Xiphos with their multiple ****** edges, like a new blood alliance that must provide us with a new life beyond our deaths. In the hand of the blacksmith forger will reside the new lands where we have to implement new expeditions.

Brisehal, my Dog of Lut, embarrassed his ambitions to tarnish our designs. Now on the plain there are signs of panic, that only He infused on the bodies unscathed by the Falangists, they are witnesses of our daring and of the wild rebellion that caused the flight of the Achaemenides. On the glory that I do not stop aspiring, I will go to my hopes of meeting my ancestors in paradise, I have to gratify my great brotherhood to the kingdom of creation that boils through the great chimneys of the universe separating the own faculties from the power of true love , that make us coexist with our arms and legs without it being anything clearer than the footprint of the shadows, more exceptional than the same that others must thank with love to represent under all the limits that exceed the upper limits.
Alexander the Great embraces him and honors him with his battalion. His comrade Hephaestion dispenses the liturgy and dedicates a war song chanted by one hundred Hoplites plus the inclusion of his figure on the Hellenic banner to always be part of the military emblem arc of all the Greek armies and the coming social class. The Liturgy begins for a great commander and a good soldier who inherited new lands. Not only because the greed of the enemies could not be hidden, but mainly because he worked the land, which was a school of virtue for the veteran, in which he acquired the qualities of vigilance, strength and justice that form the basis of the military spirit with honors.

Hoplites say: with the General's voice in unison Khaire !!, “We wish you joy”. Our lord Vernarth eternal life. He will never forget, and he will remain enrolled in this life and the other all this feat, as a great soldier and comrade, who will also be the father of our family, out of concern to preserve the freedom of all of us, who will now be ours in the good reason to fight.

Hephaestion proclaims: Same nation and age with my lord Alexander the Great. As a Macedonian aristocrat and a Macedonian general noble. I do not see another certainty when we know your greatest skill in all the works that will be sculpted in our monuments. Today we must before your divine figure, of our credit to compensate all those who will swallow history before the same people as their own bite. Aristotle will grant volumes to refer to Vernarth in his history as a contribution of Helenofilo hero and all the jargon involving the new and unpublished diet of the poetics of the Greek world.


In the third part of the noon, when a voluminous day the most underlined epithets of the homage to the greatest commander of Alexander the Great increased; all would leave to continue the investigation of Darío III. In the store were Mardiath and Etréstles faithfully accompanying them along with his wife Valekiria.


The Parapsychological session resumes:

While Vernarth was in the hands of the Medical Medium, they kept their narrations attentive, which his assistant recorded and took note of the most relevant. To know more about his incessant chronicles. Countless journalists and people in the field of information were already stationed there near the building, all shocked by the reputation that this unusual parapsychological event had taken, before the clinical, political, cultural and news media.

Ellipsis Vernarth in Berlin, Germany - April 16, 1945:

Vernarth was paying attention to Reichstag defenders April 16, 1945. As he walked between the cross-shootings of the Wehrmacht and Allied sides. He walked in between the Battle of Berlin, which was the last major battle in Europe during World War II. It began on April 16, 1945 after the start of a major Soviet Union offensive on the capital city of the Third *****, and ended on May 2, 1945, when German defenders surrendered in the city to the Red Army. That full ability allowed Vernarth to interrelate inter-war situations of a political / warlike nature, as for this stage that remained to be reported. Now it was already in Germany occupied by the Soviet army. And to be able to continue living intensely in this way the marks and vestiges of the bullets of heavy caliber, which would be of great historical boast for future civilizations and their socio-political criticism, which still follow these marks of bullets in all the generations of this great Nation.

"On January 12, 1945, the Red Army entered German territory during the Vistula-Oder offensive and advanced westward at great speed, up to forty kilometers a day, entering Eastern Prussia, Lower and Upper Silesia and Eastern Pomerania, to a stop sixty kilometers east of Berlin, on a German defensive line along the Oder River. When the offensive resumed, two Soviet fronts - army groups - attacked Berlin from positions to the east and south, while a third attacked German positions to the north of the city. The first preparations to defend the outskirts of Berlin began on March 20, when the newly appointed commander of Army Group Vistula, General Gotthard Heinrici, correctly anticipated that the bulk of Soviet troops would cross the Oder River. Before the start of the battle of Berlin, the Soviets managed to surround the city thanks to their victories in the battles of the Seelow and Halbe hills. On April 16, 1945, the First Belarusian Front led by Marshal of the Soviet Union Gueorgui Zhúkov began to bombard central Berlin, while the First Ukrainian Front led by Marshal Ivan Kónev, pushed south to the remains of the Army Group Center. The German defenders were led primarily by Helmuth Weidling, and consisted of exhausted, ill-equipped, and disorganized divisions of the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS, to which many joined. Thousands of Russian cannons bombed day and night, air control Russian was total, the avenues were at the expense of fanatical Waffen SS, totally Blocked ”.

Vernarth, was crossed by means of the Reichstag, and was parapet taking a German machine gun to harass Soviet soldiers, who only used it to protect himself, limiting that he was neutral. Then he disappeared into the hills and kept his distance, only seeing the immense fires that were trying to take over a dominated city. The Reichstag building was located in the already abandoned Tiergarten district, in the Mitte district of Berlin, the capital of Germany. Where he was just interned with the combatants, and in order not to be captured he served the side that received him unequivocally.

Thousands of Russian cannon bombed day and night, Russian air control was complete, the avenues were at the expense of Waffen SS fanatics and blocked. Vernarth was crossed by means of heavy transport vehicles and mortar and cannon bombs, until cornered in some skirmishes and colossal ruins. Where he manages to escape and heads to the Hotel Adlon, a great palace of kaiseres and authorities of the great bourgeoisie. Here he manages to reside and finally escape crossing borders without knowing, thinking about going to Munich and crossing other borders, perhaps disdain to join the allied side and serve as a spy.

To be continued, under edition

when i woke up: are you ******* me?! or are you trying to tell a joke pretending to be Billy Crystal?

the word censored will hardly precipitate to
be a ****** of images,
you can censor as many words as you like,
to create this neurotically psychotic society,
enough warfare exposed to the populace of
civilians and you end up with civilians
internalising war, with not actual war taking
place, skirmishes, yes, but war on a
Napoleonic scale? no. you have to attack civilians
to such an extent that they internalise what would
have been otherwise cannon by the name of Howitzer,
or a Автомат Калашникова (awtomat kalaschnikowa);
attacking civilians rather than waging smooth transitions
between two elite armies created artificial peace,
a bit like the holy grail of seeking artificial intelligence
in inorganic chemistry, rather than seeking to
bank on intelligence in organic bodies... silicone v.
carbon... all the way! if you wage war by violating
the orthodoxy of warfare with the heresy of
attacking civilians, you'll get peace for sure,
externally all will appear peaceful, but internally
you'll be creating civilian berserkers, perfectly suited
to the cut-throat dynamics of capitalism,
"selfish" gene and all, they're as good apologists
as the *allahu akbar brigade, but instead of using
a whole ruler to smack you over the head with,
they just use a centimetre of it...
this peace we're seeing in our current times is due
to the unorthodoxy, the heresy of warfare,
you attack an unarmed civilian you will subsequently
usurp traditional fields of war, you will internalise
conflict, you will create renegades without army
or comrade or general, all against all, and eventually
culminating in a schizoid i against i...
the psychiatrist Laing was wrong to subscribe to reasons
of a post-colonial nature, he was already the *******
and self-defeating: only i'd would like to think more
of a Scot, but he's an example of a union that worked...
the Welsh were never kindred of the Scots in wanting
rebellion... no William Wallace among them...
it's this broken rule of warfare that exposed the public
to internalise it... but what were you expecting...
there we have guerilla warfare, random, chaotic free
and then we have the straight lines of regiments,
sitting turkeys firing 30 metres apart from each other...
how warfare became so idiotic the soldiers decided
it was necessary to shove war into civilians,
we have actually become impregnated without
really bothering to notice the impregnation disguised
in masquerade of what capitalism offers us:
the many distractions and chances to spend money
with even billionaires succumbing to philanthropy
given their 20 toilet to number mansions...
so if you find certain words offensive i'm asking you:
why did i build up a verbum account of a rich
vocabulary... when i see you readied to censor me
and then sit there, watching police violence
like a ******* touchdown in a football match?
well... if it ain't dementia, then it must be dyslexia.

It’s a dystopian gloom and doom saga...
Also you may notice I’m still crusading for Littlehampton to feature on the world stage.

(and btw… I do know that US presidents only get
to have two terms of office… But, like most world leaders…
we never let the truth get in the way of a good story).

You know what’s coming doncha?
It’s not the end of the world (yet) but…
slowly and, as with all evolutionary stuff,
things are changing - and I for one… Well, I’ve had enough!
But you do know what’s coming doncha?

Like a glacier melts and the oceans rise.
and the maps change shape and,
unfortunately, also each country’s size.
The scary cry goes out…
‘we’ll have to move to higher ground’.
And it ain’t just Shoreham, Worthing or LA
(that’s Littlehampton) It’s EVERY worldwide coastal town!
You know what’s coming don’tcha

Yeh!…It’s official folks - Littlehampton IS a world class coastal town!

On another but very related matter - Social media…
That’s developing apace. cyber chatter! Not face 2 face!
It helps spell the future for the whole human race.
We can chat, chew the fat and generally carry on communication.
with pretty much everyone in every first world nation.
Of course - You can see what’s coming can’tcha?

Even Boris’s next election win and Trump’s 3rd term
could be voted for on-line. Press one for a **** - 2 for a clone…
And evil dictatorial leaders can be rubbed out by drone…
Now you just might think that’s fine,
but the terrorists will lash back - (back/slash, the swine)
and come stalking down your street…
with machetes and suicide vests - real ones this time -
looking for your hatch, your subterranean retreat…
Cos we won’t be living on it but below the street!
You can see what’s coming can’tcha?

Yeh, we’ll be, underground, overground (Stop it!)
yeh… under that dryer, higher ground
and still be in be touch and on the ball so,
with food & stuff grown by hydroponics (naughty).
padded out by UBER drone delivered Just Eats.
We ARE preparing for Armageddon.
Drone warfare will also cure the need for extermination
nation on nation skirmishes… Just Sweet!
So you do know what’s coming don’tcha?

Yep… cast your mind way forward a decade or two…
There’ll be Amazon drones dropping goods for you;
the things you want  - your culinary needs
Dry Goods… rice, noodles, seeds.
Spices (for the very rich) - and freeze dried veg
and, if you are really wealthy, and for you life’s not on the edge
the city’s centralised, homogenised cooking crews
The takeaway kings… the Just Eats & the Deliveroos.
They’ll still be at it!
And you can see what’s coming can’tcha?

You might think that’s a good thing yeah,
well maybe! But, if we all start living underground…
to get away from the blizzards and the scorching wind(s).
The Summer Hot hot… The winter Not not - yeh sub zero,
that’ll be the only way to stay in touch
no more roaming… (that’ll still be extra).
Just as well because the latest proliferating virus
makes messaging just as popular as face to face or phoning.
And you do know what’s coming don’tcha?

Things are going to be SOooo... different in our not so Brave New World…
Talk about alternative. We’ll ALL be ‘Underground’…
but not because we’re ‘Hip’ or Hippy… Or even happy…
but, because above ground just ain’t where you’ll want to live.
and then… The doubters will shape up…
A toss is suddenly something they’ll rapidly give!
NOW…you DO know it’s coming don’tcha?

You’re gonna need Armour for Armageddon!

We'd thought the war was over
The major battle and
All the petty skirmishes
We'd seen the dead and wounded
The hollow eyes of our peoples
The gauntness of those who remained
What good was land won
If there were none left to play in it?

New agreements were forged
Treaties signed and hands clasped
Our homes were being built again
Each brick laid with hope
Each structure erected faithfully
Laughter sounded in the fields
None were hungry or left in the cold
It was peace, hard won, well deserved.

And yet in our midst you'd waited
Lain quietly in your sheep's wool
Quietly sharpening your weapons
And dripping your poison in the right ears
In the light of day you hid in plain sight
Biding your time and counting the days
Waiting for the greater victory
Of toppling a flourishing city.

I hope your knives are sharp
For when they're turned on you
I hope your aim is true
For we won't miss our shot
I hope your words seemed sweet
So your defeat is all the more bitter
I hope you remember this last breath
Because we have been pushed past mercy.

may i ask? since when did you not like here
and since when did you cry on a new year
didn't we swear to always bury our feet
until the skirmishes of the day descends?

you saw all our pipe dreams and hopes
even under the darkest sky and the cold weather
but why have you lost them under the blinding rays?

our world was only of the sweetest scent
was only of the most beautiful sunlight
and was only of the kindest critters and souls.

they left and they were meant to
may it be in this lifetime or not
it's not anyone's fault
and no one deserves the blame.

should you not drown yourself
in the salt water, where it doesn't belong
instead face up the sky
until the storm calms
and the sun comes
and we shall repeat
until our time comes

dirt clods, actually
there were few stones
in the creek that separated
their apartments from ours

a creek, and income gap even we,
barely double digits old, could see
as clearly as the stream
between our worlds

in our battles, I missed
on purpose, as did most
of the Manor marines--never
did a clod hit me

our general, Rex, connected often
inviting obscenities from our opponents
but never did they cross the creek

if they had, it would have been
for naught, for we had won the war
before the skirmishes began

our pool, tennis courts, and club
were the arsenals that gave us the edge
and the Stuart Manor soldiers knew this
but chunked the dirt valiantly
all the same

I never hear when they speak
only hours later
in the painfully lit basement of my home
with earphones and patience
do their words reach me
such was the case last October
I was driving through Wilderness, Virginia
for the first time and happened to pass
Saunders Field. I caught sight of the plaque
that stood at the bottom of the hill
and a trail that led into the woods
where the fierce skirmishes took place
it was a bit chilly and windy
and the road nearby was busy with passing cars
not an ideal place for an EVP session
but I felt compelled to try
and walked the edge of the woods
then a short portion of the trail
I asked many questions directly to anyone
who may be listening
'How many souls perished here?'
'Are you one of those souls?'
'Did you suffer?'
'Why do you stay or visit this place?'
as usual, I heard no voices during the 18 minutes
of questioning
however, the presence was undeniable
I was not alone here
this I knew
on the way back down the hill to leave
I reached out one final time
'I have about 20 seconds left, so if you'd like
to say something, please say it now'
again I heard nothing, turned the recorder off
and departed

it was several days before I could return home
and review my recording
but my curiosity as always
grew stronger the longer I had to wait
I was disappointed as I began to listen
nothing heard as each minute passed
only the whisper of wind and cars
until I came to my final statement in those last moments...
'I have about 20 seconds left, so if you'd like
to say something, please say it now.'

'Leave me under ground........'

You've forgotten why you lost contact with your closest friend but you haven’t forgotten the days you invited him over to play video games and instead conducted two-man airsoft skirmishes in the forest behind your house

nor have you forgotten the short films you created, in which you portrayed a murderous Bosnian chef who cooked toxic meals, and he played the fourth-wall-breaking cameraman who hurled plastic bananas at your head as you ran through your unscripted spiel.

You still can't forget the weekends you’d bike to his house to point and cackle at comedy television, nor the nighttime drives during which you two would talk about where you wished to be in ten years: he in a log cabin nestled in a Finnish forest, you somewhere in France.

The younger you believed you’d grow alongside him and build those dreams.

Now you hope you’ll one day find him sweeping through the Finnish glades and he’ll ask you to walk with him.

Irma

I wish I were a sorceress.
I’m surely not a scientist.
Just a reader
Of the leaders in the news.
North Korea, Harvey, rockets
Boston Red Sox in the dockets
Charged with using Apple watches to steal signs.
Violence, hurricanes,
Cheating: Why?
This is too, too crazy.
Are these phases
Showing us,
Going towards
A monster breakdown?
Skirmishes
To Irma!

Flesh will go.  
Insect, bird, yes, every minnow.
Families child-less, widowed;
Dis-endowed the moneyed crowd,
Castle, mansion, slum will go.
Marshes all will overflow.
(and we thought Bangladesh was low)
The planet’s being bashed,
Yet there are people who cash in on it.

Prayer will never be the answer.
Cancer from our own behavior.
Karma’s germ:
Now it’s Irma.

Irma 9.6.2017
Our Times, Out Culture II; Circling Round Nature II;
Arlene Corwin

Away from the scent you love the most,
Eccentricities that cannot anyone host,
Laughs that **** the excruciating woes,
Smiles that swoon the tangled furrows,
Persiflages hidden in the frivolous boasts,
Fleeting skirmishes drenching with Rose,
Trenchant wits stippling Eros.
How can you be extant, my love, I'm a ghost.