It’s my thang a langwitch spellproteckter go getter- sleek katrina stereowrite braid these monster tentacles aww now cute buzz pro bro-intellectual collaboration gush &fush; & fleek flecks firecompass full of grandiose art verses culture legions sing over and outty 5000 package cursive dialog primer kilameter romance make it equator atypical retro passion that ****** away cuss words p phucker! grade cheated tempo cuntgrunge klue move shadows to stand alones while in line to get in the barfuck gang outside party with smilie txt tshirt and a computer on diet coke kush telescope acid whatever like you feel like emitting or like have 9 thoughts about or like forgot about escaping like post fever social media to become a social sensation out of perception the limited yet coveted cherished harps and fairies and twinkly shimmery **** that doesnt growl or grunt huh? Speech please dont
As if i had the guts to stomp on a butterfly-award speaking dear diary fanatics central stranger than fictive red read (aloud allowed?)Which one. politically slurred thousand jury chapter grew some serious social security numbers and dyed them to prove a cutup battle wins the war
**** **** fick fock u
Mindseekers

His words whisper
Against my flushed cheeks
Crawl into my ears
And infiltrate my mind
Causing all thoughts to cease
Until the only ones left
Are his

My senses have blurred
And they all have one source
Him
My lips taste of his
My hands touch his
My eyes stare into his
My ears listen to the words
That fall off his lips
And drip with honey
Laced with wild lavender

My nose fills with his all-consuming scent
A scent that cannot be compared
To any other in the form of a smilie
Because it is uniquely his
And is unlike anything
That has ever been before

My senses have blurred
So all I taste is him
All I feel is him
All I see is him
All I hear is him
All I smell is him

My senses have blurred
And so have my thoughts
Because now
They only consist of poems
That describe him
And only him

An Angel
Brought me
Peace
Love
Smile
And
Everything

Her funny walk
Had ruined all my unwalkable walk

Her smilie
Will bring thousand flowers to hide
My pains for a while

Her kiss
I Will never miss
Its Brings My Bliss

Her BlablaBlas
Brings Thousands meliodies
To unhear All My Hurts

Did she is My Protecting Angel?
Ofcourse,My Little Angel
The Guardian Angel..

well, you never swipe across to get a smilie and a
equator all at the same time, do you?
unless you’re chiseling the hunger
for a sir lancelot affection in
ordinance affirmed in cataract contrast:
usurper of the empire neglected,
by hanging ha ha!
also termed hong kong... labour government victory
was the preferred choice in terms of what
the queen would have ate had she ate charles i’s head first;
hey... we’re being invocative of the victorian gentleman
being the necessity of attire in what’s defined as asia
content to be europe given england be iceland...
and europe be content with northern africa as sanded plateau:
if england take ben nevis to errupt in hawaii,
and call it the utmost height of clustering & suffocation;
i'll call something else something else, and not
chanel la manche, the english cufflink, rather than sleeve attaché ruban:
oi v. ode of pauper's elephant trombone impression in #a
of the carving of celestial globes alongside orbits
into the pythagorean universe: triangularly stanced exempt.

Most nights I do not have to suffer the silence of showers in solitude
I am usually blessed with the sensation of the feeling of my fingers catching the puddles of water
drop by drop
that roll off of your torso,
like the hungry in a dumpster
like a lamb and a lion
like an 8 year old trying to grasp the difference between a metaphor and a smilie
like searching for the last dandelion of the season
eager and starving for it

I battle the drops spilling into my eyes to meet your grimace, teeth bared and eyes shut tight, as they win the war on your front, cascading down your lashes and curls and nose and jawline.
Even in this state, you look delicate and beautiful.
I've always said you were a work of art, a painting, a statue.
Like a sculpture on a frieze on the Parthenon. Or at least a roman marble copy.
Or at least you make me look at you that way.
I always slyly look up in hopes that you're returning the gaze when I'm not looking...
That's when I lose the war, with drops cascading down my lashes, and my curls, and my nose and collar bones.

Tonight your chest was bare and maybe you finally conquered the water
But tonight I'm showering with the lights off, under the distortion of the glow of pink lava ebbing and flowing from behind the curtains and I don't care if I'm alone or standing in an army of soldiers
I don't care if I win or lose
I'll let the stream rush over the contours of my face and mold it until it becomes a grimace or agonized or etched into wry
like it once did the very ground I walk upon and I'll let the steam fog the mirrors and leave dew drops on my shoulders until my bare chest turns scarlet and I crawl into the covers forced into silence

How hard to smilie
For a while
when you are in frail..

memes! ******* memes! always with the memes!

you know what's harder than keeping
up with fashion trends,
or generally leaving eden
   without a ****-naked "smilie"?
having a thought for a day -

(thoughts, unlike fashion "statements"
are harder to find in the cognitive
wardrobe than in an actual wardrobe...
you'll sooner find a skeleton
in your actual wardrobe, than a thought
of concern in your cognitive "wardrobe";
it is always harder to apply "fashion"
to the mind, than it is to the body -
since trivialising certain cognitive
fashions, e.g. atheism - have such a crippling
backlash of counter trends)...

thinking is hard when you enforce it:
turning thinking into a custard,
seemingly effortless like a ballett
dance...
               nonetheless crippling...

               "not thinking" is the best
appropriation of actually thinking:
then you think about thinking -
and that's the buddhist short-cut
to this current *fad "whatever the hell
that means" of mindfulness...

the  grand presupposition
of thought prior to thought prior to execution -
   not thinking? not my problem:
moral choices become a platitude
akin to the belgian enterprise of
inventing a mountain, let alone an incline
akin to a meagre hill
when you begin to think about
thinking (narrative)
       or begin to think about
                       thought (coordinate).

suma summarum:
to think about thinking -
   or to think about thought -
well, that's just hyper-inflating ethics -
or the moral choice -
                    to think about 'ought
is to transcend the dogmatism of ethics -
not so much within the realm of pathos
of making your own rules...
        let's just call it:
putting a ****** on your ego,
and ******* the ******'s worth of thought
without consequences...
  the ******? that's what
          thinking about thought suggests:
otherwise known as counter-narcissism.

In wich moment loneliness start tasting so good?
i smilie writing this, with my lips tasting the cup of red wine.