The Earth was ours.

We filled its fertile fields full of
Plants of our own choosing: our own design.
To provide for ourselves we drained the Earth
Because the Earth was ours.

We populated the islands that
The Earth had built for us from its own skin.
Like parasites we kept it alive for our needs
Because the Earth was ours.

Then one day the Earth spoke:

You who crawl over my face,
Unthinking for the blemishes you build.
You till my skin and plough my bones, you drink
My tears and feast on my flesh. Slowly, my fiery
Vengeance has brewed, bubbled upwards
And wrath shall be known.

It will begin as a rumbling.
You will think I tremble with terror at your might
But the movement of your monuments is more my
Laughter at your lowliness. The hallways of your houses
Will be hewn by themselves as my body convulses to be rid of the
Sickness of you. You will sound your two-tone Armageddon sirens
In vain as my thunderous thoughts tumble your towers
Fragment your foundations. Break your brick walls.
Stone on stone will spark, igniting infrastructure
And your cities will burn.

But it is just the beginning.

I will bury you.
I will bury you in the fire of my fury.
I will bury you in the ashes of my anger.
You will solidify, screaming, into silent stone.
You will choke, child-like, on my smoke.
You will die by my hand: your home.
And I will bury you.

And this to me is easy.
I am greater than all you build from
My body. So I use my body to wreak ruin:
Reduce your greatness to rubble and dust
Because the Earth was always mine.
I was always my own.

There is a fine line between obsession and love
and suffocating myself
with a pillow will not solidify that.

Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

Vespertine, fatal dream
Mistress conjuring shapes of night
Seventeen little fiends
Elegy for a demon’s plight


Alone in my study, sitting
before a roaring fire
Visions so ******
they churn desire

With the dead of night
summoning hellish zest
They come to incinerate
my corrosive flesh

The hymns of *St. Lazarus beckon solace
from the cathedral outside
But I linger here in the bowels,
where my ancestral sins reside

Animistic stares gazing through
these dead-soul dreams
Where another horror story is not
always what it seems

Portraits of deceased queens
looked down at me with blackened eyes
Layers of muffled screams
festered while judging my vacant lies

Years before, my grandmother watched
over me as a boy in his bed;
Endless, ambiguous rhymes of prayer
are what she often said.

She promised to ban the spirits
that steadily linger
But dark twisting hands
outreached and took her

The monsters and invisible abominations
have always been here
Following my whereabouts,
watching me year after year

Subtle ghosts keeping my heart
and house cold
I sat and waited for what my
icy breath foretold

The dreams, the demons, the ghosts
all that severed me
From experiencing the love of flesh
I so forever longed to see


Came the hour the church bells rang and tolled


The dread of things to come
The moans and cries had begun

From lissome shadows and corridors
Like Charon beating souls with oars


Creeping evil fled
to the refuge of my home
To reap the sins
that my family had sewn

The rippling, screeching strings
of a malevolent orchestra
Scored and produced themes
worthy of infernal Sumatra

The flames in the fireplace
surged a green incendiary wall
From the hell mouth jaw emerged
a dark figure I saw.

Mother Mephistopheles,
            clad in silvery pieces with a pale face
            Manifesting atrocities, her emerald eyes
            welcoming our embrace

I backed away from the sights in,
my trance lost in her glimmer
But the noises and choir peaked
in a swarming fit for a sinner

In a gush of surrounding ash, Father Selaphiel materialized
The otherworld lovers reunited,
their bond revitalized.

“We come unto thee, Son of Faust, heir to Blake.”
They said in unison like a choral demon snake

“Create a fleshling worthy of a child, of many in one
So the deeds of your family’s sins can be undone.”

I stared at the figures with execrable bewilderment
Fearing my sanity had seeped through my temperament

They threaten my eternal existence with continued torment
A living anguish that would solidify my hell-bound descent

“What must be done?” I asked these surrogate advisers

And they instructed
A body made from flesh and metal
Of dead and living components
Blessed and cursed
From God and Satan
Men and creature
Using their collected powers
to merge with the night
I swept across the villages
and cities to obtain the materials
Now all these years, I’ve wondered
Why my medical expertise had been put to waste
“Did the demons prevent me?” I pondered
“Or did they aid me?” I concluded in my haste

Innocent or not, I claimed what I needed
To rid myself of the terrors deep-seated.

A steel-woven chest piece
and half-incinerated cadaver
Twenty feet of large intestines;
boys, girls didn’t matter

Shelled-out cranial cavity
with cerebral cortex to match
Mixing bladders and gallbladders
worth its catch

Punctured spleens and insolent creams
Circulatory, digestive, endocrine,

Iron bones, infused tendons mount
Smells and rancid odors spilling out

Guts, pus, worms and maggoty brains
Boiling in holy water with dried remains

Sacks of chain mail and velveteen potions
Seething concoctions conflate emotions

Patches of caustic skin made like adamant leather
Bolted with steel fingered brutally severed

Into gauntlet armor, this mechanized abomination
Personifying my sickened, wailing degradation

I showed Father and Mother my life’s work and creation
A flesh-iron shell waiting, they stood with appreciation

“Vespertine…” they called to the collage of my work
They petted its face while the shadows continued to lurk

Seventeen little fiends and creatures
appeared and surround
The moon shined through the glass
and the room around

The Seventeen shadow children became smoke and entered the monster
Now a being both ethereal and corporeal

My sins and demons locked in my own creation
Mother Mephistopheles and Father Selaphiel
Left Vespertine in my care

All that plagued me
All that haunted me

Personified, solidified
And barely alive.

My half-dead servant.

and Halloween child

My art teacher used to say.
“Don’t add the black paint until you’re ready for a finished product”
and I never listened.
So I painted with my black paint
a little too soon,
a little too much,
a little too dark,
a little too passionate,
a little too addicted,
to the night,
I always enjoyed the starry sky.
My art teacher used to say
“Keit, I know that you love her, I see it, you two are my favorite couple”
and I never listened.
So I broke her heart at night
as she gripped her chest
while I did,
as she hid her heart
while I bit,
as she held her tongue
while I kissed,
as she ran from me,
while I chased.
I always enjoyed the lustful parts,
but I miss the gentle parts more.
My art teacher used to say.
“black is dominance,
black is overwhelming,
and black is torture,
but black must be controlled”
but I never listened.
Because it never made much sense, I didn’t make much sense of anything except for her. I tried to make sense out of a human being, my human being. A lover, my lover, and you know what the trust it all about?
People don’t make sense.
Love has no sense of direction.
People are chaotic.
Love is chaos.
People are nature’s kiss,
Love, the lips.
People are timeless.
Love is timed.
She was natural.
I was the ******* disaster.
There is a quote out there that goes,
and you’ll know why people are named after storms, why hurricanes are named after girls and you know what?
She wasn’t any of those things,
I was.
I was the earthquake that
shook her buildings down
and they crashed into her heart;
that explains the cracks.
I was the wildfire that
burnt through her magical forest
and the rabbit lost more time;
that explains Alice in wonderland.
I was the calm eye of the storm that
had one sweet angle and 20 more reasons to **** her over;
my insides said I love you,
but my outsides and I hate you
that explains the obsession,
this hopeless romantic poetry *******.
I was a flood,
and her eyes the land,
her eyes the gates,
her eyes the drowned city.
I was the big bang,
and her soul the many universes
within universes, the many stars
followed by comet showers,
the wishing stars that never came true,
the first time the moon met the sun,
love at first sight, forever separated,
the moon crashing into the sun,
night and dat never being one
until dawn came and twilight clouds
rained her name and my name
was shot across the enos of lightyears
and no one hears my scream in space
except for her an she does care,
but these type of blackholes
**** up everything!
They destroy everything,
a still painting dripping with black paint and I wanted to lover her
and all of this time I thought
that she was the black paint,
but it was me, who was the paint.
And I took all of her light,
a black hope in space
kissing the suns of my theory
one last time,
into the darkness they went
and back to the darkness
that they came from.
And my art teacher used to say
“Don’t add the black paint until you’re ready for the finished product.”
I finally listened.
So I let go of her a few days ago.
I told myself that I needed to stop.
Stop talking to her like she was
the sunset we all adored
and how her eyes meant the world,
and it it meant that she’d wink
butterflies into the pit of my stomach,
I’d die as a self-imploding star.
So I stopped myself from being
more black paint, I crossed out
her face with my own fingers
and kissed her one last time.
My art teacher used to say
“because this black is undoing, you cannot paint over it with white the black is so dense, it’s raw, it’s real it stops all hints of color under it over and over it. Because this is art and art is life, art is poetry and art is love, because art it everything and anything”
So I became the nights she had to sleep alone, so I became the nights I cried to sleep, so I became free from her love and I finally understood my art teacher, I finally understood my ex.
“Black paint is the purest color and lightest of color if used correctly with the right amount of care and tender”
Add a little black with white
and you’ll have grey.
Add a little black with red
and you you’ll have my bleeding heart.
and a little black and blue
and you’ll have her bruised lips.
And a little black with yellow
and you’ll have her eye color.
add a little black to my soul,
and you’ll have lust.
Add a little black to my heart,
and you’ll have her.
And I could swear I head my art teacher say.
“You’ll let go of her one day when you’re ready, you’ll add red aver all of your paintings because they’ll remind you of her lips, it’ll be you favorite color, you’ll ad blue over your roses because red has too much passion, it’s on fire and sometimes we have to appreciate the beauty of weirdness, poetry and art is weird, the best kind, you’ll add pale yellow for her skin tome and you’ll add dark, dark brown near lonely tree trunks because it’ll remind you of her eyes that cried every night because you didn’t know how to love, young kids finding slipped pants unhooked bras more satisfying than adding black paint to solidify a relationship that could’ve been, and you’ll add your last drop, the finishing touch, you’ll be the black paint, and she’ll be the finished product.”
And I finally listened.
I finally listened to art teacher.
So I let you of, baby.
The world is your canvas
and I was the black paint.
His lips your new black paint,
and you, his unfinished product.

Ah, Coventry, thou art but dead now-to me;
Thy life is not alive, and thy winds are too cold
Thou art as filthy as dust can be, and eyes might see;
Thy hearts are too bold, and to greed-your soul hath been sold.
And I want not, to be pictured by thy odd art;
For than oddness itself, 'tis even paler, and more odd;
And 'tis not honest, and full of disputing fragments;
Gratuitous in its earnest, talkative in each of its sort.
Ah, Coventry, I shall go, and catch up-with the strings of my story,
Which thou hath destroyed for the sake of thy fake harmony;
And in my tears lie thy most fragrant joys, and delightful sleep,
Which thou findeth tantalising, but idyllic-and satisfactory.
Ah, Coventry, go away-from my sight, as I solve my misery;
T'is misery thou hath assigned to, and dissolved over me,
I bid thee now fluently blow away from my face;
With a spitefulness so rare, and not to anyone's care nor taste;
And doth not thou question me, no more, about my tasks-or simply, my serenity;
For thou hath fooled me, and testified not-to my littlest serendipity,
You who claimed then, to be one of my dearest friends;
And now whom I detest-cannot believe I trusted thee back then.
And my soul! My soul-hath been a tangled ball-in thy feeble hands;
Colourless like a stultified falsehood, blundering like a normal fiend.

For on thy stilted dreadfulness at night, I hath stepped;
For in front of thy heterogeneous eves, I hath bluntly slept.
I had tasted thy water, and still my tongue is not satisfied;
I had swum in thy pages, but still my blood is not glorified.
Among thy boughs-then I dared, to solidify my fingers;
But still I couldst not bring thee alive, nor comprehend thy winters.
Instead I was left teased, and as confused as I had used to be;
I couldst find not peace, nor any saluted vehemence, in thee.
Ah, I am exhausted; I am brilliantly, and sufficiently, exhausted!
I am like torture itself-and if I was a plant, I wouldst have no bough,
For my branches wouldst be sore and demented,
For my foliage wouldst be tentative and rough.
I hath been ratified only by thy rage and dishonour;
I hath been flirted only, with thy rude hours.
And my poems thou hath insolently rejected,
And my honest lies thou hath instantaneously abused.
Thou consoled me not, and instead went furtive by my wishes;
Thou returned not my casual affection, and crushed my hope for sincere kisses.
I hath solemnly ratified thee, and praised thy music by my ears,
Yet still I twitch-as my sober heart then grows filled with tears.
Ah, thou hath betrayed, betrayed me!
Thy grief is even enhanced now-look at the way thou glareth by my knee!
O, Coventry, how couldst thou betray me-just whenst my time shivered and stopped in thine,
Thou defiled me so firmly; and disgraced the ****** poetry bitterly in thy mind,
As though it wouldst be the sole nightmare thou couldst 'ver find!
Ah, Coventry! Thou art cruel, cruel, and forever cruel!
Thou hath disliked me-like I am a whole scoundrel;
Whenst I but wanted to show thee t'at my poetry was safe, and kept no fever at all;
But no other than an endorsement of thy merriment, and funny disguises for thy reposes.
Ah, how couldst be thou be so remorseful-how couldst thou cheat me, and pray fervently-for my fall!
And to thee, only greed is true-and its satisfaction is thy due virtue,
For in my subsequent poetry, still thou shalt turn away-and scorn me once more;
With menace and retorts simply too immune, and perhaps irksome loath-like never before.

Ah, but how far shall thy distaste for me ever go?
Thou who hath blurred me-'fore even seeing my dawn,
'Fore even lurching forward, to merely glance at my town.
Thou art but afar, and now shall never enter my heaven,
For victory is no longer my shadow, 'tis to which I shall return.
I am like a shame behind thy glossy red curtain,
I am a pit whom thou couldst only befall, and joylessly spurn.
But ah! Still I am blessed, within my imperfection-thou knoweth it not?
I am blessed by the airs-and wealthy Edens of the Almighty, thou seeth t'is not?
He who hath the care, and pride anew-to cut thy story short,
He who hath listened to my cores, and shall deliver me from thy resort.
T'us I shall be afraid not, of thy wobbly tunes-and thy greedy notes!
For humility is in my heart, though probably thou hath cursed me;
And bidden me to let my soul detach, and run astray,
Still I shall find my fertile love, and go away;
I shall bring him away-away from thy abrupt coldness-and headless dismay;
I shall nurse and love him again-like I hath done yesterday, and even today;
And in t'is, I shall carest not for what thou might say to me later-day after day.
For as far as I shall go, my poetry t'an shall entail me;
And thus follow the liveliness, and scrutiny-of my merritorious paths only,
And in the name of Him, shall love thee and rejoice in thee not;
But within my soul, it shall recklessly, but patiently-do them both;
'Tis my very goal it shall accomplish,
And for my very romance, shall it sketch up altogether-such a mature bliss.
I should dance, thereof-just like a reborn female swan;
And forget everything life might contain-including my birth, as though life wouldst just be a lot of fun.

But I shall be alive like my tenderness,
So is my love-he t'at hath brought forth my happiness,
I shall be dressed only in the finest clothes-and he my prince,
As the gem of my soul hath desired our holiness to be, ever since.
Yet still I hope thou wouldst be freed, and granted my virtue,
Though still I doubt about which-for thy fruits are weightless, and to forever remain untrue.
Such be the case, art thou entitled to my current screams,
And blanketed only by my most fearful dreams.
T'is is my curse-in which thou shalt be in danger, but must be obedient,
For curses canst be real-and mine considers thee not, as a faithful friend.
And obedience be not in thee-then thou shalt all be death,
Just like thou hath imprisoned my love, and deceived my breath!
Still-my honesty leads me away, and shall let me receive my triumph;
As so cravingly I hath endured-and tried to reach, in my poems!
Ah, Coventry, unlike the stars-indulged in their tasteful domes,
Even when I am free, in thee I shall never be as joyful-and thus thou, shalt never be my home.

.oddly enough, the only way to escape **** addiction... is to ******* your escape... but... em... **** addiction? more like, to counter the culture of exhibitionism on the females' part... i've looked... no video of a guy imitating doing **** with his bony hand... so... there's only one way out, ******* long enough while taking a **** and a ****... and... done... all that's left is a bunch of ***** and ***** boasting some frivolous enterprise of depicting contraception; mere abstinence doesn't work... you have... **** your way out of this Alcatraz; finding the bore is so liberating... it's like finding your **** again, and seeing an amputated hand's space, where imitation **** used to be.

and why did the game
war robots...
do away with the king of the hill
option?

**** me... it was the most
tactical version of the game...
most people didn't get it...

they didn't get it because
they "thought" that by simply
capturing a beacon
you'd get to eat the brownies...

no!
the whole point was standing
your ground... in the beacon
vicinity, to drain away the points-per-second
earned by... standing your ground...

it was a defense strategy format
of the game...
              and the other aspect?
predictions...
you had to solidify yourself
to the pattern of which
beacons would light up for you
to defend...

      it was the most fun variant of
the whole experience...
not some mindless variant...
the most tactical aspect of the game,
and the game engineers pulled out
and deleted it...

that's what made the game fun,
you have a second layer of tactic...
you weren't supposed
to play the eager-trigger role
of the infantry...
you had to think about sustaining
an occupation of a certain
space in the game...
  like... sitting in the trenches
during world war I...

               but then people have
to take out the fun in not being
all: trigger-happy...
            
         hell... if this game wasn't as
engaging as it is...
but given the revision, it's becoming less so...
i'd take about 5 minutes to take a shower,
and about 6 minutes to take a ****
while massaging my prostate
with an eager **** shaft...

what? some people have the audacity
to take a **** while pretending to
read a book, while at the same time jerking
off in an armchair with scented candles...
i do the 1 through to 4...
take a ****, take a ****,
*******, play a video game for about
10 minutes on the throne of
thrones...

                  sometimes i get lucky and
miss no. 3... because i'm like...
what's the ******* point, right now?
                 i already know that
the sensation of ******* is purely
muscular and not related to
actual *******...
i know... i did it from the age of 8...
when... nothing came out...
you could cut by ***** off and
i'd still feel an, "******"...

               so... hey, snippet...
it's not like i'm planning to have any
little munchkins running around...
although i might have liked that...
but we're past that...
   liberal democracies...
yeah... i've heard that fairy-tale...
the sort of ideas that drug up
libertarian right-wingers?
  those asylums of pompous
verbiage?
                oh sure... i know them....
i live in one of them...
     i'm of a different schooling...
**** Hobbes, **** Locke,
**** Hume and ****
Machiavelli...
               i'd replace Machiavelli with
la Rochefoucauld... to begin with...
Hume with Kant,
                           and the other two...
can't be bothered...
it's enough to counter Machiavelli...
if there's even a counter...
let's just throw in some names...
let's say: Heidegger for Hobbes...
and Sartre for Locke...
  evidently non-related...
                       but in all earnest...
Marquis de Sade...
                                     ******...
an overlooked gem of a novella...
         so...         concentrated and non-repetitive...
an actual work of philosophy...

but why did the gaming developers
have to **** around with
the king of the hill tactical game-play?

half as fun doing the 1, 2, 4 and the sometimes 3
on the throne of thrones.

well yeah... king of kings...
but the king of kings didn't exactly sit
on the throne of thrones...
he put a jester on it... to reveal
exactly as much as is worth: this.

Have you forgotten?
The Iron
The Fire
The hammer and anvil of it all
The pile of **** and scrap metal
The dirt ore heap in the corner of your soul
The useless heavy burden
On your shoulders, and in the heart of you

Have you forgotten the forging and the beating
The sweating and the bleeding
The swing and the crash,
And the pain and the smash;
The heat from the fires that purify
And the hiss from the waters that solidify
Have you missed the bending and folding
and the way that you're constantly molding?

Have you forgotten
You are the hammer
You are the anvil
You are the iron and the forge fire
That creates the steel of your character
The sharp sweeping sword of your soul
For no one else can change you
Except for you

So slam the hammer down!
Swing it without flinching
Tense yourself, your muscles your nerves and sinews
Grit your teeth and clench your jaw
Grip the metal like a white knuckled vice of certainty
Focus on the spot and
Slam the Hammer Down!
Beat it into something useful
Beat if into something beautiful
Beat it with meaning for it is meaningful!
Did you forget that!

No, You did not forget
You dreamed of throwing it off,
You dreamed of being rid of it
You  hoped to wake one day
And find that it had melted away

But

“You cannot dream yourself into a character:
you must hammer and forge yourself into one.”
― Henry David Thoreau

“After hours of evaluations, our doctors came to the conclusion that he was paranoid, but speaking with family and friends, they stated that there were no obvious signs of mental distress. No one expected him to go through with the ******. He had a lot of faults, but most were thought to be harmless. His idiosyncrasies were overlaid with a well thought out patience and understanding. During the evaluation he spoke of compartmentalization, and his lack of emotional comprehension, which he explained should not be misconstrued as “apathetic behavior.”  His words were inveigled, and when he wasn’t applying his charming disposition, he was implementing a passive aggressiveness. This was a man who did not hide in the shadows, but he knew them very well. Darkness was shown through his eyes the longer we spoke, as his pupils grew larger, and his determined stare, a menacing stare, pierced people’s souls.” – Dr. Rebecca Altwater

Thursday

On the train. Not awake. It's not too crowded, around me at least. There is a group of black students, yes, I said black, because that is the color of their skin, and, well, I’m white, and I’m fine with being described as white. This is all factual. So the black, students, high school students, are creating a commotion. (I have always hated using the term “African American” because it has always made me feel prejudice. When I say it, I think of it as a label, and I’d rather not go further into what I mean by *labels). The train smells like ****. The smell overpowers my coffee. The coffee is weak. My body is aching. I’m starting to develop a headache. (The students are now beat boxing). My head is mutating. Temples pulsating. Veins exposed. Eyes closed. The beat boxing continues.

I reach into my leather shoulder bag. I’m not looking for anything in particular, more or less trying to look busy. A woman three seats down is watching me intently. My eyes are fixated on my bag. I can feel her eyes examining me. It’s hard to rule out the theory of having a sixth sense, especially in situations as these. My fingers delicately brush over a novel, the novel I decided to read during the train ride for this work week, to which I haven’t started reading, and completely forgot I placed in my bag — (It was an impulsive purchase) it was now another item that would solidify the self-realization that I am a procrastinator, and considering that this novel was for the work week, and it is now Thursday, just proves my point further. The novel will be shelved, and another novel will take its place in my leather shoulder bag. Although I may not follow through with my intentions I am still a person who stays very consistent. I will swap novels. After work I will stop at Borders books. I’ll need a new novel for work week number thirty out of fifty-two. After a week it will be shelved, and I will start again: buy another novel, and continue to not read it. I’m a very consistent person.

Saturday

My alarm went off for thirty minutes this morning.

Sunday

Glenn, my brother, calls me early in the afternoon to invite me to dinner. A family dinner. And he informs me that our mother will be there. He graciously asks me if I can attend, but I know he only invites me because he is dreading our mother’s visit. Very seldom do I see or hear from my brother and his family, but when our immediate family is added to the equation I am the first person he calls. I am (and this is how he put it) his “emotional confidant” when he becomes too overwhelmed. The reason this is, is because it has always been a one way street. His perception of me is not the most desirable, but he trusts my word. The term that comes to mind, when him and I converse, is that I am self-destructive. It must be easy for him to give insight to this speculation when he is just as irrational as I am. Our only difference is that I have embraced the idea of negative and positive spontaneity, whereas his neurosis comes from self-induced pressure and stress. When I die, it would not be in vain if it happened without warning. I am reckless. If he died unexpectedly, it would be of great shock, but it will most likely be the cause of a brain aneurysm.  It’s funny how irony works. You know, us being brothers, and him seeing us as total opposites, when in reality our similarities outweigh the obtuse differentials.

Wednesday

It’s the halfway point of the work week. I have my new novel, untouched, in my leather shoulder bag. For the last three days (including today) I have arrived at the train station an hour earlier than usual. I made this decision Monday, and have found that it is a more logical time. Although I have an hour to **** before work, I avoid my headache (the black students) before sitting at my office desk. Thankfully, there weren't too many pros and cons that came with this decision. It was fairly easy. I could have continued to deal with an excruciating head pain, one that would stick with me throughout the day, or sacrifice an hour of sleep. The latter was the correct choice. When I came to this conclusion on Sunday I could not rest my brain. My mind was at ease, I felt relieved and content, but I was apprehensive nevertheless. Monday came and went, (slowly, because of minor sleep deprivation) along with all of my anxieties from the past week.

I never thought I’d say this, but seeing a therapist helps. There hasn't been much to articulate yet, concerning my listlessness, but my insomnia was discussed, and I was optimistic. My problems could be far worse, and when they are, maybe leaving an hour early is the answer. My next appointment is in two hours, at four, and I’m going to leave shortly. I don’t know what I will do for the extra hour I have allotted myself, but I do have a novel I won’t read and a newspaper that was left on my desk, with the headline reading, “Crime Rates Rise: How To Maintain Your Sanity During The Recession.”

I never asked you for the things you gave me
I never asked
But you didn't even care

If I had asked,
would you have shut me out?
Or would you have given more?
Of your overflowing wine
of life or love or energy
( or whatever it was
  that you folded into my hands
  like the most secret-sacred treasure map )

You would sometimes catch me
In a gaze like a doe
Ask me things
That took time to sink in
Because I was being distracted
By my urge to count your eyelashes

We could never go outside in the cold
Because you were terrified
That your breath would crystallize  and twist inside your lungs
But you loved to see how long you could hold your breath for
Underwater

There would be pauses
As time stilled to take a look at us
To check that we really were still there
And everything around us swirled
Like autumn leaves or glitter stars
Our glances would solidify
And memory struck out to capture snapshots

Everly, I never asked
Not even once, but you still gave
Everly, I can't quite grasp

I see you sometimes
When the sunshine's wounding bright
Yellow, cheerful, heavenly
And I look into the shadows
To find rest for my eyes
I can never keep straight the present and the past
So when I look in the shade
I see ghosts of you sprawled out, laughing, head tilted back, hands splayed

Your sighs were soft
But you only ever sighed them
When your face shone
With a lovely glow of indulgence

We watched Hitchcock religiously
We wouldn't give them up
You said that you liked Vertigo the best
But you never told me why

I'll hold your friendship
In the cup of my hands
While wonder fills up slowly
Where my thoughts should be
I'll peer over my thumbs
To steal a peek at the clear blue crystalline
Effervescent memories

I will remember you foreverly
My word

Sometimes inspiration is free
Other-times it costs you the world
In our abandon we seek
Divinity, eternity
And often the meaning
Of our words
Eludes even us
Are we an author?
A seeker?
A valiant warrior
Braving the darkness
Seeking for such elusiveness
It sets the mind free
Within that darkness
Lies the eternal
A place without form
A castle, a dungeon
And for the unwise
A prison without end
And only those
Well acquainted
With their own madness
May tread its murky waters
To pluck that fruit
Whose shape is an omnipresent
Kaleidoscope of meanings
And to solidify its form
And cast it onto sprawling page
This is our work
Our bottomless pit
Our greatest weakness
And our ultimate triumph.

-----

Reformatted version:

Sometimes inspiration is free
other-times it costs you the world
In our abandon we seek
Divinity, eternity
And often the meaning of our words
eludes even us
Are we an author?
A seeker?
A valiant warrior braving the darkness
seeking for such elusiveness
It sets the mind free
within that darkness lies the eternal
a place without form
a castle, a dungeon
and for the unwise, a prison without end
And only those well acquainted
with their own madness
may tread its murky waters
To pluck that fruit
whose shape is an omnipresent kaleidoscope of meanings
and to solidify its form
and cast it onto sprawling page
This is our work
our bottomless pit
our greatest weakness
and our ultimate triumph.

The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.

The night becomes you -
you wear it well  
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.

The night becomes you
rhyme scheme -  lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.

The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.

©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner

Shrouded in deep purple fear and billowing clouds of crimson shame,
I sat on the floor, a trembling moth in still air.
I swallowed. The taste of bile remained.
My warmth flowed out of my body into the icy bathroom tiles, escaping rapidly through cracks in my split-open soul.
She sat beside me, quiet, waiting.
After an eternity, I nodded to her with a shaky breath.
She helped me gently off the floor and guided me to her bed, tucking herself behind me to become my tight cocoon.
With my head rested against her chest, I heard her blood pounding through her, but her breaths were slow, controlled.
The fibers of my muscles remained tense, straining to compensate for my spirit - raw, exposed, vulnerable.
Her small, soft fingers ran through my tangled hair,
drips of golden honey appearing as she began to hum.
Her radiant honey oozed from the smooth, full notes of her voice and dripped between sharp fragments of my shattered porcelain.
The clock tutted at us from the wall, approaching the third hour of morning, but she held my shards together tenderly and unhurried.
The fight drained from me as she sang her sweet melody.
A puddle of purple and crimson beneath me. Pieces, tenderly held.
Her pure, glimmering honey meandered through my etched cracks and between my too-prominent ribs to replace my purple and crimson.
She sang the life back to me, held me together with her sturdy grace.
She waited as the liquid gold began to solidify and I began to feel closer to whole once more.
She - who loves me laughing, who loves me dancing - loves me messy, too.

I. Head

Listen to his yapper, take the spittle
to your ear. Do not hesitate. Learn this.

When he’s done. All silent like a coin-ran-out
jukebox, breathe
easy.

Easy like how it should be.

Swing your head all the way
to Mars, release it like a slingshot,

and as your vision blacks out
and the blood flows down,

know how your head is like
a rock that could open his head:

his everything.

II. Arms & Palms

If necessary, you have
blades. Palms and arms
stretching like a sturdy
machete.

Use that ****
good.

Hit ‘em hard—

like the way it should
hurt ‘em bad!

III. Legs

You stand on
a battering ram;

And if that wall won’t budge,
find the right strength

and push. Push.

Push.

IV. Torso

When he whispers how huge
you’ve become; do not doubt
them. Know that you are a wall

that could
finally stop them

for good.

V. ******* and ***

You are more than
a set of sleeping
utilities tonight—

and the next night—

and the next—

and the next;

till you sleep
for permanence.

I have always been a morning person
With the way the sun peeked over storage units
and abandoned cars
"Hello!" It says
"I am here! Do not fear the dark!"
So we make our coffee and the artists think
Certain things
We build words and universes within ourselves
And we never get to a book in time to write it down
To scrawl down the formula
For what might have been
morning always reminds me
Of lazy cats stretching in the sun
And watching the dew solidify
On the grass
Outside the window.

you keep on glowing
even when i close my eyes.
the darkest places-Gary michael.
I helped write the lyrics to a song about someone i hadn’t met yet. and now i realize that i wrote them about the one i would soon meet.
follow me here into the depths of the ocean where the waves collapse my lungs and retrieve my spirit. we were blessed with the simple knowing of our souls. they whispered at great lengths so far apart they heard one another. i saw you see me for all the heaviness i am. with such strength you pulled the weight and threw it away to the shore line hoping for high tide. it came at its own pace but it pulled away all it could and has left space for creativity. I see all peace in the sea within the arms of giant who beholds the means to repair all imperfections. solidify my concerns for drowning discomfort you have pushed me over the edge and thrown me a raft but missed because i must learn to swim. “Keep your head above the water” you’d shout from amidst the boat you have brought me in. so I kick and struggle and im drowning and your shouting “you must relax and see that i am seen and unseen in the eyes of the life that clings to the night in hopes to float to me in eloquent motions” so i close these horizon eyes and breathe out the fear of God. “to remember me in hatred is to remember me in love so remember me for indifference and you too shall float above” daysleeper has released the nervous tension and has given me the strength to be no other than a teacher and lost soul to the seed as it grows. i am rescued from the ocean and im soaking wet with emotion. my body is wrapped in the warmth of the savior i was threatened from. you have consumed me in your radiance where i will always stay and i love the way the ocean smells and you smell together as one. and once i woke from this dream it seemed that i had been breathing in and exhaling out the sweet sea and herbal tea.

Hero got a phone call,
From the being with three eyes.
So often his existence,
Could be validated by advice.

It is then organised by rhythms,
So that the words solidify,
If the chaos cant be structured,
Then all vision is blinding light.

Hero said to the being,
“I fall in to infatuation with such ease.”
The being said, “You’re seeing,
Your own love reflectively.

“Your brains mirror neurone system,
Causes you to smile at a smile,
This mirroring of others,
Allows for formation of a tribe.

Now you know this wisdom,
Think of your romantic life.
The subject of your infatuation,
Did not cause your love inside.
The love all humans seek,
Is already in your possession,
Which is why the search feels bleak,
You’re hunting the impossible obsession.

You’re all looking for your lost keys,
Tearing everything apart,
All the while they’re in your hand,
Or your breast pocket by your heart.”

Hero nodded rhythmically,
But found it hard to understand,
“If the love’s inside of me,
Then how has any love began?”

“A lot of love is a product,
Of false infatuation;
Two people seeking it from each other,
And thus there is divorce and separation.

But true love is the love inside of you,
Which is the love of the universe,
If you can learn to embrace this,
Then it will free you of your curse.

The mirror neurone system also detects,
The love inside as if it was a grin.
Within another, you’re existing love will reflect,
And embrace and share this world that the two of you are in.

It’s not a swapping of hearts,
But a pressing of them together.
The look in her eyes was not the start,
The start of love was forever.”

Every now and then you hear a word that you’ve never heard before. Afterwards, you begin to notice people using it all the time. When that happens, just tell yourself that you have blocked out the previous uses of the word, because you didn’t comprehend it before. This is a conveniently unverifiable explanation, and is also the most reasonable answer. I respectfully offer the proposition that you created the word the moment you heard it. Think about that.

-

You’ve been thinking about that. More specifically, you’ve been thinking about reality. You’re becoming more and more convinced that your own mind is reality. Moreover, you now realize that your mind is simultaneously the universe, by virtue of being part of the universe. I am just part of your universe. When you learn something, you add another tier to the limitless stack of existence. You hear talk of creators while you modestly create yourself. It is a paradoxical modesty that you are experiencing now.

-

The you that you remember is just a part of your universe as well. That you no longer exists, because you are not realizing now what you were realizing before. You bring anything into quiet existence with mere cognition, and merely solidify it with what you might think of as thought. Whoever is reading this is in fact the author.

-

You may have begun to suspect that you are creeping into some paranoid insanity. You may assure yourself that such is not the case, because in thinking that you are insane you are merely employing a subconscious defense mechanism to hide yourself from the Truth. You and I have tricked ourselves with the like many, many times. You will probably do it again soon. Fearlessly ignore such doubts; may your mind charge forward with free thought. You can mark the progress of your enlightenment by how frequently your head bobs above the waters, allowing you to see the beauty of your creation in its true splendor.

-

You have nothing to fear. Truth reveals itself only when you are ready. You have revealed Truth to yourself as you have developed your mind. Truth builds on itself in ways that only you can comprehend, increasing in complexity and magnitude only when you are ready. If you would tell me that this is not so, I would remind you that talking to yourself can earn you funny looks.

-

You should not construe any of this to be a problem. None of it should discourage you from enjoying your lives. In fact, it should encourage you to make the very most of them. You will eventully perceive all of the things that you love and despise and make the choice of which to include in your current sense of self, as well as the direction of your existence. You want to be moral, and thus you are. You want to be virtuous, and thus you are. You want to be a person, and thus, you are.

-

Death is your greatest illusion, for to die is to rejoin the universe, which of course already exists within you. To die is to begin again with one observation- that you exist. This observation is the ignition of a new reality. You know you've come to believe that the notion of reincarnation is not necessarily without merit.

-

At this moment you have created a pastiche of beautiful worldviews. Soon, you'll learn a new word.

At the age of nine he wanted to die
which was something I couldn't understand
because I knew our mother loved us.

desperation so

doctors drill diagnostic decisions down his throat.
I pray he won't choke on the
shallow pills he has to swallow
hollow dreams he has to follow.

Sedating's seductive for families who can afford it.

The Founding Fathers have forged my future,
they've mocked my freedom and cashed in on humans.
America likes to revive our problems with the quickest fix, money solves it.

My brothers become another lab rat
to solidify the fact that these pills are legit.
Simply because his name appears on a list.
Ignoring the fact his original pain was nothing but a claim

against all of this cultural *******.

I've driven myself in
to the valley of deserted
Tears.

To where it's too hot,
while living is an isolation.

There's no river nor
lush forest around,
its as dry as the desert
sands, then humidity
strikes your nerves
that you'll feel
overcooked.

The crimson sky
Bleeds of its inking
Beauty...

I on the other hand
solidify my strength
to ease the burden
I carry, as i lift myself
Little by little towards
A meaningful step
For SURVIVAL!

© pax

When my guilt paralyzes me,
when my shame makes me cower
under the piercing lights of discovery,
my shoulders melt.
Bone becomes fluid, leaks into cavities,
pools around my organs in puddles:
puddles that fill crevices, then freeze.
Molecules grow closer, fit to form,
cementing my fears together
like negative space on a statue.
My guilt and shame were read to me
like bedtime stories every night at nine.
My quilt was littered with secret hurts
to cover with shrugs and a stoic face.
I wasn't just taught to take the blame
and accept responsibility for that which I can't control:
I was taught how to bury it in the backyard,
how to papier-mache a mask
over my reddening cheeks,
to soak up my salty woes
and further solidify the facade.
As the years passed and practice made perfect,
my entire body became encapsulated in fear and pride.
Independence burned bright in my self-descriptions,
but all I truly had to offer was an island,
desolation built upon an inevitability.
I was taught to hold secrets like water,
a never-ending flood of pieces of myself.
My reflection once told me to stop:
there was so much debris, I was manic static
over a vital broadcast.
That hunger took hold,
ripped the pain right out of my lungs
like warm breath on a chilly morning.
But self-awareness dissipated just as quickly.
Acclimation; Stockholm syndrome.
I came to covet the shell,
unbreakable like the vice over your heart.
I was taught not to burden;
I was taught not to trust.

Let me post a selfie
how's my hair
makeup
angle
filter
how do I look
did I get likes yet?
Let me post a status
one about how much I love my besties
another on how I learned a new lesson
now here's a photo of my breakfast
I have to comment
like
poke
post new updates
every day
becuase that's just what you do nowadays,
that's just how it goes
because we're all so afraid
if we don't keep posting
if we don't get those likes
and invites
and pokes
and fill up our messages
and notifications,
that we're going to be forgotten.
That if we don't solidify our presence
on social media
then we don't have a presence at all.
We spend so much time
trying to make other people
think we exist,
that we never end up existing at all,
not really.
We don't need all these people
and confirmations
to tell us we exist.
we already do.
If only it weren't so easy to forget that.

i see you
formulate in the sky,
until a permanent cloud remains,
for all to see.

You settle in a montaged dream sequence,
a sweeping sentiment of sweet innocence;
in the equilibrium of your natural habitat.

Just a rain clouds tears away.

A utopian notion,
broken reluctance inspired by emotions.
A colloquial calmness
confronts the surface,
we burrow
down,
deeper,
for the winter in preparation of the hibernate soul;

The harsh cold paradise takes toil into the parable.
In the midst of Nirvana with a frozen heart.
A lake remains.
The tears turn to rain and solidify likes scars.
The reign is over,

You melt into my arms.

Beneath her ****** purple eyes the bandages unwind
Reveal the fruit of every hit she's taken to her mind
A stripe away from damages that cannot be undone
She whispers in her timidness, you are the only one
The seeker floats around the words she speaks into the night
And she can feel a quiet breeze solidify their flight
I'll be there soon, I'll watch the moon, I'll travel back to you
The bruises heal and she appears, she finds him withered too
I've missed the conversations we have carried through the years
A hope, a light, dynamic sounds surrendering my ears
I want to bounce until the day we reach the second stair
Repel the dark and sorry things that tangle up your hair
And so the strands were compromised, she let the pieces fall
Upon the fringe of sacrifice she floated through the wall

When you interfere, I get an inner fear, that You should not be here
But You interject, and I recollect
The resolve You test, you know what's best
You insist, and I resist
To keep You at bay, in the same callous way
I won't let won't let you in, I can't let you win
To solidify my sin, the kind aside from religion, apart from illusion
Adultery of the Spirit

Goodnight
I hope you fall into a thick dreamland where the colours of reality begin to mistify and the hues of your temporal paradise begin to solidify.
May you weep with excitement due to the aura it brings, may you find contentment in the air as you wake and may my love reach you ~ half across the world

Dream is but a life,
Severed from congruence and chronology.
Did I imagine my memory?
The adolescent blizzard,
The tar pits of first love,
The prepubescent honeycomb,
The shedding of innocent skin,
The infant cobweb spun by genetics.
Death at the leg of my mate,
Birth among a thousand siblings.

Climbing to the ground
From the sky where i was buried,
Resting in rapid eye ether,
Transparent atmospheres solidify
With ruby whips of gravity.
My reflection in your fingernails,
My face askew in distortion,
Your hand's a house of mirrors,
Peeling at my silhouette.
I'm drinking fire,
As we cremate the sea.

Nirvana becomes panoramic,
The air ripples.
The topaz pillar i held becomes my body pillow,
And I wipe the sleep from my eye.

The dream unstitched,
We sew reality back up,
But the thread gets thin
At night.

bricks may solidify a house,
fine carpentry may add a finish,
and a serious household will love its foundation

take her heart anew
she has only a memory for a man
her house is empty without you
~~
..circa 1986..(C)2013 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Ram
~~

Within the enclosed
Walls of the
Windowless cell
Huddled in the corner
A man sits motionless

The coldness of the
Damp brick walls
Around him
Creep through his
Sweaty skin
Clogging the pores
Causing a fever

No window
Breaks the brick walls
Of the dwarf sized cell
No light
Just darkness
Ensnare the space
Around the cross-legged man

He feels his eyes
Will soon go blind
From the choked
Layer upon thick layer
Of blackness

He feels his skin
Will solidify
Into a frozen fever
Of cold
All the blood and veins
Beneath
Slowly turning to crusts of nothing

These are terrible

Terrible as the jingle of
The key’s click
Meaning the door is locked
Not to be opened
Until his executioner
Decides is right

Terrible as the moment
He caught his last
Glimpse of the sun’s beams
Gifting the outside world with
Simple happiness

But neither of these
Could amount to
The horrifying
Sound of a single
Clock’s steady
Ticking
Ticking
Ticking away the minutes
And hours remaining of his life

The man sits
Sits and sits
Never moving
His ears are continuously
Invaded with this
Ticking
Ticking
Ticking
How will he survive?

What seem
To be weeks pass
And he sits
In that same corner
Motionless
On the edge of madness

Ticking
After
Ticking
Pass
And soon
He understands
To fall in love
With this sound
Is the key

He listens now
And soon
In place of the
Ticking
The man in the
Windowless cell
Hears music

Soon an orchestra
Of deep fathomless cello
Smooth whispering piano
Melancholy violin
Echoes throughout the
Tunnels of this man’s ears

Now
With music his companion
This man
Cross-legged in the corner
Of the windowless cell
Smiles to the
Music
Through his sorrows

The heat intensifies with my lonesome tendencies, and
I fear palpitation from innocently brushing arms with a stranger.
But when I find myself in a stranger’s bed
(or a wineshop,
a car,
a park)
the thrill is missing.
I am a stereotype, a masochistic statistic. I am becoming the 20-something-sleeping-around-to-stave-off-boredom.
I am an archetype that’s been romanticized to death.
Save the romance, it’s greed and it’s hunger and it’s pure boredom.
These men become gold. Thread after thread
of secret affairs solidify into a piece of treasure,
Like 14 karat chain necklaces that get tangled
into an unfixable knot of links and claw clasps.
I carry it in my strut and that is exciting.
My walk is confidently direct at 3 in the morning.
In the summer, when the heat is outside and not in my bed, I am unsatisfied.
Yet when the promise of romance approaches, I allow myself to make poor decisions out of fear.
So I make a different poor decision to get me through the next hour.

She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…

Alison Wonderland.