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Julian Sep 2020
I famigerate without taciturn timidity the straits of a straightened jury-rig of nesiote narrowbacks harping the accordion zest and zeal of the plenilune consuetude of a scrivello infamy sprung into the rows of rip-tide acclaim hamstrung by the decline in fastidious upkeep of the timberlask vesicles that avoid the phenakism of prismatic reformation fundamental to transmogrified simpers of dismal saturnine darkness encroaching on the parallax of realms within the dominion of the Almighty for the omniety of the usucaption of the fruitful prune in the priggish afterglow of a noontide eclipse bereaved of whispering retreat in the hallowed wasms of stiltanimity becoming an entreaty to ecumenical barbs of propriety selected without intimacy to folksy bibliopolists but rugged in sterling tribute to the true vine of the appointed ways of sacerdotal triage among a roughshod vanity of a derelict world marveling at otiose rejoinder rather than true spasms of tragedy flickering in the recessive alleles of a careworn culture. The travesty of Beirut is the bromide of current leapfrogs of sentinel lust and malapert destruction forming an ironclad camaraderie with chocolate-box langlauf disasters wed uxoriously to the penury of the brackish version of the catadromous bailiwick of despotic nescience pregnant with sophrosyne redemption at the cusp of a plaid perfunctory quip of quisling intimations of the sketchy provenance of humdingers of comestion lurking in the plodding prowl of a ribald wiseacre of a beckoned billow of trinkochre welded into a conscientious blarney that awaits the popinjays that sculpt brittle redshort fictions into awakened carapaces of a limacine reduction of impoverished fulmination into the neatly sworn footprints of a geotaxis shuddering with magnetism only in spectacle without the overhailing zeal of vintners who specialize in curtailed wine drawn from Caiaphas and soaked with the muddy turgid Siloam as avenues toward the repentance of asunder becoming marginalized as a whimper of taciturn choleric war receding not even into an audible delope as the masterful chryselephantine assault of cryptic auditions in the theater of effete refuge sink into the pelagic oblivion of a remarkable blister festering into inconsequence as the rebarbative emoluments to tattered travesty hearken a battle-cry yet emanated in the reprehensible bulwark of the gerendum of a poised plastered humility aggrieved with such friction turgid on rollicking magpiety that even the larceny of brutish renegades of triumph sink beneath the brevity of accident rather than the fortitude of globalized turpitude weakened by the improper demarche of fuliginous homeless depredation of innocent bystanders flocking to the harvest of war found in insight rather than the perfunctory bromidrosis of the macroscian enmity of hidden maleficence spawning a credenda that is spayed on arrival in the faineant zoolatry of a spelunkers’ madcap dash to flex the filigrees of turmoil in resentment of the amicable truces of a God who never tempts and a lurking lie that never itches for trigger-happy hapless rebukes because the skittish skirmish of futilitarian repose is a scoundrel of the profligacy of errant weakness blinkered by the humdrum din of deafening semaphores of provocative thornbush on the threshing floor of cowardly imposture president of all affairs of spirit and all renegades of caitiff megalography of forgotten oblivion despite the curglaff of vindictive and never vindicated assaults on the integrity of the birthright of Lebanon to wager a presumptive gamble of trifling retribution for the alacrity of suspicions eloping with forbidden mistresses in the humdingers of flackey rather than the troudasque harbinger of a lunacy impugned by a restive triumphant fallow time seasonable for a litany of pretenses demassified for a liturgy of seances with eldritch commiseration in the saw-toothed serration of selachostomous bravado wielded by likely or unlikely culprits of ravenous ruin shepherded by the guilty cardinal sins of the complicity of explosive vanity marauding on the ruins of a fortress debased by pettifoggery of internal excuse rather than the wrath of provocative ire in the irksome cauterized wounds of the inured to deliver spectacular reticence despite such grievous diacope. Evil gilderoys of maleficence carve the sapwood of the periphery to aimless subversions miscarried by the modern atrocity of glamour memorialized as a sound-byte underminnow of a roaring rhombos rip tide as stocks wavy at the curvature of edgy demarche despoil the denuded wasteland of cultural despondency a wagtail to the impudence of famigerated affronts that deserve a sterling recompense wielded by the onerous and operose burdens of a prone decubitus of aboriginal bread seeded from Heavenly realms dissipating into the roars of blinded conflagration too meek to even exist on the ramshackle hillside of a barnstorm of aggression powerless to encapsulate the nexility of unspoken allegiance to destruction rather than the halidom of consecrated marriages balking at the caulked provisions of a slugabed monolith of craven capers on the recesses of abeyance in the interregnum of a time where famous people communicate with me. How can such a charismatic bravado of lurking presidency stoop to the denizens of usufruct in licentious latitudes on the outskirts of consideration even pretend anymore that the vacuum of effluvium (Gal 6:7) can be mocked and milked into the row of centuries blistering through the calenture of apprisal and heaved awakening as the zephyrs of the Occident meet temporal juncture with the coenesthesia of a hibernating trumpery formed by the turnverein of listless lethargy billowing through fumiducts of siphoned lavaderos of hypogeiody that the underground spasms of cacophony could marvel at the historic emergence of a magnate with the most powerful magnetism of God shepherding the true flock John 10:27 because he is willing to be the good shepherd and potentially die for his sheep John 10:11. Remember, whenever you hear a Queer Studies Radical Feminist bloviate on emasculated sardanapalian posture John 8:44 and even though personified as a masculine titan of bulwarks of immense otiose wilted inkburch shielding the world from true meaning, the maskirovka of the Devil is present in the dark trespasses of personal abandon among the wilderness of many marsupial jackals of martles wagtails to an invictive proclamation of invulnerable sappy sopanaceous filibusters against hefty sinew forged the bony fragments of the charnels lost to brief epitaphs never mourned in threnodies worthy of remembrance that the departed died with us and live again through us whether in Heaven as participant or on Earth as an acting battalion of the skullduggery of the mystique of shimmers of God acting on Man’s behalf 1 Col 1:15-16. That the firstborn of all creation obtains supremacy through the finalisms that I seek as the captain of trailblazing untrammeled roads we are reminded of the narrow and wide gates expanded by the explosion of thought that trespasses into the hidebound ratchet of a reasonable bleat becoming a harsh outcry of justice for Lebanon that they feel so powerless in implosion what could aggrieve potentate civilizations to the precipice of global maleficence in destruction. Swarming for alveolate hominid hominism as an outgrowth of alienation by design polarized spectral dangles at jaundice flamestun by the ordeal of oppositive barnacles to the chryselephantine habituation of a masked menace of Procrustean authority to muzzle the free license of armamentariums of a latent man keen to the kenspeckel visibilia that we might have punctuation in the poised primiparas of a hearkened unprecedented in modern history that the traipse of lapse is no longer the tenure of mindless calculation of authoritarian gabble sentries of a mobilized fleet of embodied human ignorance but a foisted sprite of whangams of apothegm that deserve in their gnomic respite from the phenakisms of a philogeant kumbaya assertive in its treony of radical compassion for those who dwell in tentpoles of revelry bound not to the covenant that sent us into light and sparkling in hidden obsolescence that the fulgurant words of Mount Horeb (Sinai) are both immaculate and without trace of sin because Acts 17:30 declares a powerful truth lost to the twinges of time that issued peremptory governance of my theology but through remission I admit the grievances of septiferous blockades of ponderous plodding nescience haunting the spectral aubades of paeans to a high-flown sun darting through galactic space apace of the velivolant sails of divine wind that come in the spree of recompense authored by the vines to which all roots belong rhizogenic and immutable because the demarches of time forget the marches against the cauterized grime of new-world suspicions of aleatory fickle gubernatorial proclamations that issue reverb more than sprinkle flanged atrocity in the sight of the holy ramparts of an active double-edged God who reminds us of our many witnesses but provides not a single latchkey of escapism resident to many hapless homes of the drunken sing-song rhapsody nullifying the psychotaxis of the motatory miserly Draconian charades of Leviathan grasping the tridents of warp-speed revisionism in a benighted world overrun by mandarist fictions that fumigate a pasteurized control of cultural malcontent in situations of dearth infested by the concentration camps of China that remain unheralded in brumal and brutish indoctrination spared from worldwide outrage by the tribunes that are complicit more in malfeasance than they are celebrated for the herald of heinous bletcherous crimes of abecedarian abligurition anointed in waste rather than refined like unquenched slakes of eternal water so that no man can thirst hungry for the daily bread without returning to the providence of God awakened. Recalcitrant by the impudent quislings of repugnasket flarmeys of advenient flummoxed besieged clairvoyance I bask and beaze on the light that never fades because of the brackish whisk of a barnstorm of allegiance that is contumely to a bromide society listless in inferiority of intellect to my former streaks beyond jejune reiteration of the Jehu mentality against the canine fate of Jezebel and her faltered ministry of ewnastique waged as battalion gore of a trifling musket of an aboriginal swim through the oceanic gaze of peerless eternity squirming because of flagging resolution among the spandrels of incommunicable largesse lolloped extravagantly not just for the spoils of hyped pedigree but also a chamade to Heaven to enlist the purblind vestiges of a crambazzled Earth rejuvenated in adolescent esprit rather than callow eclat against the outrecuidance of whimpered miserly conscientiousness that exists in a shorter frame of reference than the provident dashes through a furlough of time and ancestry to cobble together a lapidary bristling excoriation of the tumescent squabbles of mystique brave enough to rarefy the humid pasteurization of a mannequin kenspeckel still-frame jilt of jostled infamy brusque in its curt envies borne of still-born promenades of a whasper between the youthful ligony and the intrepid soul of a collective warrior debased by the adscititious participant to elegant effronteries of the newfangled intellectual vogue that is the grombang of the tralleyripped hamshackle of ostentation meeting mirrored paralysis in sheepish ewnastique creations meddlesome in their ironic frizz of recursion as I lounge on the habits of creation by intelligent lurches of design that appointed the demarcations of all creatures and the mysterious bridge between the missing links that remain elusive to the flombricks of the misery of epigenetic rhizogenic imparlance of desuetude cringing at foresight littered with the disaster of ravished hindsight blushing at the limpid degeneration of the vapid varnish of benighted ligony rather than heroic strides of stoic-epicurean compromise in the apolaustic pursuit of the one eternal God present in rebellion but never the temptress of mendacity and mendaciloquence because the tug I have on speed is ratifying a cauterized casualty in the spumid betrothed wicked snuffs of extinguished furor for a time beyond barnstormed racloir rugged origination and faulty phenogenesis that escorts mythos into actionable litanies of the awakened breed scoffing at the inkburch of “Electrolytes”-wernaggle that besets the queer fascinations of a warped generation. The pytherian swank of artrench embodied in the recocted rendevation of hypetrophy in hubris swaddled by the reductive dranger polluting the realm of compliant complicant complaints of the ashowel of albatross astroud in the hibernaculum of langlauf rather than the ultramontane fiduciary tether to the estrockentch rather than the laureates of plevisable courage found in truest shades of vinsky not the subhastation of a gaslighted galvanization of purebred classy swivels of opportunism nor the ravenous incubus appetite for usufruct in subversion belongs to the behest of an insular nesiote flexing the flux of subversion as the candid posies of saccharine immodesty become relegated figments of the everlasting age of promised propriety rather than rigid stultimathy of hackencrude virtues of virtuosos that marvel at troudasque wonders occluded by the girlcott of Team Biden and his militarized soldiers of desiccation of trumpery and the faucets unbounded by swanky concealed epithets of regaled rentgourge by a hapless objection of the runic destruction of apothecary leniency becoming of the betokened emblazonry of scrimshank in every perfuncturation but embodiment of character shouldered by every chasm of power erected in demolition of the warped egintoch radicalism of the submerged wernaggles of the hopeless minority swimming with autodimplage few have to bear but the truest flock of God heeds my voice and has the sapience to spare themselves of contumely and invective to hearsay of invictive triumph beyond radioglare swirk to renege the musical providence of the chamades to the asterongue I often take for granted by immunifacient degrees of the foretold encroaching upon the crux of a pivotal and pivoted destiny not distant from cordial providence. The sweedle of epigones for the risctender of obligation to subvert the coryphaeus with the rigmarole of gentincture borrowed from the Gates’ formulaic effleck of perverse warbles of collectivized contrition for abetted cultural pederasty limpid in its achieved objective of the crudenzy borrowed from a lacking impediment to arentrum belonging to the knowledgeable happenstance of the glorified dengonin is a denostram that forestalls the agelasts behind porsters of culture rather than legitimate mainlined contamination of wellsprings of fliction of paranoiac enthusiasm might swim in kinkativy blinkered blind piebald girouettism but never dauntless in sematic entrenchment of robust dilettantism as the swaddled corrugation of time into centripetal ****** against centrifugal modernism that alienates propriety while estranging by vacuous vacuums the outspoken progeny of the surviving age beyond the Jay and Silent Bob travesty that manifests as a glower of menacing Bushian invention to tarnish with ****** mythos the drapes of a defenestrated realism of the flinkers of sheepish indignation against many drakstings of intonorous sclerotic mandibles of crackjaw chockablock annihilation of core precepts and institutions indelible from the face of a quixotic entreaty of a ragged intrusion of ageotropic monoideism above the secular-clerical fidelity of honest witness borne of triumph and tribulation festooning the nativist hyperbole into a useless effigy of mountebank imposture silly in precision and purblind to gallantry. Yet I must kisswonk rather than truckle under such ponderous pretense because of a sertivine certainty in the thickets of prudence rather than the tomfoolery of humgruffin impudence scaffolds me to a post-modern ****** that shanks through prisons of guilt and burrows an interrogation of reality supreme over all complaint that the virtuosity of the Gifted (the elect flock that comprehends my volcanic diatribes against mandarism and stomachs them without sardonic pastorauling insults of passerby vicissitude) will spare many nations of awakened perjury against human instinct in the fitness of nations to denigrate the populist squalor of lurid and livid ewnastique wernaggles of the listless buttress against my formal modesty encouraged in all affairs even in aggrieved humility belonging to intimidation rather than spawned jostles through the rumpus of shunamitism that might rankle a later age.  Yentrified morality is a personal flapdoon against the promiscuous pederasty of freewheeling ophelimity and the lurking narquiddity of the traindeque of donnist hedonism to hijack my psychedelic tolerance into an unwarranted and inadvisable sanction into the netherworld of the frinterans of cultural modality that curdact religion into a cosmetic cosmogony rather than a soldiered infamy becoming a beacon on a towering hill growing in solidarity with the pleonasm of existence itself which surpasses crude formulas that already abide by the riches of decorum too much to be admired as trigger-happy fools run the asylum of domesticated irony and the librettos to downfall rather than the wassails of “The Man” becoming more masculine in featured charisma rather than defiled against Leviticus among others who preach belonging to nuclear creed without fission but for true rapprochement to the fusion of the treony with legitimate gripes of unsung complaint among the masculine minority. The traindeque of a baseline complaint aggrieved by the kilmarge carapace of stiltanimity for the hackencrude resentment of the inkburch of illiteracy is a profligate degeneracy lurid in hyped enmity that the envied entreaty becomes the despotic shadow masquerading in shadows blossoming into the full wisdom of the mature sophrosyne heart eager to pour out blessings upon a conservation of recycled epitaphs becoming hearsay in a rebarbative convolution of redacted rigmarole incendiary to whittled henpecks of political engineering but never vapid in their flagging insistence upon an ecumenical toleration of the brooks of modernity and compromise upon which much felicity is aggrandized and permuted against the spoilsport frinterans who encage a dodgy moralism in wilted etiolated jaunty pedigree that espouses the maudlin grievous and ghastly ghouls and sprites that haunt the fictional hobgoblins of the Potemkin Village that finds usury convenient and perjury even more facile for the glib facetious engineers of modalities of hatred unsung by the ribald witwanton “I got a Solution...You’re a ****…South Carolina What’s Up” crowd that never marvels at ingenuity or rarely attempts it in the summit of the climacteric jaundice of hidebound whemmles of ridicule sparring against spartan flagitious wiseacres of genocide of ideation for the revelry of armed missives denatured by raw promotion of the questionable ethics of a flavork of needed slakes of unquenchable desire swarming us with daily temptresses not of wayward women but the disarmed pretense of a lapidary rejoinder to a long expatiation or harangue against hackencrude curdles of rowboat injustice masquerading as sentinel savory destruction of the towering edifice of proclamation. There is great menace in the casuistry of sophist philogeant philocubists dicey with destiny for mincemeat puppetry against sciamachy for the gallionic rise of gammadions in the craven lore of baseline pasquinade rallied to the insuperable causes of tribal shibboleth anointed by secular totemisms of fracture and fricative hisses of lineage that amount to pleonasms of brassage rather than mystagogical mystique of the prestige of human fraternity that shatters paradigms of creed and invites an honest vestige of Noble Savages to roam the Earth yet again unencumbered by lugubrious welters of misnomer and malapropism wagered by artifices of guileless supremacy that is cursory prima facie neglect of even the sororal duties not of sophomoric glib facetious cowardice of backbited backlash of venom militarized for the desuetude of entertained visagists sculpting *****-nilly their version or verdict of decisive apartheid when we should all rally behind the united frontier of the chosen flock in the chosen generation to truckle beneath the pews not of ignorance aggravated by the polluted kilmarge egintoch puritan barbs against publicity choices I now regret (as an emolument to an incredibly euphoric track with a poor miserly message to the enchanted flock inoculated from such diversions) because alighted upon the quenched thirst of salvation I will be judged more harshly as a teacher James 3:1 than the rest of my flock but gifted with the gratuitous salvation carved from the chiselers of ribald infamy capering around with dacoitage and ladronism of the bomans of unsuspecting quixotic caprice I must reckon with the burden of ghoulish shadows on the spectral imprint of my eternal soul relishing in vicarious splendor yet bereaved of quintessential love 1 Cor 13:4 that is necessary for the nuclear conclamation of vibrant hues of resplendent and refulgent providence necessary not from a dynastic perspective but from an aimed providence that alerts dynamism rather than chides with mimes of useless schadenfreude carved from the prestidigitation of the wicked condemned in Galatians 6:7 for the mockers of sanctanimity accorded upon me as gratuity that no man can boast my elite ears and my astute wonderworks of imagination qualified me for prophecy and among the most mesmerizing prophecies registered to fulfillment that the world has ever yet witnessed because the watershed isn’t a bridgewater for the chavish of ignoramus hatred congealed into thrombosis but the narrowed gate enlarges to encompass the swath of man amenable to the flocks that escort me into permanence rather than regale the tridents of a hedonism that elected me clairvoyant at a cost of immaculate splendor registered to the holy clergy of the Sacred Catholic Church and the broader Ecumenical Endeavor that tries to be a seamstress and bridge elemental divides inherent to divided approaches to liturgy which flex their strengths in times of robust fortitude rather than become a subhastation to the vestiges of the pilgrimage to false tabernacles erected by people cozened into charlatan endeavors by the pernicious and persnickety whiplash of Least Common Denominator subversion of widely heralded sentience and sapience enriching the lot of human ambition rather than stoking useless conflagrations of refracturism accorded to the swallock of primposition of the hackneyed hackencrude that swivels with the odious ornery pretense of overtures not to apertures and lychgates of the true abiding Heaven felt on Earth by many Christians whether in sobriety or not without the evil maleficence of a misguided donnism of narquiddity for the grambazzles of aged recklessness aborning on vacant responsibility that is rickety in its magnanimity of absolution because of the ulterior chase for bottom-line top-dollar oligochrome foisted by the cartels that blind true spiritual insight from ever reaching the magnitude of ambition required to shape mountains of revolution among the tertiary squabbles of a conversant Earth open to the troudasque gallop into yield and cloveryield for repcrevel reforms the paludism of the swamp remains skittish about conforming to because objectivism is a renegade of perspicuous light blinkering in hubris and gourmandizing the hinderbaggle of cosmetic pollutions aggravated by the plevisable articles of envy and TLDR politics to “Electrolyte” logic that is a sad recursive wernaggle of the useless buffoonery of humgruffins of tatterdemalion spate rollicking in the magpiety of a timid consentient faltering myth of unanimity among the beleaguered rainbows of many lugubrious tears showering bickering blasphemy upon the mockery of God for the pleasantry of self-aware sheepish resignation that professes only that any form of meritocracy is existentially unfounded only because the beehive elected its progeny the scepter of the ironclad kingdom that wages war against idolatry and serenades heaven with luxury simultaneously. We are all shepherds of providence and there is power enough in collective prayer that we don’t fiddle around with bodewash in mistaken identity but riddle the persnickety blemish of the fastidious critiques of biting sarcasm as a tantamount blasphemy and a criminal repartee of sardonic cloys of inanity foisted above truth. The peevish breedbates who scour my evidentiary pillar of chiseled vertebrae of unbroken bones of solidarity with oikonisus will be sorely disappointed in their truthful audits of my true perception because in every single case it exonerates me from the pulpit of menacing idiots who scrawl random gabble in attempts to sound smart while reeking of iniquity wrought by the gavels of predevoted inferiority of complexion and attitude that gravitates them to an insensate benumbed transmogrified bailiwick of an appalling atrocity of mythomaniacal myths spurned by consensus among those who prize my grandeur above the superstitions of the illiteracy of the rancid rankle of otiose stupidity writhing its own sheepish envy of arbitrary dislike motivated by feminist aggressors waging warfare on turf I already conquered by swaying the intelligentsia to beckon my cause rather than pillory me on a false scaffold of frinteran abuses of the nyejays of bernacle that junediggle in the taradiddle of the nanciful excoriation of my leaden corpse weighed down by the witchcraft of connivance trayning its own delicate myths while avoiding scrutiny for appalling contumely that deserves an audience more suited for fracklings of treony belonging to the trinkochre of the rising alienation and suicides among perverted gay indoctrination that is a scourge on the planet because it willfully denies with its portentous hibbles the regaled wisdom of the culminated age against renegades of apostasy and for the behemoths of true monumental change that sizzles in savory circles among the vanguard only to alarm the Status Quo hijack of my entire endeavors as a covert crusade to use wrecking-ball fashion tactics to cosmetically incisively and insidiously perform a harprick of surgery upon a blameless countenance only for being a thorn to wragatek wragapole slavery which wages war against universal salvation because it gripes with inkburch and circular pleonasms about the most obvious glaring lies and feasts upon the serrated edge of the capers of hatred that frolic in meadows too skittish to enter the barbarian fortress of my forested residence robust in fortitude and glowering with a menacing contempt for runaround psychobabble that obganiates the obelisk of the moribund crusade to make normative ethics effeminate and to enthrone inviolable women’s speech as supreme to any male objections like the Cristiano Ronaldo accuser that came forth 8 months after #MeToo one of the most dishonest campaigns in modern history enthroned by Hollywood elites in gammerstang insurrection against pay-gap ethics done manipulatively with the sapwood of mendaciloquence like Blasey Ford whose physiognomy reeked of maudlin pretense that was so ornery in how obvious of a maleficence the intrepid Abortion Agenda has over the minds of selfish women who prefer ecbolic second-term abortions to the servile gripes of primiparas building new life rather than tearing down the scaffolds of new generations. Hominism deserves its rise because-in increasing numbers-men are derelicted by society and coerced into vapid tallespin enslavement that ridicules itself with the perjury of soul to the soulless vanity of recursive cycles of benumbed narquiddity found in “****** Hero” among other atrocities littering the human fascination with the hinderbaggle of our polluted age verging on totemic blistering hegemony of a few rotten apples corrupting the vagrant ingenuity of the forgotten champion who ushered in a new era of candor in the attempted interregnum of the United States government because I Am Hollywood got the name correct considering how many memorials there are to me in the movie industry. The junediggles of sc-ha-den-freud-e which is as deliberate of a German pun as JUDEn JuDEN which shows the German language is as farsighted as you can get and why many of my neologisms have a German tinge to them. German is an elegant language with botched syntax but a peerless repertoire of vocabulary and even though I love French, the Germans are smart because their language is smart not just because of petty arguments of pedigree which are specious at best. Being dontolesque with  the zenkidu of rengall nauclatic mythos is an artful degree which accords nominal prestige to licentiates while excorifying the obvious metaphors of sunblind logic that scours the scorched Earth of internet diatribes of sophistry and dethrones the Marcie Biancos of the world “Heterosexuality is officially OVER...K Bye” with her 145 IQ and a Stanford Degree in Queer Studies (A professed atheist by her own Twitter admission) with the warped logic to equate a heterosexual relationship for a woman as ******* to patriarchy. For someone that well-studied in literature she sure is a dumb-*** and I will demolish the syntagma of those that root against me for Status Quo preservation in the official interregnum of Saturdays during the Trump Presidency. We need an official referendum on the ideas of termagant illogical anti-egalitarian poison that derives from a deracinated worldview that doesn’t contextualize how powerful language is at shaping thought because if the entire world were Anglophonic every single country on Earth virtually would see immediate dividends in terms of intellectual creativity and limber with concepts and percepts because it is no accident the most successful empire in History the United Kingdom, was favored because of its shibboleths of Shakespearean creativity draped with flairs of the irreverent while gilded by God to be a majestic commonwealth. England and France monopolized a huge majority of history by no accident because although English might be a slightly keener language the French culture of salons of freewheeling intellectual enlightenment gilded the 17th and 18th centuries into absolution despite the Panglossian epithets of Voltaire who was ironically dissuaded from religion because of the All Saints Day 1755 Lisbon Earthquake and Tsunami. We need to be vigilant against encroachments of perceived shibboleths and more keen on an affirmative meritocracy that favors the poor and blesses the meek in their poverty and inspire ambition among them to join the coteries of refinement in thought sometimes harder to achieve with crackjaw lollops in pleonasmic languages that fail to articulate with nexility or forceful wit the true abstractions that govern the pataphysics of the unknown. Language is so decisive over human thought that it is incumbent upon every language to refine its vocabulary to trayne compendious verbiage and trim the hedges of global reform to invite the curiosity of the age to favor all creeds and languages of Abraham and the diverse progeny of a variegated panoply of majestic feats common to all parlance and capacity beyond just the Anglophonic snare because the world needs not a chicanery of blustering churlish buffoonery but an Almighty respect for the consanguinity of all to God’s blessed creation that he inseminated by his deliberate hands to enrich the world with diversity rather than cleave the world with piecemeal skeumorphs of radical propaganda that opposes the modern and post-modern egalitarian streak. One wrong must be corrected, however, the underrepresentation of Hispanics in the media and in film because this grave error is much more pervasive than the ******* LGBT inclusion narrative because these days the lollygags of fashionista odalisques with Obelisks to Baal get more say over the common decorum than the marginalized bronteum of the  rich and vibrant Latino culture which is squelched by the poverty of media and Hollywood representation. Synectics showcases how a henpecked aim at the synaesthesis of culture congregated around our Almighty Father blessed among the nations who adhere to the progeny of Abraham can be more blessed when working together rather than tribal with nepotism and aristocratic in sustained affronts to the elevation of affirmative meritocracy to the forefront of discussion rather than the froward backlash of benumbed narquiddity because the synallagamatic nature of complexity needs to be devolved with industrious ambition to all cultures and the savory flair of the vogue needs not merely a wednongue fascination with an eventual terminus of crudenzy but a sustained intellectual reformation on all fronts to standardize the English language through Hollywood and the Music Industry so that the dragnets of appeal etch a permanent trace into the engraved souls of the true flock John 10:27 are consecrated in divine purpose to reverse the Babylonian Diaspora of confused and conflated purpose that stunts the raltention of humane course and the proper pataphysical syncrisis of an evolved mundane temperament that transcends the circular traps of circumlocution common to the milquetoast industrial titans who winsomely charm with toady gestures the elitism of a moribund philosophy of intellectual thought delegation to elevate the common rhetoric to reach new pinnacles in both tribune and political gamesmanship because higher standards are required even when they surpass some common understanding so that every ambition becomes a conclave for the goal of human unity solidified by the truth of the kerygma and proclaimed to all creation as the culminated synclastic reformation of the idea of indulgence and the propriety of regaled moderation that appeases the common decorum with a shared vested interest in Latin America especially which is besieged by the cultural tenets of obrogated specialization and denigrated by the common myths of warped phenogenesis which should be debunked as a wasm of hypocrisy limited because its callous tentacles lack the charismatic fulgurant equipment of future generations to bear the operose burdens of a quintessential time of harmony united by the hymns for God by God to appease the sentries in Heaven and the celestial realms that exist for our merriment more than our detriment. The sprauncy have the  frikmag to recognize the spuria of apocryphal heresies that encourage kinship above matriotism and shared fortitude for intellectual valor rather than “*** talk TLDR” hashtags abounding on the turf of the insensate wernaggle of clueless charlatans wiggling through life not because they were borne into slavery but because they choose to be Helicopter Parents of “Baby Shark” rather than token mantelpieces of enlivened culture shimmering with radiation of Gods glory as cemented in Colossians 1:15-16 because the firstborn of all creation lives in some form in the ligature of Christ 1 Cor 12:12 because there are so many talents that exist in our variegated world that the mastery of expertise in dominions of conversant fluency will abet the variegated crops of a draped humanity corrugated on its own ironies for the delicate sizzle of beatific felicity multiplying itself in centupled design over centuries to overcome hinderbaggle while realizing the fictions of some drawflark. The strigine world concedes to this upstart rooster maybe considered a parvenu of dearth but luxuriant in riches boundless to all that draw near to the kerygma of Christ and feast on his daily bread found throughout liturgy because we should listen to people like Cardinal Timothy Dolan who is exceptionally astute (perhaps an understatement) to guide us on a regenerative rather than degenerative pathway towards universal attempts at salvation that broach a new decorum bridged by aliens to select chosen emissaries to bridle the fissions of repartee reserved for the forlorn that balk at ambition rather than relish a new era of seditious determination against the determinist fallacy and for the mental health of those coping with autodimplage and sheepish regrets and persnickety articles of remorse because all the world deserves our consolation and desperate attention rather than the trumpery of the circus masquerade of marauding agitprop which congeals into thrombosis of toxicity as the vast majority of Democrats refuse to even hear Trump speak when he is discussing discursive solutions to enigmatic quagmires,for, if more people listened to Trump they would be disabused by the specious claims of his misogyny and white allegiances because his candor is brilliant and despite the prominent advocacy of Biden who has considerable prestige in my memory, we deserve a bipartisan syncretism that unites the world and unifies the country away from the swerve of salacious mythos and towards a rambunctious magpiety of solidarity against the secular humanism of a defunct piety to Marxist feminism which is a crudenzy among the awakened men around the world increasingly alienated by the hackencrude of wednongue illiteracy even trumpeted by the vanguard as panacea when it is a comestible form of poison. We need visionary unity where there was once toxic divisive balkanization of exclaves of limited foresight clashing with new wave awakening to the persecution of illumination itself for not a rigid hierarchy but a flexible structure of inclusion that adjusts to cultural expectancy and modifies the traindeque that strands many in institutionalized poverty especially in Latin America and India and obviously Africa too. The stegophilists of language should herald the aubade of the chavish of redintegration over the squawk of din of squabbles of internecine redacted revisionism beleaguering our lyceums with toxic agitprop even at the highest institutions of learning who balk often at the recycled auditorium of useful thought because their venal tilt is complicit in squelching freedom of thought and our schools should open early so that zig-zag-zoom politics around feldtrounds who are eagerly outnumbered by the patrons who police thought become agentic not with outspoken treacheries but inseminations of intimation to hint at the spectral mystagogical reality we are all members of despite hurdles that beset the hemiteries of odalisques who seek inertia rather than mobilization. The ribald underminnow of transparency is a carcinogen of the rampant siege of Status Quo coarse hypocrisy for tentative flings with cadged cloyed saturnine professions of the landmines of atrocious miscarriage as I soldier on in the causes of the poor and the forlorn to become enriched by the glory that God delivers with munificence so that all might be enriched by the emanations of the true vine and in distaste of error I rebuke the armada of belittled armamentariums of the cantonment of deep-state breedbates boiling over potboiler frikmag that exists as a transcendent obscurantism flowering in decisive times to warp the contextual footprint of a life served in the service of all the oppressed people as a kind of Moses figure raised by the elite and fighting for the criminally oppressed and the ****** of mediagenic hyperbole is dissatisfied by my glowering spectacles because they dismount from the equipoise of the righteous gallop towards ecumenical solidarity at untimely punctuations of juncture superseding the flictions of frikmag dethroning my righteous valor and provident sanctanimity to prowl like predatory wolves the fathers of the casuistry of mendaciloquence to accentuate the stridor of inopportune squalor of the selachostomous regimes of teetotaler totalitarian freebooters who prevent bootstraps from manufacture as they gradgrind the world into ergonomic insufficiency while I provide a Kamacho-like galvanization to the broader world that favors the consanguinity of all animate sentience to the aboriginal vine of the universe that plays with the toyed cadge of oppositive support but lends credence to a more evolved view than the crudity of encapsulated travesties inserted with jaundice against the lyceum of freedom of thought and the celerity of headless horseman galloping in partial interregnum to crown the strobic stridor of the stiver of the steven of contarianism engineered for walloped ringleaders of the renegades of heresiarch sedition in their odalisque oaths to Pagan dieties carved from the sapwood of gullible Illuminati naivety that professes allegiance to the worst whangam ever invented Baphomet and his faked cronies of ewnastique free-for-all diminutive crags in the renown of dawning light becoming cagey struthious structuralism embedded in sclerotic wasms of the wanhope of a nullified message becoming a sacred creed to the attentive while the lilt of the otiose drawl in serpentine convolution a ribald pleonasm of circular circumlocution that provides locomotive linearity rather than leapfrogged slogmarches into the province of the territorial alignment of kinship against the partisan hollertrap and the stigmatophilia of obsessive persnickety popinjay beadledom the last stronghold of the rickety resistence to this Saturday interregnum which presides over the better part of the intelligentsia if not the common pedestrian parlance because hortatory weights cannot be described in any other way than metagnostic flickers of Yellow Submarine vandalism of a pristine living animation of the humane spirit that prizes the plight of the poor and the blarney and blench of unjust opprobrium faced by the institutionalized bailiwick of flictions of gammadion gallionic posture when in fact they register as seismic entities engraved upon my Christian conscience that strictly welcomes the emigrants to truth from whatever consecrated virtue they originate from because all are capable of the same light and the same compassion of a beatified humanity rather than the relish of deep-state castophrenia which belies its own ribald gay mockery on live TV as not a single twinge of ****** attraction overtakes me in matriotic sardanapalian effrontery of a hollow but sadly hallowed vainglory of the hierodules that bury the coffers of patriotism in a sad LGBTQ graveyard of landmines that demonstrate a complete disregard of the nuclear family and should be decried as an outcry against redefined Christianity bolted to unshakable irrefragable beliefs in the constitution of man and women wed together in one monogamous flesh with the occasional cuddle of close tithes to the ******* of friendship as the slavery of sin in Leviticus 20:13 falls to the wayside because this patriotic lewdness is a vapid fatuous derangement that is a new low for the United States attempt to inoculate China from religious accord with the broader world and should be seen as a Chinese maskirovka worthy of the heaviest disdain and I will disavow America if it continues to bandy the tripwires of Chinese boondoggles under the American banner and pretend its pretense isn’t lagging under its own bletcherous abecedarian elementary fallacy of psychobabble oblivion of dark saturnine brusque termagants of tatterdemalion cloaks of the selfsame illusion of a desperation of China to wreck the United States economy and inseminate Florida, Arizona and Texas especially with the Coronavirus to swing the election in Biden’s favor with or without US Complicity to expedite the course of a virus which sees no resurgence in any other civilized country in the world while the heroic Russians, Germans, Israelis, French, British and true American Christians banish the barristers of bad taste as an acerbic poison on the wellsprings of a flagitious flag I would kneel for in the knells of disgrace if the pompous and completely inoculated missives of Buttigieg ******* continue to roam shepherded by deep state elitism to wreck the opportune moment of religious revival for petty reasons of chryselephantine gambit and gimcrack for institutionalized poverty which my ambition is to heal completely by sacerdotal deeds and consecrated prayers in the Lord whose peace surpasses the temporal despair of senectitude and comforts the grievances of the aggrieved because Galatians 6:7 is no more true than the fatuous display of muscular idiots waving American flags for turpitude rather than flogging very perverse Gay men in the streets which might be a more fitting outcome even though I must remove the plank in my own eyes first to see the irony of the detested. The doytin is no longer misguided by the nanciful derision of the vociferous clangor of the venal Gates mafia militia wrecking ball vaccination Bezos crew in Medina which is a mettle I can’t match when you own every citizen in the world in a few square miles of nesiote territory the denizens of conquest besieging religious sanctity with profane outbursts of corruptible linchpins on the public lynch of the strepsis of periblebsis that vitiates commonwealths of supreme sputtering regimented clairvoyant superlative alabaster wealth of the isangelous protectorate of the supreme God that supervises his careworn flock into the storge against the scourge of prosodemic stigma stained in bleeding heart liberal bathed tears of pseudoautochiria of Jim Morrison glaring in the face of the triads that Killed Him in the French Connection ******* of 71’ that outnumbered his hobohemia of loyal jewish bohemians livid in the rhapsody of nurture rather than enfeebled by the unfurled destiny of the Soul Kitchen he foresaw to his own pitiable demise at probably the hands of strangulation because no autopsy was performed. Although repetitive Transparent is a real anthem for oracular mystagogical transcendence a mandatory hymn for the ryseolagnus of the poetic verve of a new wave swooning the cordial progressive of atmospheric oneness with the primordial vine and the vintners that congregate on populated soil to feed a desolate destitution of synoecy or synaesthesis in the syncretic rhapsody of the subfocal ageotropic plenilune yet saturnine lugubrious toil of those that shovel through the albatross of ewnastique recapitulation to the same tired “Its got what plants crave, it’s got electrolytes” wernaggle of the hopelessly dismal inkburch of illiteracy crawling like a Hyacinth House on a vacant graveyard turf guarding the legionaires of rapid-fire zig-zags through a serpentine curvature of the ligaments of fabricated space warped through prismatic lenses of aperspectival time aspiring for ventriloquial enamored rapture upon Earthly parallax with tapestries of refulgent cascading wandering wonder that meditates its own lucubration with careworn tutelage against the wasms of dying oleaginous swelters of redshort opportunistic vultures swooping with Raven’s claws against the odometer of viewership surpassing records in unspeakable wisdom that crowds out the crambazzle toonardical wreffelaxity of the tiresome nuisance of ornery brawn muscled into a formidable triage in vengeance for Jim Morrison’s scripted eviction from Earth either by poisoned ****** or by  Asphyxiation by the French Connection avenging RFK and the cultural revolutions of 67’ in Haight Ashbury and the widespread percolation of treacheries fathomed to the most obvious degree in showmanship that it bristled as an affront so severe that even the patronage of Paris wasn’t immune to infiltration. His threnodies will always be sung with Triumph that the hallowed day of a monumental soul eluding the darkness of purgatory into the welcoming aborning light of the noontide progeny of eternal ataraxia awaited him in the stagecraft tub of blasphemy bellowing ratcheted warnings that not even the palatine grasp of a potentially divine being was inoculated from the deep dark chasm of nefarious skullduggery for boasting so widely and openly of his professed foresight to glamorous to be hidden as the beacon of virtuosity that galvanized a generation to flout the  futtocks of a keelhauled vision of sanitized purblind mortality that the fear of death rarely crossed the mind of the greatest fearless poet of an entire epoch that we may pray that Jim Morrison feasts in Heaven atoned for his sins and is at peace with God now. The substratose congeniality of marginalia on the outskirts of pederasty in cultural miscarriage owned by hierodules boundless in their lurid debaucheries that they might be remanded for being custodians of hostage to a prolific nescience  reaffirming their dying posture in the extinction of sardanapalian coverthrow of repcrevel camorras of ladronism and dacoitage always cauponate in imbibed throes of lewd AstroTurf outrecuidance glowering at sanctity with a bereaved psychobabble divorced from the purebred empiricism of true giants of industry that are almost insuperable in their extortion that their darkness in deeds of Kobe Bryants assassination do not go unpunished at least in Los Angeles. His untimely death as with many others registered on the Richter Scale because Come Clean perverts from Kansas City wanted San Francisco to win to clean the mops of janitorial revenge of the subturbary rickety foundations of a flailing moral compass so wicked in arbitrage that no subreption undetected would flourish among capernoited vigilantes of poached titanism and illuminism scarring the vestiges of enigmatic encroachment upon untouchables daring the frights of the Living Daylights of scurrilous rebukes so scathing in their menacing depiction of negligent bromides of token sacrilege and scarred sacrifice of a scarecrow example of how the prosodemic scourge of befuddled turgid pristine transmogrified heralds scampered away with pseudoautochiria that afflicted Jimi Hendrix suspiciously as well. My support is behind the justice warriors aggrieved by the Beirut explosion because they deserve a vindictive outcome that quells the quislings of atrocity of the popinjay beadledom of the unspeakable tremors of seismotic popples of unrest warranted in Lebanon the homeland of Keanu Reeves a saint among men for his peerless grace and agraceries of the smog of myth evanescence becoming perdurable swings of the humdingers of berated jaundice becoming the prerogative of the revenge of a city leveled to the ground by suspicious skullduggery and I am surprised they lay dormant for this long in their protracted grievance over the ghoulish frights of one of the most unheralded major events in recent memory. We need to highlight the plight of Lebanon so that world leaders are frightened even of intimidated people tranquilized by terror rather than enlivened by the propriety of redacted rejoinders that serve the ulterior mission of a Titanic bravery that never sinks beneath the sumptuary treacle of grombang grambazzle and supercherie of the supercalendar of poignant repined repose derailing an emolument to ecumenical solidarity. Lets highlight Lebanon as an inexcusable trespass worthy of some mighty reckoning if not a riveted war but at the very least a devastated twinge of outrage.
Shiloh Mar 2013
I analyze,                                                         ­           my whole entire world
I specialize,                                                      ­            always in acting a fool
I socialize,                                                       ­ but the truth trickles through
I vocalize,                                                        ­                 not wanting to undo
I internalize,                                                     ­     everything that matters to
With surprise                                                         ­                   the ones I love
I realize,                                                         ­          they never left my side
Then I visualize.                                             Always believing what is right.
Lorem Ipsum Dec 2017
Hello
We haven't talked in quite some time
I know
I haven't been the best
Of sons, hello, I've been traveling in the desert of my mind
And I
Haven't found a drop
Of life
I haven't found a drop
Of you, I haven't found a drop
I haven't found a drop
Of water
Water
I try desperately to run through the sand
As I hold the water in the palm of my hand
'Cause it's all that I have and it's all that I need and
The waves of the water mean nothing to me
But I try my best and all that I can
To hold tightly onto what's left in my hand
But no matter how, how tightly I will strain
The sand will slow me down and the water will drain
I'm just being dramatic, in fact, I'm only at it again
As an addict with a pen, who's addicted to the wind
As it blows me back and forth, mindless, spineless, and pretend
Of course I'll be here again, see you tomorrow, but it's the end of today
End of my ways as a walking denial
My trial was filed as a crazy suicidal head case
But you specialize in dying, you hear me screaming "father"
And I'm lying here just crying, so wash me with your water
Water
Hello
I haven't talked in quite some time
I know
I haven't been the best
Of sons, hello, I've been traveling in the desert of my mind
And I
I haven't found a drop
Of life
I haven't found a drop
Of you
I haven't found a drop
I haven't found a drop
Of water

Songwriters: Joseph Tyler Harris
Addict with a Pen lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.there are only two aspects of forgiveness worthwhile, kept in anticipatory slumber, (1) is watching the masses congregate within the confines of your thinking, but (2)... watching how individuals in said massing of resources... seem to be akin to: someone walking on tip-toe on a bed  egg-shells... i'm met a few crazies... and i've prescribed myself investigating a few normal-folk, who are seemingly petrified, "thinking" than such: negations of ease, akin to depression, have an epidemic ontology.... that they are contagious... more or less.... like a sick ego, that bribes one's thinking and sows a false duality between what constitutes a body, consumed, with what otherwise, constitutes a mind... i've seen a few crazies... they seemed to like me, even when i suggested that we only just met...  the most senile people in the world... thus, to be frank... i'm more concerned with the sanity projects... with their emotional intelligence worth less than the emotional relativism of a gnat to a bear, which begs the reason os arguing: none... who... are so barren... they'd prefer the status of a pawn, in a game of chess, akin to Jimmy Savile...so much for the Saxon logic of: innocent until proven guilty... more like: innocent proven by death, after which... there is no case for either innocence, or guilt... i'm of the conviction... that... i'd rather see an innocent man claim redemption in life... than a guilty man laugh at a redemption in death; sorry... but i don't share the sort of sentiment that argues otherwise... better an innocent man claim redemption while alive... than a guilty man "claim innocence" while dead... part-and-parcel of the legality of the death penalty... the former argument: guilty until proven innocent makes a whole lot of sense without a death penalty... and the latter? no logic behind it... it makes no sense... then again... i am drunk, and i do not delve into sober issues or: serious circumstance... i allow sober people to meddle in such affairs... after all... sober people... make... the most... compelling arguments and, to boot, the most convincing opinions for up-coming affairs! why become a thief in their ordinances?! please! let the mice play, while the cat is away!  i need no bargain with ****-stormers and ******-buggery!

oh i've been to a few psychiatric interviews
over the past 10+ years...
always wondering: what am i doing
here? psychoanalyzing the psychiatrists?

you do know what a psychiatrist is
a poor man's psychologist -
with the added branch of pharmacological
applicability?
  a psychologist will just talk,
perhaps serve you camomile tea...
but prescribe zero drugs...

the talking, the endless talking,
the talking
of a west London psychologist...
who ends the relationship when
you mention:
i've had a dream of Allah...
god he's grotesque...
but, point: there was
someone with him...

  i thought that Allah had no
companions, or rather: he took none?
oops...

i remember analyzing this
situation once,
a ****** psychiatrist brought in
aa medicine student
who wanted to specialize in
psychiatry...
   apparently he concluded that
i was sane...
nice... being the subject
of learning curvature
surrounding a medicine student...

next came the allotment plant
to mind the crazies
while mingling them with the physical
retards...
stole a lot of potatoes that day...
the retards slurred,
exposed their genitals...
and were huddled together like
cattle by the social workers...

******* marvelous!
couldn't expect a lesser
Moulin Rouge reinterpretation
if i wasn't watching harlots
dance the: flinging
of the undergarments on show
that warm July afternoon!

but always, whenever i visited
a psychiatrist in a clinic:
always...
  why am i here?

you know what scares psychiatrists?
EM-PA-THY...
scares the living life out of them...
empathy is what psychiatrists
apprehend the most...
   so you're neither a psychopath
or a sociopath?
what are you then? comes the auto-suggestive
interpretation
of the ****** expression that
comes with suggesting,
even the slightest lack of contempt
for a basic human emotion...

scared, ****-less!
as if on a diet of ****** ruling
over Sudan, or similar ****...
famine after famine,
scared, but unable to soil their underwear,
given... well... the ******* famine...

oh i love psychoanalyzing
psychiatrists,
they have a shorthand blistering
beneath their appreciation for
listening...
their pharmacology branch...
caught one psychiatrist off guard...
he says, out loud,
that... i was abused as a child...

and?
  perhaps i was, perhaps i wasn't...
better that than being treated like
the modern Humpty-Dumpty...
walking on egg-shells typo,
rather than type, of what constitutes
the ontology of individualism...

i had to retort  with / resort to seeking
the opinion of a Polish neurologist
who, with a basic question
'doctor, am i mentally ill?'
replied
  'whoever said you're mentally ill,
is mentally ill themselves!'
case closed...
    
hence the statistics are believable
surround the death of Ellie...
teenage suicide rose in England
by 67% between 2010 and 2017...
    
so you do know the difference between
a psychologist, and a psychiatrist?
camomile tea...
   a psychologist is a humanist,
a psychiatrist is a physician...

if you're rich enough...
you see a humanist...
  poor? shorry...
   the pharmaceutical branch
of the practice is coming into practice...
but don't worry...
chances are...
    you talk what they want to hear
for a while, and then you start
talking what: they don't want you to hear...

hell...
  with this type of medication
and the whiskey...
i could turn into a semi-variant of a
hibernating bear!
i don't mind...
           i found that the glorification
pompous camp of cancer "survivors"
had their stab in the dark...
   because can we only regress
to glorifying surviving one type of
disease, while making stigma of
another kind?

the mentally ill are less of my concern....
i'm worried about the dim-wits
who abuse antibiotics!
   and i am... ******* numb-skulls...
taking antibiotics like
free-prescription vitamins!
creating the perfect niche for
super-bugs!
                      dim-wits!
         numb-skulls!
  and i thought that head-banging was
a source for erasing brain cells!
A Simillacrum Sep 2019
Start to dance,
maybe my bones break.
Start to chant,
maybe my voice dies.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop.

With this wand,
I waive rust.
With this wand,
I let blood.

Start. Stop. Start.

I don't want blood.
I don't want to buff
your sword and
your armor
anymore.

I only learned
this trade
for the portal spells.

I only want to
escape.
Dr Strange Sep 2015
They call me Dr.Strange because I don't thrive from the same ambition as the rest of my generation
I don't desire to **** every **** thing that walks and breathes
I was never a fan of getting high and skipping school
Hell the worse I've done is beat a ngga's *** for making a girl bleed
Yeah I'm so ******* hood, badass if you would  
A permant resident of wish a ***** woods
Where we specialize in the art of whoop ***
But at the same time I am kind
As gentle as a cotton ball
I will protect those who cannot protect themselves
Instead of being that coward who is left asking what if
But don't get my kindness twisted thinking you can trample all over my tiny self
Stomping me into the ******* ground as if I'm some type seed
But if you still have the urge to try me get this image in your head
I will make sure my weeded foot travels up your *** and out  of your mouth
I will not be afraid to rain down the scorching sensation of the hurt all over your flesh and bones
Causing you to sprout like a ******* bean stock as I just smile walking the opposite way
It is sad ****** these days try so hard to pretend to be all bad-***, talking so much **** I don't know whether to give them tissue or breath mint
Then what makes it even funnier they beat on these young girls thinking it makes them look tough
But in actuality it makes them look that much more of a ******* to society
**** is this really what male *** have come down to
A mere nuisance to society
A nation of fuckboys and male hoes
Is that what we are really aiming for
sigh wow I wonder what I'll have for dinner tonight
tomsout001 Mar 2013
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Julian Jul 2020
A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor
Simon Nov 2019
Consciousness is tailored for everyone’s efforts. The software, which includes the hardware it’s circumvented towards in order to specialize the countering of what makes it special in its tip top shape that won’t be the downfall of order itself. But the countering of how one tailors our operating systems day in and day out. Like computers and their operating systems. All are specialized with there own software that makes calculations after calculations day in and day out. Sort of a repeatable process for everyone’s pleasures to invoke upon. Circumventing the hardware that mounts an all-out assault of processes exchanging daily operations both inside and out. Guess you can say a operating system is a computers consciousness. Doesn’t matter how advanced one is to claim by performance alone. Sooner or later, the obvious is in its performance through actions alone. Performance is never equal, until you have a operating system that’s proud to be awake and functioning! Now what’s this about tailoring consciousness…? Nothing… Well, not really anyways. Were all tailored ever since birth. Natural inclinations among our living conditions pits us against rougher life styles then what our own kind is actually going through on the other side of there own spectrum. Spectrum's including a posher life style. Tailoring our consciousnesses proudly without guilt or suffering paying the wages in a more illusional priority to what truly counts for something being a one-sided treating operating system. Operating systems are just that…functioning platforms for our waking states to conjure up on a daily basis. Removing this operating system, would be like removing ourselves. Seizing to exist in our fully established biological states completely! Whatever state your consciousness is divided by, don’t tear it away because yours just seems to not function up to the claims of what lifestyle you (THINK) you should be tailored by. Whether you asked or not. Thou understandably it’s not your fault to what lifestyle you were brought up by. And the poverty that produces those brims full of guilt or suffering pays more wages to what is the true operating lengths of what the world is truly founded upon. Operating systems in computers are safe because there functioning. Tailored to be the tip top and posh lifestyle that one was engineered when sold separately. Which in tune was given to a higher base operating system that’s now channeling the wills and wants of what this engineered system is occupied to function with. More priorities in all! WOOT! Our consciousness sits back while judging harshly based on not feeling, because feeling is made more then just a waking state system. Its functionality isn’t important because it’s drawn out to be a system. Hence a somebody to tailor your own self importance’s up because your awake and functioning. Consciousness is tailored to exist because it’s there to see how the vessel that binds us all together, gives us our self importance in the first place. (Snapping of someone’s functioning width gives rise to friction counting for something jaw-dropping!) Achieving the snapping mechanism in one go. Thou many services kept trying with processes battling for perfection. Forwarding the plan to notion the regards of…what…exactly, pray tell?? They say we mirror our believe system out into the world. We make mistakes which spawn greater examples for the self importance eliciting the lesson of forgone truths straight from our focused conscious could elaborate on. Just like how apparently consciousness could reflect the universes true purpose in (WHY) the operating system acts the way it does. Hiding its true tailoring arts in such a twisting bind, it’s unaffordable to even speculate on. It’s simply beyond our pray tell minds to operate on. Yet we interact with it on a daily basis. Twisting, while binding something isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Not forgetting to include the involuntary postures shooting out the benefits to this natural, possibly biased claim. (What riches foretold such events to come…?) Obviously, nothing to what tailored these operating systems of ours. Electronic computers. Bioelectrochemical humans. Creations or creator. Tailoring their computations and biological processes to the highest degree. Everyone has a operating system that lets you consciously interact with the software that permeates the hardware holding it all together. Just like how a skull holds a brain. Which holds the nestles of mind. And mind carrying out the calculations of software bounded to the hardware that mind is also bounded by the brain. The universe is massive, yes! But a network in itself once said, (that no matter how big or massive your typical construct might seem to absolve all constraints of triumph! You need to look a little closer.) Humans dedication towards operating systems? Tailoring conscious properties?! Computers being creations of advanced operable, functioning exercises which circumvent those daily practices are too beneficiary to the thing that bounces back to a functioning mirroring mechanism playing for keeps with the lifestyle we all play ourselves in our own nestled corners. The universe is no different. But it’s not as big as you truly give it credit for. (Tailoring consciousness hears a snapping of someone’s functioning width giving rise to the friction counting for something without jaw-dropping results!) Maybe tomorrow when your operating system is all deemed redeemable by no good lucky efforts. You might start to benefit yourself among close surroundings that play you to look too far ahead of what is already tailoring you up to play the part directly towards.
Tailoring one's own awareness with the operating system that bodes well with everyday riches, produces harm to the rightful of places.
Santiago May 2015
We don’t know whether every angel carries out the same tasks, or whether some of them specialize in certain areas. The Bible does speak about classes of angelic beings like cherubim (Ezekiel 1) and seraphim (Isaiah 6). We also know the names of two notable angels: Michael (Daniel 10:13; Jude 9) and Gabriel (Daniel 9:21; Luke 1:19,26).

The unnamed angels who appear most often in Scripture carry out a variety of tasks - all designed to serve God…

    Worship and praise - This is the main activity portrayed in heaven (Isaiah 6:1-3; Revelation 4-5).

    Messengers - They serve as messengers to communicate God’s will to men. They helped reveal the law to Moses (Acts 7:52-53), and served as the carriers of much of the material in Daniel, and Revelation.

    Guiding - Angels gave instructions to Joseph about the birth of Jesus (Matthew 1-2), to the women at the tomb, to Philip (Acts 8:26), and to Cornelius (Acts 10:1-8).

    Providing - God has used angels to provide physical needs such as food for Hagar (Genesis 21:17-20), Elijah (1 Kings 19:6), and Christ after His temptation (Matthew 4:11).

    Protecting - Keeping God’s people out of physical danger, as in the cases of Daniel and the lions, and his three friends in the fiery furnace (Daniel 3 and 6).

    Delivering - Getting God’s people out of danger once they’re in it. Angels released the apostles from prison in Acts 5, and repeated the process for Peter in Acts 12.

    Strengthening and encouraging - Angels strengthened Jesus after His temptation (Matt 4:11), encouraged the apostles to keep preaching after releasing them from prison (Acts 5:19-20), and told Paul that everyone on his ship would survive the impending shipwreck (Acts 27:23-25).

    Answering prayer - God often uses angels as His means of answering the prayers of His people (Daniel 9:20-24; 10:10-12; Acts 12:1-17).

    Caring for believers at the moment of death. In the story of Lazarus and the rich man, we read that angels carried the spirit of Lazarus to “Abraham’s *****” when he died (Luke 16:22).

    Executioners - Angels are sometimes used by God to punish sin. An angel of the Lord went forth and smote an Assyrian camp (2 Kings 19:20-34) “behold, they were all dead corpses.” The Assyrian army was annihilated. A destroying angel was sent, but later withheld, to punish David for his vanity in taking a census of the great number of his people. At the time of Moses and the Exodus, the Egyptian firstborn where killed by an angel of death.
Crimsyy Aug 2016
I am living, fighting,
some even say I am surviving,
but inside I'm dying,
inside it smells of death.

Where are my flowers?
Thorns now burst,
I've lost count of the hours
spent crying, wishing for death
and being teased endlessly by it,
only to be told death
had no room for me.

I've thought about scissors
in non-artistic ways,
I've discovered that paper is
not the only thing you can cut,
I've tried teaching my lungs to breathe
Father, they give up on me
and every breath stings,
But you specialize in rebirth,
so hand me a pair of new wings.

I'm tired of fighting,
I'm tired of this war,
I'm tired of wondering what
I am here for,
I'm tired of existing this way,
I'm tired of these chains
I wear everyday.

If I am a free temple,
then why do I feel encaged?
Encaged in my own mind
where light you won't find,
locked behind bars,
wishing on stars,
begging scars to disappear,
hoping nobody witnesses my tears.
Kimberly Clemens Jun 2014
I'm going to fly away
I've strung two diamond kites to my back as wings
And I've tracked down the winding river-like patterns of the wind

I'm going to fly away
Because my kites will have no trouble
Picking up my hollow body, empty of life and experience and substance and
everything that defines what it means to be alive, up into the sky.

I'm going to glide on the air
and slowly make a parabola as I slide down the air current like
I'm on a water slide and then curve upwards
as if I'm a rocketeer testing out the power of my engine.

I'm going to glide on the air
because my feet are too tired of carrying the weight on my shoulders.
I want to feel the weightlessness that has encompassed my heart
every time it got its hopes up and every time it was broken.
The weightlessness that my empty lungs felt as
I lurched for oxygen in the smoky air
The weightlessness that my arms felt hugging
every one of imaginary friends that never felt real enough to believe in.
I want to feel the same physical weightlessness,
yet know it carries a much different meaning than all the others,
The one you feel when things are just where you want them to be,
The small floating instant in the transition from your upward velocity running out and
your momentum building as you are suddenly falling down.
The weightlessness of balance that I have only felt in the wrong ways.

I'm going to fly away
Because as a teenager I specialize in the concept of hating
every human being out there including myself.
and yet I'm dressed in all white save for the vibrant color of my kites
because I'd rather the world paint me into what it really is instead of me
painting the world into my skewed perceptions.

I'm going to fly away
and fly so far away and for so long
that my skin will turn the color of the sky
my kites will become a part of my body
my eyes will turn into every color humankind has failed to see
and I will feel alive,
my body full of the mass of life
that has replaced the weight on my shoulders
Which tried to hold me down to walk the concrete ground,
face the gray brick walls, and breathe the misused air

I'm going to fly away,
So I will learn to catch my breath the same way a landscape will take it away,
So I will hear the raw wavelengths of our earth,
So I will reach back to the trees reaching up to me from the ground
So I will feel the air currents take me along its route to nowhere in particular,
So I will live in fantastically unimaginable ways
So that when I land again,
I will be full of weight I don't mind carrying on my shoulders.
Yes,I'm going to fly away.
Q May 2014
I never once said I'd do it for fame
But what else do you call being a household name?
I never once implied I needed validation
But what other use do I have for recognization?

I've never once managed to specialize in a talent
Since when was focusing on a skill such a challenge?
I've never once suggested I needed any fanfare
But who would complain if the world can't help but stare?

I'd never once say I wanted to be idolized
But there's no harm in giving it a try.
This is my denial of my own motivations
I just want validification in the form of recognition.
Polar opposites.

Compare and contrast this.

Special operative.

The object is to improve your optics to specialize in her weapon diagnostics.

Or does your hard drive fold once this signal hits the note?

Beyond mission control the theory behind your thought is in the poems I wrote...

Behold her whole body turns solid gold she possesses , all knowledge know.

Are we under surveillance?

It doesn't pay for one to be careless..............
Crimsyy Nov 2016
I don't know who
the next me will be,
what skin she'll be wearing,
whether she will learn to surf the waves
and not just dip her feet in them.

Will this be the year
she finally looks anxiety in
the eye and says
"You will not stop me?"
Will it be the year she finally
looks suicide in the eye and says
"You will not take me?"

My youth and her youth is slipping away
behind signatures and steering wheels,
behind money and percentages,
but these don't define her or me...

If she'll believe in herself,
throw herself into life's ride
and breathe, then she will be okay,
but if she is the harshest critic,
the most high of all perfectionists,
she might struggle.

I want to tell her that breathing
is the most beautiful thing she could
specialize in during her beautiful existence,
I want to tell her to not be terrified of the night,
and whatever lurks behind her eyelids,
It's just a dream girl, nothing more.

I want to tell her imperfection is beautiful,
I want to tell her to commit so
her life can be wonderful,
I want to tell her she wasn't raised
to howl over anyone,
I want to tell her: let them love you,
and let them leave you,
Let them hold you but
don't ever let them break you.
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
They say i’m creative as a reversed mime;thinking outta the box
my minds found a way to rehearse time while it stops the clock

tick tock
what time is it?

prison block – on some infinite minute ****.

neurons firing

pew

change of management declared- archetypal hiring–whoo
“Do you specialize in living positively?”
{I can try}
“Will you try to stay away from virus compositories?”
{oh me oh my!}

I live different lives as the same people:
go to the same church with different steeples.

Question the voice from my bed; oh **** am I dead?
tryn to lift my arms, but they filled with lead

where am I going and who have i led, to wander and ponder in the land of the dead

its this chilly necropolipse; filled with empty soul ships.

I can’t get warm here and so I fear

stricken by a paralysis , caught in the mists of myr

influenced by infected cysts, sickness adhere…

better deal quik through love metamorphosis
but I kan't…..—————-says who?
great big king boo!

he haunts me and taunts me into less than mediocrity

but its simplicity, don't deal with me, simply leave and then you’ll be free

of me and my moaning, *******, and pathetic groaning

but I’m simply freeflowing,

I guess I'm like an emo chick, dip in quick , then get out of it

like a quicksand pit you’ll stick quick – I do my job a bit to legit

while you sit and feel …………………………………………

……………………………this is some straight simple ****:

1+1= 2

but in my equation, I'm still left with none, no you'd think , but this ain't fun

“So leave!” I yell
“Get out of here!”

I’m lost and confused like a catholic queer
Am I sincere?

maybe

what morals appear?

when your without another and can't find your brother
simply steer clear quick!————————————————–>away from that skell *****

with his nonsensical lycrical pains

and paradoxical ego feigns

from left to up
side to side
always quik to hop
and hide n hide

non-attached….*******!-^-–<>re-attache these b-r-o-k-e-n__bits& p.i.e.c.e.s

so maybe one day you’ll do better than me

Just don’t listen to way i say and get away from me

EMO thoughts brought to light

need some ***- I think i might

oh wait , is this just a way for me…the pages in the journal get away from me

a psychiatrist in the pages….paid for free.

****, thanks ink, thanks journal, thanks ego and funeral

I just killed my ego , and it was the death of me.
Constructing English grammar- a hubby I would say.
Such a thing I do well.
But when it comes to a stage.
I find somethings confusing.

English spelling.... What a task!
With my writings:
Thou, I do try my best
To capture imagery with powerful words.
And to clinch my spellings along to its best.
I do wonder "How?"

Getting it right,... is it "son" or "sun,"  "tier" or "tear."
I often beat my senses on.
To figure which most suitable.

When it comes to writing "4."
Should I write "for" or "four"or "fore."
And spelling "handkerchief" correctly
Is so worrisome to try.

In words like "fiest" and "height."
Should I use "ei" or" ie"
Obviously,  the rules are worth learning.
Since they're levelled up on standards .

There are also some silent letters.
For example; "p" in "psychology."
And" k" in" know."
As "come" ends with a "e."

How often do you notice the "y" in "day?"
Why not written as "dai?"
What of the spelling" knowledge"
Why not save us the stress and writes "nolege?"
What the stress!

Also,  there are word formations.
The noun from "wise."
Is the word "wisdom."
The verb from the word "special."
Is the word "specialize."

How do I explain to my children?
The singular and plural forms of  VERBS
As "writes" states the singular form
And "write" the plural form.
Why not in the reverse just like the noun forms.?

If that should be the case.
I need to learn more on the appropriate use of :
"Write" to "rite" to "right"
Wahala for who no know English Grammar.
Problems with constructing English grammar sometimes are  unavoidable,  and thus, the rules needs to be mastered.
Ari L Mar 2016
Artificial, yet an artisan,
Pontifically partisan,
She raised her eyes to heaven high
And chiseled my heart with steady hands

She carved her own intricate façade,
And painted her mask to earn applaud,
Beneath her father’s right-wing feathers
Brought up to pray to his decreed god

He crowned her with his finest gems
To show her off to all his friends;
Helped her gild herself with gold
An aristocratic wright in the truest sense

“But I specialize in counterfeit,”
She said, as I saw under the definite
And skillful strokes, the expert notches,
A messy sketch yearning to freely acquit

“Then be free,” I said, as she let me in
Her atelier. So I scraped from her skin
The china-doll gloss and regal glitter,
And drained her blue blood of cyan tint

She smiled—the laughter lines made cracks
Through lips of plaster and cheeks of wax
I took the gleaming jewels from her eyes,
And saw new life glimmer in rolling tear tracks

She was a tempest of color, splattered and spilled
A muse incarnate that could not be stilled,
Chaos unveiled, but beautifully alive
With soul redeemed and freedom fulfilled
Written November 2014, for the theme 'metamorphosis'.
deprivedkat Jun 2016
People are quite similar, different but similar. What can happen once, can happen twice. What can happen twice can happen over and over. There's no anomaly in this sense. What I feel is happening all over the world. Perhaps, I've gotten good at spotting fake smiles because when one wears one, one learns to spot one. Check the eyes. The smile is on the mouth yet absent from the eyes. I seek for what is missing. So I study others to find my missing puzzle piece. A trial and error, for I find myself chasing the joy others are having. But after awhile, I realize that I'm just different. I react differently to stimulus provided by life. I realize that I'm stronger than how I once believed, those days I lay alone too exhausted that death sounds appealing. But to lay down with tears, I realize it's not over yet. So I look foolish and get up after thinking I couldn't take anymore. I keep walking. My desires are misleading and failure is common, but I walk anyway. And maybe it's a desire I have.. the possibility that things will get better.

People are social, they love to talk. Doesn't matter with who, even with those they dislike. Could it be to feed a need? The chocolate of social activity? I don't specialize in keeping small talk, nor a fan of it. I often hear people talk about the importance of eating and drinking well, the way of a healthy lifestyle. But shouldn't there be a class about talking well? There are naturals, but for me it's not the same. The mimickers, those who emulate the behaviour and those who do it on instinct. I, upset the balance because of my ways.

People see me and expect me to be something great. I upset their expectation and cause disappointment. I'm familiar with the term. What seems to be a long term game.

People are like fruits, I was told. *Feed them well with what they need and they'll grow ripe and well.
© June 27 , 2016 deprivedkat  

A bad apple vs. The chocolate of social activity
Lawrence Hall Jun 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                     Fashionable Death Cults Then and Now

After the June 1941 German invasion of the Soviet Union and Einsatzgruppe mass shootings of civilians, the Nazis experimented with gas vans for mass killing…

-Gassing Operations | Holocaust Encyclopedia (ushmm.org)

Dozens of migrants were found dead in an abandoned big rig in San Antonio on Monday in what appears to be the deadliest human smuggling case in modern U.S. history.


-At least 50 migrants found dead inside a truck in San Antonio, officials say (cnbc.com)

We have our death vans too, not well-organized
But rolling down the American road
Unseen by our leaders in their personal jets
Flying to Frisco or maybe Cancun

Bombings and shootings on the street and in church
Job lots in hospitals, by the dozens in schools
For we too specialize in genocide
And may Moloch and Herod bless our AR-15s

If any children survive, we’ll call them Generation Something
And tell them each day how inadequate they are
Our nation as a death cult
There is nobody there for you, and now, there never will be. I don’t have a goodbye for you. I tried to find one, I searched really hard, but shifting through the **** made me sick. I’m well again now. I don’t have anything for you. Once I had everything. All my words were wonders and they leapt out of the sun, smiling, but you shot them down with a blood-encrusted gun. They flopped around mewling, trying to hide behind injured wings, as you sought them out and stepped on them, laughing. Dream-cruncher, word-waster, selling your sad, sick song. You specialize in nasty tastes, brutal boy, and you won’t care. Narcissist. Ego King. I don’t think you have ever loved. You would love this poem.
I  don't usually write in this style. I love KC Aiken's recent prose work, so I wanted to try. It was extremely cathartic. Thank you KC.
Rah Fullmetal Jan 2012
I have turned into something you wouldn't recognize
I've grown into someone that seems to specialize
In alienation and self-propagation
My wrists have cracked, my bones have been broken
My fingers twisted into knots, but my voice has never been spoken.

Sitting here holding hands with my mistakes
I've perceived and been deceived by many fakes
Dying again from lying again, to my family, my friends
But still refusing to give in to all your past friends' dead trends
Now I can see, from my room filled with smoke
A violent storm brewing right off the coast.

While the machine grows hungry from churning, converting sinners to saints
Aware of the skeletons, the secrets, hidden only in our deepest lakes
The darkest part of our mind, kept under lock and key
Kept hidden, kept secret, made unaware to all we see.
I specialize in lies;
I have special lies.
I am an expert in falsities,
oh, isn't that the most lovely?

I can easily take words from
very empty minds,
but cannot put a word into
a mind as active as mine.

Stealing lines from empty air
is my favorite little talent.
I can form a pretty song,
when there's seemingly nothing there.

I can sew cloth on cloth to
create a bed of thoughts.
And petals on each flower
represents the colors in your eyes.

Yes, I am a professional liar,
but I supposed that I was a writer.

It might seem outlandish,
or perhaps, kinda sad-ish,
but I can lie with words
and make you feel the feelings,
of whatever I may create.
Maria Etre Feb 2016
I glanced at him
in the car ride home
we both shared the backseat

Dwindling between sobriety
and the hazy reality
just like the wine in the bottle
resting between my hands
our logic made no sense
it even gave up

As the mumbles in the car
increased so did the vibrations
in our silence
the back seat had a world of its own

Full of untold attractions
engraved mysteries only those
who specialize in none verbal communication
can decode

There it is again
that glance, he's not looking
but she lays her vision
on him, tripping through
a roller-coaster of bottled emotions
she opens her mouth, but nothing
comes out,

It's a complicated situation
that even the back seat of the car
can tell

He turned to sneak a look
she looked away
at the window, she smiles
to her self
to the thoughts that lay themselves
in front of her vision, her only vision

He slithered his hand
to journey all the way from his side
to hers, an adventure that seemed to be
the most dangerous one of all

It made it over the armrest
slowly...
She still staring outside, marveling
at what she knows, he knows

She felt a warm embrace
and entwine between her fingers
she still didn't turn yet
but she knew....
that he knew
what they
both
know
Chapter One

He sat there looking over the edge alone and couldn’t remember how long he had been there. He thought it had been a very long time.

The drive from Oakland had taken the best part of a day, and although having traveled across some of the most scenic parts of the western United States, his mind was blank, he couldn’t remember anything.  He only knew what he had come here to do, and before the sun would set over his left shoulder, he strengthened his resolve to do it.

He thought about leaving a note, but then who would read it.  He was sure whoever did find it wouldn’t care. He couldn’t remember why he had picked the ‘Canyon’ as the place to end it all. He just knew he was drawn to the place, and in some strange way the Canyon understood.  He wasn’t sure what most men thought about knowing it was their last day on earth.  At this point he was having trouble thinking about anything at all.

He forced himself to try and think about his three failed marriages and his two sons from his first marriage.  One, his oldest son Robert, had recently died of a drug overdose. His younger son Hank was an Army Ranger who had recently been killed while serving a second deployment in Afghanistan.  Neither boy had spoken to him since he had deserted their mother when they were both very young (5 & 7).

He had been discharged from the Army in 1969 at Fort ***** New Jersey after serving 14 months in Vietnam.  He then spent three months hitchhiking across the country, from New Jersey to California, trying to get his head back on straight as he worked his way back home.

He would like to blame all of his bad luck on something that had happened to him over there, but he knew in his heart that he couldn’t.  He had been a supply sergeant at a large depot in downtown Saigon. His only experience with combat was listening to the stories from the grunts recently returned from the bush as they self-medicated themselves inside the many bars and clubs that overran the downtown streets and alleyways.  He often basked in the aftermath of their stories secretly wishing he were one of them. He had had a chance to volunteer for combat artillery but had turned it down.

He took his sunglasses off because it was almost time. He had forgotten to check-out of the Yavapi Motor Lodge before walking the half-mile to the rim where he now sat. The sun was dropping low in the Western sky as he stood up to move closer to the edge. It was just then that he heard a rustling sound coming from the bushes to his left that he had not heard before.  

Chapter Two

The motorcycle ride across the plains and high desert through the Dakota’s and Wyoming had been as idyllic as he ever imagined. He had spent almost a week in Yellowstone, having to force himself to leave on the seventh day. He was headed South, but he had one more great sight to see before working his way back East toward New Mexico.

He had promised himself before dedicating the rest of his life to the Dominicans that he would go and visit the Grand Canyon this one last time.  In many ways his life had been like the Canyon, overwhelming in its purpose and majestic in its beauty. His life had taken on a timeless quality that always left him feeling like everything he had done would somehow last forever.

He had lost his beloved wife Sarah last April after a long and debilitating illness.  They had been married for forty-one years and had traveled the world together. After all of the travel, Sarah’s two favorite spots on earth were Yellowstone and The Grand Canyon.  He always felt that she loved the Canyon the most, and he was saving it for last.  She had been his best friend and partner and had supported him in everything he had done, both at his work, but even more important to him, at his leisure.

He had been born with a restless adventurous spirit inside of him, and it was one of the things Sarah loved most about him and had always given him plenty of rope to roam.  He loved her all the more for it.  He now felt that the only way he could go on without her was to devote himself to a cause she had always been passionate about, the Dominican Mission in Pastura New Mexico.  The mission had been founded almost two hundred years ago to help and educate the many Native Tribes that lived in the area.

He needed to dedicate the remainder of his life to something bigger that just himself.  Because of all the good work his wife had done on their behalf, the Dominicans had accepted him into their order, and they were expecting him before the week was out.

He had recently sold his business for over 100 million dollars, and after securing his grandchildren’s education was going to use the bulk of the money to build a hospital in rural New Mexico to treat the poor and disenfranchised.  He wanted the hospital to specialize in treating diabetes and juvenile diabetes since so many of the Native Americans in the Southwest (and all over the U.S.) were suffering from this terrible disease.  It had been the disease that had finally claimed his beloved wife Sarah.

He was riding a vintage/antique BMW motorcycle that he had spent the last 20 years restoring.  Although it was over 50 years old, there was no part of this bike that you couldn’t eat off of.  Like everything else in his life, it was a reflection of him and the ‘midas’ effect he seemed to have on everything he touched. Everything in his life just seemed to ‘WORK’ !

After checking into his motel at the South Rim of the Canyon, he decided there was still time to get to his wife’s favorite spot along the rim to Watch the sun go completely down.  As he walked through the Pinyon Trees toward the rim, he thought he saw a figure standing close to the edge.  Whoever it was had heard him coming through the brush and was now looking his way.

“Hello,” he called out.  “Aren’t you standing a little too close to the rim?”  “What do you want,” he heard back in response, “I thought I was here alone.” “Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude, but like you, I just wanted to take one look over before the day ended. It’s nice to find someone else here to be able to share this magnificent view with.”
  
“I didn’t come here to share anything with anybody,” he heard back again, “And like I said before, I thought I was alone.”  As the man spoke, he walked slowly backwards and seated himself on the large rock where he had laid his sunglasses before. He put his sunglasses back on before speaking again.

“You know it’s unbelievable, no matter how many times I’ve seen the view from this rim, it’s always like seeing it for the first time again.  This was my wife’s favorite spot on earth.  It’s almost impossible to describe, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know, it’s my first time here, he heard the seated man say.  “Wow, first time huh.  I can still remember my first time, but then every time is like that first time to me, and that was over 35 years ago.”  “It may be special to you,” the man sitting down said, now without looking his way, “To me it’s just a big hole in the ground.”
As he emerged from the Pinyon Pines and approached the rim, he noticed something strange and out of place.  There was a large black handgun sitting with its barrel pointed out toward the canyon, in between the seated man’s two legs.  

He slowly walked off to his left and moved very cautiously toward the rim, being careful not to make any sudden moves.  He tried to act nonchalant and make it seem like he hadn’t noticed the gun.  The man on the rock knew that he had seen it as he tried to close both legs over the gun and hide it from further sight.

“Have you been here long,” he asked the seated man? “I don’t know --- I don’t know, it seems like long.”  ‘Well, it’s a great place to sit and reflect about life and think about where life’s journey goes next.”
“I know all about where my life has been and where it‘s going,”  

At this point the man stopped speaking and there was a very uncomfortable moment of silence — a silence that seemed to fill the surrounding canyon with a new emptiness that rivaled even its great depths.  “You look like you’re upset sitting there all alone, might I ask the reasons why.”  The seated man then finally turned his head his way and said, ‘Why would you care if I’m upset or not.”

“I can’t explain why I care, but I do, and if you’d like to tell me about it, I’d like to listen.”  “Why in the world would you want to listen to someone else’s problems when you seem not to have a care in the world.  Especially coming from someone that you don’t know and who you’ve just met at a spot like this that you so obviously love and have great affection for?” 
 
“Maybe for that very reason, because it is a beautiful day today and this is one of the world’s most magical spots.  I am having a hard time accepting how someone could seem so depressed and dejected in a place like this.  You may not believe me, but that’s exactly how I feel.  Why did you come to the Grand Canyon in a state like this. Were you hoping that the majesty of the canyon would lift your spirits and cheer you up?”

“I know that some like you have said that this is the most powerful place on earth.  I thought it would be a most appropriate place, or certainly as good as any,” as his voice trailed off again and silence intervened.

“As good as any to do what,” the standing man asked as he moved slightly closer.  The seated man didn’t answer as he stared out over the rim into the huge expanse of rock and sky.  Finally, he said, “Really, why would you even care, I’m nothing to you, and it’s really none of your business.”  “About that, you’re right, and if I’m intruding then I apologize, but I’m getting the strongest feeling that meeting you here today in this spot was no accident.  Do you think about things like that?”

The man stood up but did not answer.  ‘What are your plans today after the sun sets? I just checked into the motel a short ways down the road, the Yavapai Motor Lodge, ever heard of it.”  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it, maybe you should be heading back there before it starts to get dark.”  “Why don’t we walk back together, I’d enjoy the company.”
“Look, I don’t have any plans that go beyond this evening, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave, as I’d like to be alone to finish what I started.”  “I’d really like to hear all about that if you’d be willing to tell me. I’ve got nothing but time.”

The man now standing with his sunglasses back on in the approaching darkness was frozen by the words –'Nothing but time.’  He had made the decision earlier that for him, time was up and today would be the end.  Now he had some do-gooding stranger who had invaded his privacy unannounced and wouldn’t seem to back off.  

“Look, for the last time, you don’t want to hear my sad story, no one ever has, and no-one ever will.”  “Well, why don’t you just try me.  If I turn out to be like everyone else in your life after you’ve told me, you can always just get up and walk away --- end of story!”
“You look like someone whose life has turned out very well and never had a bad day in your life.”  

“Honestly, you’re making me feel guilty because when I look at my life in total, you’re pretty much correct.  I have had that kind of a life and feel very blessed because of it.  I’m going to assume that you have not.”

His honesty at admitting to having had a charmed life seemed to make an impression on the man as he answered back, “Nothing, absolutely nothing in my life has worked out, from my failed marriages, to my children who are now gone, and to all the nothing job’s. Everything has been a failure.  My life has been one great disappointment after another, and I can’t see the point in going on.”
The reality of the situation now became crystal clear.

“So, you were going to end it all here today at the South Rim of this Canyon?  It seems too beautiful a place for something so drastic.”
“I was, and I am going to end it all today in spite of everything you’ve said.”  “What is the gun for, if I might ask?”  The gun is just in case I don’t have guts enough to jump.  Guts is something I’ve always struggled with too.”

“Is there anything I can say, anything at all, that might make you change your mind, at least for a little while?”

“Nothing,” the man said.  “You don’t know me, and I’m sure there’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t already said to myself.”  “If I could come up with one reason, just one, for you not to jump, would that make any difference at all?”  “Why would you even care to try when my mind is made up?”

“I’m glad you used the word ‘care’ when asking me that question.  Who is the last person in your life that you thought truly ‘cared’ for you?’  “I can’t remember, and I’m not sure anyone ever did.  My Parents split up when I was three and I was raised in one foster home after another before joining the army because I didn’t have guts enough to run away.  I’m not sure that word has any real meaning for me.”

“What if I was to tell you that I care about you, --- very much, and I don’t want to see you do what you’re getting ready to do in this most sacred of spots or anywhere for that matter.”“You just stumbled upon me by chance in my sorry state, and now feel pity for me and your conscience won’t let you leave well enough alone.”  

In a very strange way, he didn’t feel sorry for the man but felt guilty for the blessed life he had lived.  It all needed to make sense, or he couldn’t go back.  Why tonight, and why at this spot that he was looking so forward to.

He struggled for his next words before speaking again to the troubled man who had now gotten precariously close to the edge. The scene started to remind him of the movies he had seen where a man would be standing out on a building’s ledge, high above the street.  In the movies there was always a heroic detective or passerby who was able to talk the man down.  He knew he was running out of time, and he also knew this man he had just met could smell insincerity from a 100-miles away.

“I’d like to help you get through this in any way that I can.”  “There’s no getting through it. If you really want to do me a favor, just walk back to where you came from and let me finish what I came here to do.”

“I can’t explain this to you, but I know now that I was brought here today for a reason — a reason beyond a one last goodbye to this place.  I could have, and actually thought about, stopping at many of the rims my wife and I loved, but I picked this one because this was her favorite.  I know now that it had a higher purpose.  You may not want to hear this, but you came to this place today to end it all because of what has always been missing in your life only to find exactly that when I came walking through the trees.  In fact, to prove what I’m saying, I’d like to make you an offer.

“Suppose someone, in this case me, were to say that they would trade positions with you and that they would do what you are thinking about doing if you would do something very important for them.”  What do you mean,” the man said looking back from the edge.

‘What if I were to tell you that I would be willing to step off the edge of this canyon to show you how much I really care.  Would you be willing to fulfill a dream of mine in turn for my doing that.  You will then see that a total stranger is willing to give it all up for you if you will be willing to commit to something that is equally important to them.”

“You’re either crazy or you think that I am.  Nobody’s going to give up their life to prove to me that they care about saving my worthless life.  Your life seems to have a value beyond what I can describe.”
“You’re right about that, and my life has had a value beyond what even I can describe, but what I am telling you is that the deal I am making you is real. After hearing my terms and agreeing to what you will have to do, I will jump off this Canyon wall so you can find the happiness, peace, and contentment you deserve.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, all of this is crazy, sheer lunacy.  I think I’ve been joined on this cliff by a man who’s completely lost his own mind.”“All right then, let’s do this.  Would you agree to sleep on it overnight.  If you feel the same way in the morning, then I will carry out your plan if you will fulfill mine.  Are you staying at that same motel as I am.”  “Yeah, I checked in yesterday and forgot to check out, so I guess I still have a room.”  Maybe it was for a reason he thought to himself, as he stood there shaking his head in the darkness.

“Don’t shake your head, just tell me you’ll think about it.
If I don’t hear from you, and I’m in room #888, I’ll assume that our deal is set, and I’ll fulfill my part of our agreement.”  “OK, one more night,” the man said as he picked up his gun and tucked it into the small of his back.  “One more night, but I don’t really think anything is going to change.”

They walked back to the Yavapai Motor Lodge in silence together.  Both men felt at this point that they had known each other for a very long time — maybe an eternity.  Nighttime in the Canyon echoes a silence louder than anything that can be made with sound.
As they entered the lobby, they both went in different directions without saying goodnight.

The man who had come by motorcycle wondered: ‘Was I challenged by God before ever reaching the Dominicans? Will I ever see those peaceful hallways and gardens that my wife loved so much ever again?”


Chapter Three

Jack hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in over fifteen years.  His tortured mind and soul just seemed to never rest.  He woke to the sounds of birds and bright sunshine outside his window.  Last night he had truly slept for the first time in his adult life. He never needed an alarm, but it had sounded to him like one had been going off.  

All at once he realized what it was --- it was a siren.  Multiple sirens were going off and he wondered if the Motel was on fire.  Still slightly disoriented from the past two days, and the effects of so much sleep, he threw his pants and shoes on and headed down the hall toward the lobby.

He then remembered the strange conversation he had had with that man in the Canyon last night.  Cold sweat started to flow as he then remembered their agreement. “If I don’t hear differently by first thing tomorrow morning, I will go ahead with my part of our agreement.”  Jack tried to compose himself as he thought, “No way, no way anyone would be crazy enough to do what he said he would do last night.  If this place isn’t on fire, maybe he’s having breakfast in the coffee shop off the lobby.”

As he hustled through the lobby, the desk clerk shouted to him but he didn’t stop.  He saw fire engines and ambulances outside, and he wanted to see what was going on.  He was immediately relieved when he saw Fred’s motorcycle parked in the same spot as last night.
Something else didn’t look right though.  There were at least three fire engines and two ambulances outside but nothing was on fire and there was no car accident to be seen.  Obviously, something was afoot, but everyone seemed too busy to talk to him. He walked back into the Motel and through the lobby…

This time the desk clerk came out from behind the desk and said, “Hey, I was shouting to you as you ran out the door.  There’s an envelope for you here from the guy who jumped.  The police are looking to talk to you as they have no clues as to why or what drove him to step off the edge.  We get a couple of jumpers every year, but this guy seemed totally different.  He was one of the most upbeat people to come in here in a long time.”

JUMP!  It seemed impossible.  Jack couldn’t wrap his mind around it as he opened the envelope.  In a very neat handwriting, it said --- ‘I’ve left something for you under the seat of my motorcycle.” As he started back outside the desk clerk asked, “Did you know him very well?”  “No, not really, I just met him late yesterday afternoon for the first time.” 
 
Jack's knees weakened as the desk clerk went on.  “It’s really weird.  He was actually whistling when he walked through the lobby this morning at about 7:15.”  “Who, Jack asked.”  “Why the Jumper, the guy who jumped.  He was smiling and commenting on what a beautiful day it was, and how he hoped we all were going to have a great day.  I guess it just goes to show --- you never know.
At 7:42, the police got a call from the Havasupai Indians that live along the bottom saying that a full set of clothes had fallen to the floor of the canyon, shirt, shoes, socks, underwear, the whole deal.  Everything, but a body.  The police are having the hardest time making any sense of it at all.”

The words ‘you never know’ kept repeating in Jack’s ears as he walked outside. As he unlatched the seat and lifted it up on the old BMW, he found a two-page note folded over and neatly placed between the frame. It went on to say …

Dear Jack
I don’t know and can hardly imagine what your life must have been like up until now.  I wish I had the power to go back and change the bad things that happened to you, but I don’t.

The only power that I have, the one that all of us have, is to change what happens now.  I hope you will believe me now when I say I really do care about you more than you know, and I am happy and willing to live up to my promise.  I am now counting on you to live up to yours.

The only thing extra I ask, and I’ve put this in writing to the head Abbott, is for you to be allowed to ride the motorcycle back to this spot once every year.  Once here, I would like you to say a Rosary for the souls of my family and for all the faithful departed.  If you put in a good word for me that would be all the better. If you do this, I know your new life will be joyous and take on a deeper meaning, and more than make up for any troubles that you’ve experienced up until now.
If you choose not to keep your promise and go through with ending your life, then I forgive you and still love you, but I don’t think you’re going to do that.

May God Bless and keep you.

Fred

Underneath the note there was a folded-up roadmap with a line drawn in magic marker pointing the way to the monastery in New Mexico. Jack sat down on the curb in front of the motorcycle in disbelief.  There was one more slip of paper folded up in the map.  It was the title to the old BMW.  It had been signed over to Jack.

“He couldn’t have, he couldn’t have, he just wouldn’t have,” Jack kept saying over and over to himself.  Just then a large Park Policeman tapped Jack on the shoulder and asked him if he would mind answering a few questions.  Jack agreed but then told the officer that after speaking with him he just might be even more confused.  The officer went on to tell Jack that none of their suspicions panned out.  This man hadn’t jumped for insurance money (he was very wealthy), or out of a history of depression, he just jumped.
And none of the usual reasons seemed to apply.

After thirty-five minutes of polite questioning the police officer walked away scratching his head.  On the margin of the map was a scribbled note, “Don’t delay out of any concern for me, get to the monastery as quickly as you can.”  Jack had told the police officer about Fred wanting him to have the bike and showed him the title that had been left for him.  He did not show the police officer the letter Fred had left and was in fact surprised that they hadn’t checked the bike.  Then it all started to make sense.  If Jack hadn’t read the note Fred left with the desk clerk, he would never have known the seat to the motorcycle opened up.  He was sure the police didn’t know that either.  He was glad no-one was looking when he opened up the seat and took out the letter.  In all the commotion, everyone else was just looking the other way.

Jack wanted to go back to the spot where Fred jumped and where they first had met, but the police had it roped off. He decided to leave for New Mexico right away because that’s what Fred would have wanted.  The news stations were now calling it a ‘Mystery In The Canyon’ because only clothes, and no body was found.

Jack had never ridden a motorcycle before but had often fantasized about it.  Like most things in his life he had always come up with excuses as to why he couldn’t ride, while secretly envying those who did.  He took to the old bike immediately, and with every hour that passed on Rt #40 he enjoyed the ride more and more. A new type of guilt started to set in because he was actually enjoying his new life with every new twist of the throttle and turn of the handlebars.

Chapter Four

Jack pulled up in front of the Old Dominican Monastery with its Spanish Adobe Walls at 2:30 the following afternoon.  He had spent the previous night in Gallup and had actually been able to volunteer at the Dominican Soup Kitchen that was housed in the old Post Office in the center of downtown.  

Gallup was very depressed and except for a flourishing Indian Jewelry Industry had very little in the way of jobs and opportunity.  The Friar who ran the soup kitchen listened to Jacks story and then put his arm around him and led him inside.  Jack was astonished that the story seemed to make perfect sense to this selfless Padre.

Jack spent the night on a cot behind the soup kitchen and after having an early breakfast with Padre Nick, headed on his way east toward the Monastery in the New Mexico desert.   It reminded Jack of the pictures he had seen of an oasis in the middle of the Arabian desert.  There were palm trees and many varieties of flowers surrounded by what looked like an eternity of sand.  Jack loved the sparseness of his new surroundings, but he still didn’t know why.
The Monastery sat atop a sandy hill at the end of a long unpaved road.  He parked the bike outside the two large, padlocked, doors and began to knock.  

Before he could make contact with the old wooden door on the right a smaller door within it began to open. He stepped through the door as a monk whose hood was completely covering his head lead him inside.  The monastery had a quiet about it that would rival that of the Canyon.  There were three old Spanish Buildings side by side, and the main door to the one in the middle was already open.

He asked the monk where they were going and heard back nothing in return. The hooded monk led Jack down a long hallway to another open door on the left.  He knocked on the door three times as he led jack through and motioned for him to sit down on one of the two chairs in front of the large stone fireplace.  I wonder where they get stone in a desert like this Jack wondered to himself.

Jack looked up slightly and saw the image of two large and heavily tanned feet in sandals walking toward him at a lively pace.  As he looked even higher, he saw a stocky and athletically built man who looked to be in his mid-sixties with a smile that could have come from an angelic two-year old child.

My name is Abbott Estefan, and I have been expecting you all day.  Early this morning I got a letter from our beloved Fred, telling the details of your meeting.  Before we do anything else, we must pray together to him that your mission here will be successful.  I am certain in my heart that Fred now sits with the Saints in heaven and is at this very moment looking down on us both --- with love !

I read Fred’s words, and I am still in partial disbelief.  Would you like to tell me in your words what happened yesterday, Jack?  Soon Abbott, but not right now, I hope you can understand.”  “I do totally my son. Let’s get you settled and then you can start to feel like one of us.  I know that is what Fred would have wanted.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten,” Abbott Estefan asked.  “This morning, in Gallup with Padre Nick,” Jack answered.  “Ah, Padre Nick, one of our very finest.  Half Pueblo and half Navajo but all Dominican.  Once you walk through those front doors, all ‘divisions’ of ethnicity and nationality fade away like the shifting sands.”
“First the body, then the mind.  It’s time to get something into your stomach.  We are only humble servants of the poor around here Jack, but we eat like Roman Emperors.  It’s one of the perks of our particular order.”  “Sounds great to me Abbot, when it comes to food, I’m not picky.”

They laughed together at Jacks comment as they walked down another long hallway around a corner and into the biggest kitchen Jack had even seen.  Padre Francisco was the head cook, and he started to ladle out an array of Mexican food onto a plate the likes of which Jack had never seen.  He decided to eat every drop so as not to disappoint the good Padre.  Once finished ,Abbott Estefan led Jack to his new room on the second floor.

It was very well lit and like all of the Monk’s rooms it faced East to meet the rising sun.  “Get some rest now Jack, morning prayers are at 5a.m. and breakfast is at 6.  I’ll have someone put your motorcycle in one of the stables. You do intend to keep your promise, don’t you Jack, Abbott Estefan asked as he closed the door.”  YES, Jack said to himself as he sat down in the bed.  But then he knew the Abbott already knew his answer.

Jack had never heard anyone laugh with the gusto of Abbott Estefan.  He liked it here already as he could feel his old life peeling away like layers coming off an old onion. Two days later, Jack and Abbott Estefan took a walk around the grounds as Jack told the Abbott the whole story about Fred and their chance meeting at the Grand Canyon.  “Ah yes, the police have contacted us because they found out through Fred’s family that he was coming to be one of us.  I pray that they will someday know more about his passing than they do today. In his letter, Fred asked us not to say anything.  

Two Havasupai elders who were meditating at dawn that morning high among the rocks said they both saw an eagle swoop through the bottom of the canyon just before Fred’s clothing hit the ground.  They then looked up and saw two hands reaching out of the clouds which grabbed the eagle right out of the sky.

WE ARE BUILDING A GROTTO TO FRED IN THIS VERY SPOT WHERE YOU ARE STANDING NOW!

The Monastery was almost totally cloistered, and voices were only used when absolutely necessary.  Over the next several months Jack would come to find out how overrated ‘talking’ really is.

Chapter Five

The next few months were an adjustment for Jack as he settled into a life of contemplation and prayer.  Slowly, yet surely, a fundamental change was taking place inside of him.  It was a change unlike anything he had ever felt before.  The empty places inside of him, some of them over fifty years old, he could feel being filled.  Things that he couldn’t explain and things that he had never felt before were rapidly becoming things he could no longer live without.

Almost a year had gone by when Abbott Estefan knocked on his door one quiet afternoon.  Jack was deep in contemplative prayer, having just finished his daily Rosary and he didn’t hear the first knocks, so the good Abbott knocked harder.  He always prayed to Fred at the end of every Rosary, who the Monks were now referring to with extreme reverence as Patron.  Fred was pronounced the same in Spanish as it was in English, only with a slightly different inflection.  The Grotto in Fred’s honor had only recently been finished.

Jack had a direct view of the Grotto from the window in his room.
Jack opened the door to that wide-eyed smile he had come to love.  ‘May I come in Gato,” the Abbott asked. “Absolutely,” Jack said.  He always loved it when any of the Monks referred to the Spanish pronunciation of his name.  “How can I be of service Father Estefan? It is always an honor when you choose to visit my humble room.”

“In one week’s time it will be the one year anniversary since you decided to become one of us.  It will also be the one-year anniversary of our dear Fred’s passing and his ascension into heaven.  No one else dared refer to Fred’s passing in that way, but the Abbott was heard on more than one occasion to say that Fred had been welcomed into heaven by none other than Jesus, the Son of God Himself.  It was his hands that the two Havasupai Elders saw reaching out of the clouds that day. 
 
Abbott Estefan was sure of that in his heart. He told Jack that it was much easier to live with what you knew in your heart, rather than what you could prove.  The Church still required proof for Sainthood, but the Abbott told Jack that he was living proof and the only proof his order would ever need that Fred was sitting next to Jesus at the right hand of the Father.

“Are you planning on keeping your promise Gato?” the Abbott asked him no longer smiling.  “I hope that you are, and if so, I would like you to start making plans right away.  I will have my personal secretary call that Motel and make you a reservation for two nights.  You need to spend the first night at the canyon isolated and by yourself in prayer.  The second day and night are a celebration to Fred, and you need to keep an open mind, and open heart, to anything that might happen.”

The Abbott thought he saw a small tinge of uncertainty in Jack’s eyes.  “You must not hesitate or be doubtful my son.  Remember only that the man who gave his life up for you, a stranger, will be with you in the canyon.  Our Native American Brothers like to refer to this experience as a Vision Quest.  You should fast and sleep little while you are there. And with enough time, the Patrons message will take over you and show you the way.”

After speaking, Abbott Estefan turned and quietly started to walk down the hall.  After only three steps, he turned, looked at Jack one more time and said:  “My dear Gato, please ask the Patron to smile down on this poor Dominican Monk who thinks of him daily.  Ask him to watch over our Mission and all of the poor and suffering souls that we try and help.

Jack hadn’t looked at the BMW for almost a year.  In fact, he had thought about it very little.  The Monk who acted as head groundskeeper had stored it in a stable near the very back of the mission.  He had it wheeled up to the front of the Main Building on the day Jack was getting ready to leave.  It started on the very first kick.

Jack was taking very little with him as he headed to Arizona.  Just the old civilian clothes he had been wearing when arriving a year ago, a road map of the Southwest, and the Rosary Beads he had found draped across the handlebars when he went to get on the bike.
The bikes gas tank was full, and Jack marveled at how clean and well maintained it looked.  ‘Unbelievable, he thought to himself.  “I know if I was to ask, the Monks would tell me it was all a result of the power of prayer — prayer, and a siphon to remove fuel from the Abbots old School Bus.” 

 Jack wondered if anyone not directly connected to all that had happened would ever believe him if he told them his story.  The Abbott had told him it was of no consequence, --- as the truth needed no audience!

Jack rode all day and arrived at the South Rim of the Canyon just after six in the evening.  He checked into the same Motel —The Yavapai Motor Lodge — and parked the Motorcycle in exactly the same spot that it had been in on exactly this day a year ago.  The same desk clerk was working in the lobby who had been there last year.  
“How are you doing?  I NEVER expected to see you back here again.  That was really something that happened last year.  None of us can believe an entire year has gone by already.

“Yes, it was really something,” said Jack.  I made a promise to come back and honor his memory, so I’ll be staying with you for the next two days.  It would mean a lot to me, and to him, if you keep my being here quiet.  I don’t want any publicity, especially from the press.  This is a very private matter and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“No problem, mums the word as far as I’m concerned.  It’s good to see you and that you’re doing well.  Just one thing though before I go home for the evening.”  “What’s that,” Jack said.  “Did they ever figure out why he did it? I never read anything in the papers about why he jumped.”

“No, I don’t think they ever did.  Some things, maybe the most important things in life, tend to remain a mystery from all but the few who are directly involved.  I think in Fred’s case, that mystery will remain intact.”  “That’s right his name was Fred, I haven’t heard anyone use his name in almost a year.  Around here he’s just referred to as the ‘Naked Jumper.”’ Jack smiled to himself at the terminology.  He knew that somewhere high above, Fred was looking down and smiling too.

‘One more thing though,” the desk clerk said as Jack was turning to go to his room.  “What’s that, I’m kind of in a hurry, I want to get into the restaurant before it closes and then over to the canyon before the sun is completely down.”  “Well, it’s like this.  Every morning at exactly 7:00 a.m. the phone rings at the front desk and it’s someone asking for the number of Jack’s room.  When we tell the caller that we are not allowed to give out any information regarding our guests, they immediately hang up and the call ends.  The very next morning they call back again and ask once more for the number of Jack’s room. This has happened now every day for a year.  Your name’s Jack, isn’t it?”

‘Yep, must be a co-incidence. Didn’t they ask for Jack by his last name.”  “No, only Jack, just plain old Jack every time they called.”
Jack knew that Fred had never asked him about his last name, and he was sure that he had never offered the information.  “It’s really funny,” the desk clerk went on, “the caller never stays on long enough for the police to trace the call.  After the tenth or eleventh time we were called we forwarded the information about the calls to the Park Police who tapped into our line and tried to put a trace on the calls.  

Our receptionist, Daphne, who almost always takes the call, has tried to keep the caller on the line, but when she doesn’t give the caller the information they request, the line always goes dead.” Jack said goodnight to the desk clerk, whose name he now knew was Roy, and checked into his room.  It was the same room, #888, that he had been in a year ago.  He picked up the phone and dialed 0 for the Front Desk.

“Roy, this is Jack in Room #888.  Did someone request this specific room for me when making the reservation?”  “Let me check …. Nope, just says Non-Smoking King, on the reservation slip.  Why is something wrong with Room #888?”  “No, everything’s fine, good night, Roy.”

Jack quickly said a Rosary before ordering takeout from the restaurant. He then hurried across and down the road to the Rim where he had met Fred on that fateful day a year ago.  As he sat there quietly eating and staring out over the rim, he felt a peacefulness descend and overtake him both in body and spirit.  As the sun went completely down, he prayed for over three hours for the saving deliverance of Fred’s soul.

Suicide, a word no-one except the police and newspapers had used in his presence, was still a grievous sin in the Catholic Church.  Publicly, the church would admit to no justification that would allow one to take their own life. Jack thought silently about Jesus, --- and wasn’t that exactly what he had done by offering himself up as a sacrifice so all could be saved.  Jesus knew what was going to happen on Calvary that afternoon, just as Fred knew what was going to happen if he didn’t receive a phone call from Jack that morning saying that he had changed his mind.

When the stars had finally filled the sky, Jack got up and walked back to the Motel. As he walked past the front desk he asked Roy, “What time does that call come in in the morning asking for a Jack?”  “At exactly 7:00 a.m. every morning.”

Jack thanked Roy and walked back to his room.  He set his alarm for 6:00 a.m. the next morning. He was in the lobby standing at the front desk at ten minutes before seven waiting, waiting to see if the caller would call again.


Chapter Six

“Nothing,” said Daphne.  “Every morning for a year a call has come in at exactly 7:00 a.m. asking for Jack.  Are you sure it hasn’t been you that’s been making those phone calls?”  “What, call and ask for myself,” Jack said. “What would be the reasoning behind that?”
‘It’s really unbelievable. We’re open 365 days a year and the only property inside the park that is.  This caller has called every day for a solid year and hasn’t missed a holiday, weekend, nothing.  Every morning, and I mean EVERY morning that phone rings --- but not today!”

Jack spent the next day in quiet contemplation on the edge of the rim.  He thought about Sarah and how she had loved this place and said a prayer to Fred to please watch over his beloved wife until he could be with her again.  That night he slept like he had never slept before.

There was a night owl just outside his window and it spoke to him in a language he felt but could not understand.  He could feel it saying to him, --- UNTIL NEXT YEAR, UNTIL NEXT YEAR !!!

Jack got up early the next morning and was in the lobby again before seven.  Once again, no phone call asking for Jack.  After having breakfast and visiting the rim one more time, he rode non-stop back to the monastery, carrying a new part of the Great Mystery.
The Abbott had always been very respectful, and not in a condescending way, of the terms the Indians used to refer to God and Revelation. Jack had heard the Abbott use the term ‘The Great Mystery’ when referring to their religious beliefs many times.  He couldn’t come up with a better term for what he felt had happened back at the Canyon.

For twenty-four more years Jack repeated this same yearly ritual to the South Rim.  The Motel was eventually sold and torn down, and a new Holiday Inn express was built where the old Yavapai Motor Lodge used to stand.  Jack always stayed at the Holiday Inn Express with a room facing East like the one he had at the old Motel.  He was now in his early seventies and each year the trip took longer to get to the Canyon.  

The bike was still properly maintained and running well, but the effort it took to ride it all the way tired Jack out, and every year it seemed like the Canyon got further and further away. Abbott Estefan had died several years ago and Father Jack, or Abbott Gato, as he was now called, was in charge of the Monastery.  Jack had been ordained in a very private ceremony almost fifteen years before. Fred’s children and grandchildren had proudly attended the event in their Father’s honor, each of them placing a wreath at the base of their fathers statue, the Patron, in the garden around back.

As he promised he would every year, Jack checked into the hotel at the South Rim.  It had recently changed its name again to a Best Western.  Including the first time he had stayed here, the time he met Fred, this was the 25th Anniversary of his visiting the Canyon in Fred’s honor. He said “Hi Tammy,” to the pretty young girl working at the front desk.  “So, you’re still riding that old motorcycle all the way from New Mexico?”  “I am, and God willing, I’ll get back there to resume my duties in a couple of days.’  “Well, my dad said to remind you again that you have a standing offer for the Motorcycle if ever, and whenever you decide to sell.”

“Sorry Tammy, but like I told your Dad last year, this motorcycle is going to take me all the way thru the pearly gates.” “Oh Father, you’re such a kidder, but if you do change your mind, my Dad will drive over to the Monastery and pick it up.”  “Thanks Tammy, and thank your Dad again for the kind offer. Are those phone calls still coming in every morning?”

“Every morning at seven a.m. like clockwork Father, except on the mornings you’re here.  It’s old hat around here now and part of the DNA of this place.  I don’t know what we’d do if they ever stopped.”  “I don’t think you need to worry about that Tammy, tell that caller that I said Hi every time he calls.”  “I will Father, he seems to get a real kick out of that.  Two days ago, we weren’t sure what was going on because at exactly seven a.m the phone rang and in the same voice as always, the caller asked for Gato.  When we acted confused, he immediately corrected himself and said ‘Jack,’ could you please tell me the room number of ‘Jack.’

“We’ve got you in #888 as always Father, and it always amuses me that we don’t have any other rooms that start with the number eight.  Do you know why we have one room in this hotel out of sequence with all the others, that is numbered #888, when all the other rooms start with a letter followed by three numbers.
The rooms on this floor go from A100 to A165.”

“No, I really don’t know why that is Tammy, I just know that I’ve always been in Room #888 and I like it that way.  Nothing like tradition right …”

Jack went back to his room and as was his habit said the Rosary before getting into bed.  The next morning, he was outside the restaurant when it opened for breakfast at six.  He liked talking to all the vacationers coming to the Grand Canyon, especially those visiting for the first time.  “God’s greatest creation on earth he would tell all those he met.  He had also become something of a local celebrity, and several local orders of both priests and nuns would come by the south rim during his yearly visit and ask for his blessing.

No-one ever asked him specifically why he was there, but everyone knew, and it was now local legend, that it had something to do with that ‘Jumper’ that had gone over the edge so many years ago. Today was the actual 25th Anniversary of Fred’s taking his place and stepping off into the Canyon.

After breakfast Jack walked the short distance down the canyon road to the rim behind the Pinyon Trees that he had visited so many times before.  He sat on the same rock that he was sitting on twenty-five years before when Fred came walking through the trees.  He began to pray.

He looked down into the loose dirt at the base of the rock and thought that he could still see the impression that his handgun had made in the soft canyon silt. He wondered at his advanced age if his mind not be starting to play tricks on him.  Two of his closest friends at the monastery had been stricken with Alzheimers this year and as he watched them slowly drift away, he prayed more than anything, that it would never happen to him. 
 
Every memory he had had of and in this place seemed to come rushing back at once.  Everything seemed so real.  Not surreal, but really real! He closed his eyes again and prayed.  He wasn’t sure how long he had been praying but when he opened his eyes, he saw that it was now dark.  “Could an entire day have slipped away that fast he wondered, or maybe I really am losing my mind.”

He looked into the sky for any trace of the sun. It was all the way back over his left shoulder, in the direction of California, the land he had come from, the place where everything that happened to him had been so bad.

As he got up to leave, he heard a rustling in the bushes.  He thought maybe it was a black bear, or perhaps a couple of honeymooners coming to the rim to profess undying love.  He called out to the noise in the bushes, but nothing answered back.  He walked deeper in the direction that the sound had come from but it was now so dark that his aging eyes were failing him. 

 It was then that he remembered that he had forgotten his Rosary Beads and had left them back on the rock. As Jack turned around to go back and get his Rosary his eyes went completely blind.  There was a light that he had never seen before coming from the Canyon’s edge and it seemed to be shining only on him.  To the right and the left he could still see darkness, but the brilliant beam of light that he couldn’t understand was following him as he walked blindly back toward the rock.

As bright as the light was it did not hurt his eyes, and it seemed to be drawing him closer and into its light.  As he got near the edge, he could feel the light totally envelop him, both body and soul.  As he got to the Canyon’s edge, he could see the light take shape as it drifted level with his view.  In the middle of the flashing brilliance was the face of Fred who was now smiling at him in the way he had remembered from so long ago.  Fred’s arms were now opening wide as he said through the light …

“Father Jack, you have kept your promise when all I had to give you that day was love.  You have returned that love to me twenty-five fold.  I now release you from your promise so you may go back and live peacefully the rest of your days.  What we did here together will forever be understood, by those willing to give freely and totally of themselves.”

With that the light was gone, and Jack’s body was filled with a new warmth of understanding and love.  It was if someone or something had climbed inside him, someone who needed to reassure him one last time that he would never, ever, be alone again.

On the very next day a message appeared heavily inscribed on the rock.  It read — "He who sacrifices himself in my name shall never die, and my name is love"

Kurt Philip Behm
April, 2012
we are cute till we are stupidly good
after that we switch on bad stuff and pretend
to do the wise guys

the world is full of beloved things
and used people
sometimes the roles are changing
to beloved people and used things

actually we are here to do and undo mistakes
not to specialize in fakes of perfection

there is no problem we are predestined to carry
after all everyone will carry his death away

you must just expect the days to see you
with their own eyes
with their suns and plants and all relatives

let them gather more and more to see you
days and nights with their wondering stars
at least a moment to see your face
just how
it is

and let them say:
woo-ow!
memineI Jan 2015
a Bachelor of Arts in BS
and a backer with a million dollars-
See, I had this idea of opening this new concept in restaurants.
I am calling it Rent-A-Burger.
See , we got this microchip that will wirelessly send the GPS coordinates
of the swallower to PayPal and debit their account on the first of every month. It tastes like a pickle so we save money there, also.
Then with that fortune I want to open what I call Title ****,
which will specialize in loans to strippers,

they have only to give me a demonstrational lap dance for me to verify their assets.
It tickles me how so rich I will be.

I got several more ideas of expanding my empire
and getting laid.
Mike Hauser Jan 2017
Will you do me a favor
There's a circus coming to town
Can you make sure that the way is clear
Of any minds that are sound

As they parade main street U.S.A.
They'll be passing out crazy ideas
Those they'll hand out to the adults
Cotton candy for all of the kids

There's even Democratic magicians
Who specialize in the slight of hand
You can watch but don't overly listen
To the blather mixed with demands

Doesn't much matter the party
Pretty much one and the same
Democrat or Republican
Same worn out clowns with different names

Hoping it takes at least 8 years
Before we're fed up with all of the lies
Then we'll put who they tell us back in
More of the same in a cheaper disguise

Oh, and the main attraction
Center ring of the double minded congressional clowns
Well have to add more rings to this circus
3 won't do this time around

And per our favorite Ring Master
Get ready for the greatest of shows
The best is yet or pure disaster
Only time and the Good Lord knows
Talking with some people you can feel their angst about the future of America and the world.
This country has gone through good and bad Presidents for over 200 years and has survived...
Sit back and relax....it's all in God's hands.
JustChloe Jan 2015
Please stay away
I don't want you to get hurt
I specialize in giving pain
I play you like a sport
I don't want you to leave me
But I want you to survive
I don't want you to be those before you
Leaving me when you're dead inside
So I'm sorry it has to be this way
I don't wanna make you cry
Please let me make it up to you
I will let you leave without fight
I know you hate my sorries
But I will grant you one more
I'm sorry for forcing you to leave
Watch yourself as I slam the door
NuurSeraph Apr 2014
I wanted to flow into phrase a general continuum to articulate most prominent my own mood rhythm, just for curious act of putting into words an unspoken knowingness I leave out to hang upon my Space.

I am ready alert as soon as I bring awares to body, I localize and Identify

I am very upbeat, curious, open, observant. I ultimately will let my days activity find itself, because it so wondrously does, every time, to engage in discovery, puzzling, un~puzzling, analyzing, reflecting, and when a bountiful day...Concluding (Always knowing Conclusions are always momentary, discovery, revision, perception, all shift when "New" is incorporating).
I stay bouncy, flexible, studiously refining my personal understanding and then bringing my thoughts and ideas into life in my world to play and check it all out. It's intensive, solitary mostly, always surprise I will find in something.
So, basically, I don't get caught up in attachment. To emotion, perception, definition, judgement, decision, or situation. I am fully immersed in the moment, I just have found a fluidity in movement. I am passionate absolutely, but gladly walk my passion on and on so as not to collapse a density upon the objects of my passions.  

I'm not really a specialist, although I specialize, I enjoy a great variety, I am not afraid to explore and Try.

So, Gladly, I state to Clarify: I am humorous, positive, bravely alive.

GENERALLY.


“To see the world in a grain of sand,

and heaven in a wild flower.

To hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

and eternity in an hour.

We are led to believe a lie,

when we see with, not through, the eye,

which was born in a night, to die in a night,

while the soul slept in beams of light.”

- William Blake

Nassim Does It Better:
FROM: THE UNIFIED FIELD AND THE ILLUSION OF TIME: UNDERSTANDING THE SOURCE OF CREATION article 4/23/14

Between your thoughts is a silence which is the unified field, and when you become that silence, you become the unified field, and you become universal. Through the practice of non-attachment, and meditation, all of your troubles disappear because you cease to cling to the changing illusion of reality and you become free to experience what you always will be: pure, infinite, and universal consciousness.

All things already exist encoded holographically within the unified field, the structure of space-time, and it is conscious intention which determines that which is accessed and chosen to be perceived due to its own intentions. Nothing new is created, for it is already present within the field. And it is the highest level of our consciousness which guides us in the manifestation process we call life. We are all expression of the universe, looking back on itself as Nassim would say, and experiencing all possibilities within creation with our unique and individual intentions.

All that you want out of life is encoded within the field. Your intentions and your perception is what determines what you see and what you experience. In the words of Wayne Dyer, “There’s no place that God is not. If this God-force is everywhere, then it must be in you. And if it’s everywhere, then it must be in all that you perceive to be missing from your life as well.”
We are so many different things at so many different times I just think this is a version general and simplified.
nice to meet you
Mona Jul 2016
I felt it all the pain that comes with support
You told me you were broken and tired
I told you I know not of being  broken and tired
   The only absolute in my life is chemtrails
I live a life that is manufactured
I specialize in manufacturing conspiracies for a sinister purpose
I live on an island of ruins of my own make
  The demons that occupy me are devour and destruction.

                        Plastic Backbones
                             Plastic Backbones
                               They support nothing within
                                Me or you

So I won't tell you lies of
Good health ,good life, above everything I can't comfort you or love you.

I degenerate when left alone for while
My ways are selfish (it's all about ME)
I demand attention day and night

So do me a favor let me drive myself Into ruins
Let me free you of my own pain ,Because my pain doesn't like being attended to

Run save yourself, don't let my eyes destruct your vision
Run , let out sighs ,grow, let HIM carry your dry bones to a new destiny island.

All I wish for you is to meet a new you
Free yourselves from the former you which is ME[Plastic Backbones]
        
                Live your life
                   Live your life
                      **As the new YOU
Blessings
Marisia Delafuga Mar 2015
Dealing with darkness
Is like Dealing with Roses
And you know what?
I LOVE my darkness
I see beauty in Rawness
I Respect Honesty
I thrive in darkness
I specialize in love
like Donna Summer once said..
And you Laughing like A Dude
but let's face it
Let's embrace it
The most wonderful things in life
Are the Ones you dare to Dream
Are the ones you Dare to Act.
I really can't understand why people discourage each Other
For me Everything's needs to change
I wont be a part of this echoing crowd
I wont be a part of the fake plastic Dreams
I am the change
I am the freedom
No games
No pretend
great music inside and Ahead
Hear it Roaring killing All your Doubts
So violent so bright..
We are here to encourage each Other
you my sistar and my brother
I see no reason to be against your soul
I see no meaning in this fake plastic world
paradoxically I let it be the fuel for my Ongoing journey
In my heart I trust In the rawness I embrace
There's a mental pollution
And reLOVEusin is the Only Solution
I am the Revolution
And You are the revolution If you want to
Dont Die with the music inside your soul
Now is the Time
Each moment is sacred each  moment is a new life
everythings breathing
Everythings heartBeating
Everythings Dancing
The beauty and the beast is inside..
Let's conquer our shadows and thrive
I send you silent blessings
And my love is embracing you
My wild love is warming your soul
keep Love your heart
Why compromise?
Let your Golden miracles take Flight!
Love and Music is by your side
and we're traveling like the speed of Light..
Pure intentions
peace of mind
Acceptance and release
the beauty and the beast.
FIRE!
Haruna Garba Feb 2016
I Won't Sing A Song

I won't sing a Song,
lest I misguide the feet.
I won't sing a Song
about this unpleasant world
unpleasantness at Hiroshima,
gore all over Jalalabad.
I won't sing a Song,
lest I misguide the steps.
I won't sing a Song
about this tragic world
Tragic plane crashes,
tragic capsizing vessels.
I won't sing a Song
if craftsmen will specialize in dynamite drums
and blatantly make fire spitting flutes.
Why should I sing if craftsmen know nothing
accept to make piano keys able to spew hazards?
Can't be so dumb as to sing
while craftsmen are busy making weapon drugs.
I won't sing a song
Knowing Napoleon had fought sixty battles
and the seismic Tsunami yawns from time to time
I won't sing a song,
knowing Tsunami as I do, a convulsive eater
and water all round, she will not stop to belch
Drums of dynamites,
fire spitting flutes,
pianos of long ranging keys.
These aren't my idea of music
so I won't sing a song
With Bleeding Kansas fresh in mind
and engulfing of the Persian gulf,
how could i sing a song?
I won't sing a song
when the refugees fleeing ambush of tigers
fall victims to the pride of lions.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
B-side

things have changed since the days of progressive rock,
the whole idea of the concept album...
i once owned this copy of a music magazine: MOJO...
when magazines were still in print...
that's the thing with me -

three passions in my life, three great loves in my life...
cycling, music and philosophy:
if i said that i loved poetry i'd be lying...
since i imagine myself as writing it -
with this little beast there's a love-hate relationship -
it's hardly a love: it's a medium where my three loves come together...

but a lot has changed since the progressive rock days of the concept album...
what album topped the MOJO top 50 albums from
the progressive rock genre?
Pink Floyd's dark side of the moon...
who was second? ah...
YES' close to the edge:
personally i preferred the yes album...
Jethro Tull's Aqualung was way down the list...
Radiohead's OK computer wasn't unsurprisingly high...

but i would have topped the list with
King Crimson's in the court of the crimson king...
never mind...
i'd love to start a petition for all
the Red Hot Chilli Pepper albums to be released...
only upon hearing some of the B-sides from By the Way...

then moving to the B-sides of Blood, Sugar, ***, Magik...
i'm not sieving through the B-sides of Californication...
i'd want to start a petition for
all the Red Hot Chilli Pepper albums to be released
like Stadium Arcadium was released...
as a double-album... ****'s sake...
the artistry of this band is inexhaustible!

ALL RED HOT CHILLI PEPPERS' ALBUMS SHOULD BE RELEASED AS DOUBLE-ALBUMS...
that would be ****** innovative:
a natural progression from progressive rock...
all other mentions of progression the spheres of politics and

sociology blah blah ought to begin with... this...
i'm just surprised "they" only figured it out with Stadium Arcadium...

i mean: this B-side of the band is like:
i remember the days when bands would have
INSTRUMENTAL tracks, most notably Iron Maiden and
Metallica... take for example the Teatro Jam...

vocals brought to a bare minimum or nothing at all...
yes... i feel privileged to get a sneak peek into
the potential for the "concept" of the double album...
oh... sly technicalities...

i'm seriously not the type of a Matthew Arnold type...
crying myself to sleep after seeing Liszt play and swoon
the ladies...

i stopped caring about the "lady department" of my life...
that's how the story goes...
Matthew Arnold went to a Liszt concert
and he went back home and cried about how Liszt:
the virtuoso managed to swoon the ladies...
it helped that i was working those two gigs
and i wasn't just a fan...
because watching the women watching
these guys on stage helped with
the required attire of the security services...

perhaps i wasn't jumping up and down...
but i was "secretly" tapping my feet...
i chose the wrong instrument:
like any boy does when he has no band mates...
tried my chances on the guitar...
i should have been a drummer...
envy of the world could not topple what i'm interested
in / with anyway...

my solitary existence is enough
for whatever is not enough for others...
beside the double-album fixation,
i have a more potent "fixation": it's an analogy...
the Matthew Arnold vs.
                 Matthew Conrad (that's me) analogy...

poor M. Arnold went home weeping
at his inadequacies, poets are never favoured by women...
poor sod... how could he cushion himself against
the onslaught of Liszt? he couldn't...
back in the day you went to see a composer play...
you just bought a ticket... even today...
you go to an opera... what can you scavenge?
merely the ******* programme... but moi?
i was working... sure...
but i was probably the only person working
that double shift who ended his shift buying
a T-shirt of the band... that's a nice cushion to have...

it sort of distanced me from envy...
from utter despair... i didn't want to be on the stage...
i didn't want to be those guys...
i was just happy buying the band's T-shirt...
i switched off in that moment...
moments prior i was worried about crowd
safety intrusions into my psyche...
the next... after all was said and sang...
i emerged like i just went and saw my
"new" favorite band for "free": well...
i got paid to see them... that's also crucial...
i was paid to see them overseeing the crowd seeing them...

maybe that's why... my focus was split...
splintered in half...
i was of a conscious akin
to a lightning bolt splitting a tree in half...
i forgot despair... i thought about seeing
them live back in circa 2004 when
the London Arena in the Docklands was still viable...
with Chad Smith pre-warming before the gig...
walking in the crowd seemingly unnoticed
in a cowboy hat... hell...
i was almost an optometrist
when Frank Bruno brushed shoulders
with me coming back from ring-side
at that Tyson fury match-up... patient little me...

i've landed the perfect job...
i remember the days when my former school-friends
would joke about me not having a job...
being misdiagnosed as a "schizophrenic"...
what the **** did they do? oh... right...
one worked in a pub... another worked in Homebase...
this general DIY wholesaler...
i was cycling past where he worked...
it's getting torn down...
i only laugh at things that other people
don't find funny: most notably my own thoughts:
or thereby a lack of them... and to think...

all it took: to be in the position
i'm in now was being "nice" to my next-door neighbour...
the same "******" story: it's not what you know...
it's who you know... no...
i couldn't possibly be the next Matthew Arnold
bemoaning whatever successes Liszt had with women...
i got a Red Hot Chilli Pepper T-shirt...

there is healthy consumerism and
there's unhealthy consumerism...
the healthy type of consumerism is akin to:
             buying a memento...
some sort of memorabilia...
i love that sort of consumerism...
since i was working i couldn't take pictures of the events...
but it has become apparent...
the T-shirt saved me from the agony
akin to Matthew Arnold's agony...
i rather think i know what i'm doing...
it's not exactly ontologically based with a bias...
it's what i've acquired...
of course i'm seeking fame...
but it's not fame associated with being alive...
it's more a fame centered with: when i am gone...

when i satiate all that's mortal about me...
that's why i reject the motives for employing
the tactics of: fake it until you make it i.e. CREDIT...
i work on a debit allowance...
i spend what i earn rather than borrow in order to spend...
sure... i'll miss out on... wait... wait...
what am i going to be missing out on?
i love the company of my coworkers...
sure... i'm not a brain surgeon...
my mother is currently watching this ****** show:

the good doctor... no! that's why doctors are not walking encyclopedias...

that's why they specialize...
no chance in hell is there a "god" in the medical profession... PLATE OF BROWN... sweet instrumental...
progressive instrumental...
bourbon is the sweeter version of whiskey...
probably the greatest "thing" to come out of H'america...
prior to the blues and jazz...
and i get told: white man bad... slavery bad...
sure...

until the original slavery emerged as introducing
the black man to musical instruments that gave
the poor white boy prune an escape from classical music...
i don't see what the "*******" problem is...
talentless people drowning gripping to razor blades...
sure... i'm sort of jealous... but i'm not envious...
i allocated myself a company of Ovid and Horace...
Milton is not going to be replicated...
i want to write something:
i will write something that's properly
resembling the sort of life worth living
at the turn of the 21st century... oh ****...
i forgot to mention my 4th love...

drinking... i mean...
whether it's bourbon or whether it's whiskey...
you can't really love something unless you bring it
to the altar of excesses... and i do just that...
perhaps i have room for a fifth... but?
seeing how my father behaves around my mother?
i hardly "think" that's a viable choice for me... ergo...
i can spare myself the unnecessary details
and go straight after the prostitutes:
i don't mind sharing... after all...
i'm not sharing alimony guilt / no guilt...
i figured out a way to avoid making "profile-contact":
eye-contact i can stomach...
but all this a priori modulations of man...
no wonder dates are so boring: dating...

i don't want to know anything about
another person: PRIOR...
i want to find out... gain knowledge...
but if i'm about to be served something on a:
precursor basis? that's... ******* boring...
no wonder i'm not interested... and never will be...
it like... you either get given a fish...
or you're given a fishing rod... and some maggots...
people have their fiddly bits...
but if people expose their fiddly bits...
the stereotype is that man is the "hunter"...
what the **** am i hunting?

i don't like hunting: i like scouting...
that's the entire problem
with Darwinism mingling with "humanism":
too much is borrowed from the natural world....
and when that happens?
imposing the natural world
on the technical world of man rarely helps anyone...

          by proxy or default... or perhaps by simply
the spiral in control of ad hoc...
i write... after all writing is an extension of thinking...
it's not an invitation to speak...
people complain about their internet access...
leverages of the comment section...
maybe i just figured a way to bypass unwarranted
"attention".... writing that's not to be sung...
lyricism: as much as i love it
i abhor it...
           because i'm not even close to singing it...
i'm also not even close to speaking
it... best left in the vaults of thought...
after all: i'm measuring my steps for a posthumous
fame...

           i couldn't rob an entertainer from his
today: our daily bread...
and there's always one member in the band
that's going to be grounded in:
a focus of creativiy:
grounded in not allowing all the caveats of fame
that come with it (fame):
the crab bucket principle...
me? i was lucky to watch both of their shows
in London...
                  while actually watching the crowd...
Matthew Arnold would have felt so much
better if he managed to get a Liszt T-shirt...
a consumer statement akin to:
i was there...
       i saw them live... look how happy i am
to be alive... i got the mother-******* T-shirt...
who gives a rat's *** about their private lives...
i too have a private life... i write scribbles that do not rhyme
and i'm juggling the idea of counter to
Nietzsche and poet-philosopher... philosophy is in
the background... but it's more a case of poet-journalist...
and i like the forest in the winter at night...
and i adore aloneness... which is a quality of being
that's un-reflective / restrictive of the expressions:
being alone or being lonely...
it's dissociative... not associative...

and i adore writing as a way to create constrains...
constraints...
                           because if i were to jump the fame
bandwagon of: "fame ruined my mortality"...
i'd be making videos... exposing myself to the world
of bad people with even more bad ideas...
**** me: filter in place...
all are welcome who seek to be served...
the rest can snuggle in a crab-bucket elsewhere...
by just consolation:
"being there" will pass me by...
i will have no concern for the world...
instead: the world will have concern for me
having past through it... that's how Heidegger's
idea is inverted:
   i have no concern for the world... for "being there":
i'm already "here"...
           for me the world is: there's being...
i can't pnpoint a "there" and couple it to "being"
to create Heidegger's bad grammar...
there's being: der welt... the world...
but there's also the self-being: selbst-sein...
                as much as there's the selbst-sein-im-der-welt...
there's also the selbst-sein-im-die-sein...
contrast: selbst-sein-im-die-selbst...

ha ha... me and a "girlfriend"? captain complications
"autistic"? no wonder i spend most of my time
around animals... this one time in the supermarket
a boy in a buggy started pointing at me...
see! that's the problem! the creatures that least understand
the complications of language: man can arrive at...
understand me best... we communicate on the focus
of onomatopoeias... syllables... vowels-alone...
finger-pointing: ooh! ooh! beard! tall man! beard!      

mein gott!
the idea of me being married is a bit like thinking
either Nietzsche or Kierkegaard being married...
or for that matter Kant...
i just kept focusing on the voyeurism presented
by pigeons... how many times they get rejected:
Darwinism is a fake:
it's not about the survival of the fittest...
it's about the survival of those who are subdue
about making the most mistakes...
i opted out... i like my comforts...
i'm not a social animal... i'm not a political animal...
ego: non animal-sociale...
   non animal-politica...
       ego-ergo: creatura-ex-solatium!
i'm a creature of comfort...
          
         i don't need complications
of womens' exfoliations...
"expectastions"...
                       bye bye... wave goodbye
the would be sinking Titanic...
       ice is a new hello!
         "women and children first"...
sink the ship... count the *****...
no... because this "****" doesn't end... unless it ends
with the DRILL FABRIC OF A MARCH...

not since it was so easy for the Islamic
Conquistadors to be made so easy
and for us "remainers" to have it made to "hard"...
then again... eh?! keep what?!
leap over what burp of a frog?!
            i'm pretty sure the Slavic world
imploded when they heard about the antics
of the "west"... i'm pretty sure the Russians were
like: before... we reach that summit of insanity...
i... a Russian... will sooner ****-fiddle an Ukrainian
with war... before the cancer spreads...
and so it happened...
                         west: my ungovernable wet ***!
"west"...
                       i might speak the language:
but churning through the outliers i'm ANTI...

  any deficiency in the orthodoxy use of language is:
HERESY...
           i have LIMITS...
**** it... i'm siding with the Russians...
i don't care...
              **** Ukraine: for Chernobyl!
we might as well find our nearest sacrifice...

BUT I KNOW THAT I'M ALREADY DEAD!
i'm just waiting for the "PAUSE" buttonz...

yeah... like that joke...
an Olaf... a Lothar and a Conrad walk into
a bar...
    only Conrad walks out...
why? because he didn't make any Hebrew jokes...
and he drank more whiskey than both
Olaf and Lothar...
i know i'm not funny...
i'm not supposed to be: ******* funny!
i'm supposed to be imitation-cannibal!

A-side

i'm truly lucky to be alive...
at least in my generation...
i was 13 when Californication came out,
i spent one afternoon
with my now estranged uncle
listening to the record while
he was working on his Porsche
eating take-away Kentucky fried
chicken...
                     talking about music and life
and *** and what not...
mostly girls...
            
my sympathy for Ukraine? none...
maybe Ukraine was part of the Soviet
Union maybe not (obviously)
but: yeah... thanks for Chernobyl...
my mother's premature chronic pain...
i might be the last drinker in the family
lineage who takes drinking
seriously: as a way to progress intellectually
but my mother's on opiates...
i was born with a "mark of Cain"...
whatever the hell it was...

it was a ******* nuclear REACTOR...
it wasn't a nuclear BOMB...
a bomb EXPLODES... a reactor IMPLODES...
who know what the ****** difference
is... but give it enough time
and you'll find out...

well... it must be bad... since how many *******
tests did the Americans the Russians
and the French carry out with bombs?
Godzilla blah blah...
       but it only took ONE bad reactor to make
people look all-crazy-at-each-other...
******* KARMA... oh yeah...
it wasn't enough to do both Hiroshima
and Nagasaki... more tests required!

and all those cases of freakish premature
cancers in eastern Europe... hell... elsewhere too...
last time i heard an imploding nuclear
reactor is like detonating 400 Hiroshima type
bombs...
and the effects were immediately apparent
in the botanical kingdom...
effects which even reached the region
where i was born...
   it was a case of Spring-Autumn...
     oh yeah... you had streaks of trees that
were autumn like: perhaps even past autumn...
sort of dead-ish... and streaks of trees
that were: spring-esque...

by then, no one knew...
                             the crescendo of the collapse
of the Soviet union...
a bit like the crescendo of the end of the second
world war and the all great h'american hard-on:

but let's face it... no other culture was so
good as the late 20th century American culture...
the Beatniks,
Charles Olson - the only post-modernist i have
any respect for... if i can call him that...
then again... i'm jumping hoops and conclusions
that that non-verbatim...

and you have to admit...
    no no... it wasn't because i was working both
the shifts for the Red Hot Chilli Peppers gig at
the London stadium: but let me tell you what...
i would have been completely ****** (OFF)
if i didn't buy tickets for both days...

day 1: opened with CAN'T STOP
day 2: opened with ALL AROUND THE WORLD
day 1: played UNDER THE BRIDGE for the encore
day 2: didn't play UNDER THE BRIDGE for the encore...

proper old-school...
that other shift i did where Weezer, Fall Out Boy
and Green Day played...
even the guys i was working with were like:
they (i.e. Green Day) 'these guys don't know when to
shut up'... i was like... oh... right, this song?
they'll finish on that one:
   it's one of those sentimental closure songs...
one of the girls sang that song
in an assembly when we were leaving school:
(have the) time of your life...

i was sure of it... oops... a ******* Dawid Bovie cover!
sure... people are at a gig... we're too,
but we also want to: ******* go home...
and we can't until all these ******* leave first!
ugh!

- thank god (casually expressed, eat dog doog...
yes - intentional, FELA'S **** is the *******
groove party - food)
i'm not one of those people forming a cliche
opinion about whether i'm a fan of the Beatles
or whether the Rolling Stones...
ask me again... James Brown yes...
and Red Hot Chilli Peppers' A-sides
or Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides...

now... that's a tough one...

mind you: what gave birth to the Communist project?
pan-Slavism...
there were plenty of Hebrews living in Russia
and in Poland... i guess those people were
like... sure... let's try...
if we **** up: we'll **** up SPECTACULARILY...
and "we" did... but... the current reiteration
of "communism" in the VEST?
hmm... all this post-grammatical-mystique...
oh look! adjective, verbs, nouns,
the indefinite article and a definite article
are being neglected by the hyper-focus on pronouns...

it's like a second imaginary Chernobyl imploded
and fried people's intellectual capacity
for formal / casual conversation talking
about the weather and buses being late...

i'm only saying that Red Hot Chilli Peppers is
a band of / for my generation because...
i've already come across younglings
that haven't heard of them...
YES!                             and the band too...
but finally! i've reached the cut-off point
where i'm part of a zeitgeist that is reaching its
zenith-nadir...
                       the equilibrium akin to the Olympic
passing of the torch... although:
there's not much of a fire left...
       just an unlit torch... instead of fire: ambers
of a once fire...

but that's what happens... i understand the paranoid
Russians all too well...
back in 2007 they were such welcoming people:
i still don't understand why the western media
narrative about McDonald's being shut down
in Russia suddenly turned into a new fast food
chain under a different name serving the same food...
when i was in Russia: i swear to god...
i didn't see a single McDonald's... so... twinkle toes...
hum hum hmm...

were "my" people paid reparations
for the **** invasions? i know the Hebrews were...
oh yeah: we had that glorious task of being
invaded and then told to stack 'em bricks
for the crematorium CHIMNEYS...
well... it could have been worse...
we could have been told to ***** the NECROPHILIC
architecture of ancient Egypt in the guise
of the pyramids...

and because being under the Soviet yoke
of influence... and then... oh god! they gave "us" a
******* first non-Italian POPE!
one hand washes the other
but neither hand knows what the other hand
is doing... from ultra-atheism to ultra-catholic
conservatism...
"our" capital shouldn't be called Warsaw...
(no jokes about that, unlike Bangkok)
                                it should be called Seesaw...

backwards and forwards... as Norman Davis pointed
out: god's playground...
which it is... mind you: i'm sort of bad tempered
when it comes to being a Siamese-twin with
my Deutsche neighbours...
lucky that some of those Schwabs or Saxons
migrated... settled on some ****** weather island
and mingled with the Velsh and the Picts and
whatever other Celtic remains were left
in Europe...

oh but yesterday... that old man made me lose my
cool... i was already sweating it out for over
an hour and he exclaims in the street like
those manic street Apocalypse preachers:
where are you lights!
if i stopped i would have properly explained
than merely pointing at my rear-light glowing
red and telling to *******...
BUT YOU WOULDN'T SAY JUST AS MUCH
IF IT WAS ONE OF THOSE INDIAN
DELIVEROO ELECTRIC BICYCLE GUYS?!
would you, old man?
mind you: old man... you give a rat's *******
about one cyclist... then tell me...
who does your council employ... shouldn't
the street lights already be switched on?!
    hmm.. already be...
shouldn't the street lights be already switched on?
that sounds... eerie...

shouldn't the street lights already be switched on
shouldn't the street lights be already switched on...
i honestly can't decide upon the correct
grammar... let's be trans-grammatical about that one...
after all... it's all trans-biology anyway...
a bit like Plato telling Sisyphus that the gods
forgot about him and that he can stop his pointless
toiling... or what Plato mentioned about
being punished and being reincarnated
as a woman if one begins as a man...
well: to hell with reincarnation: time's up for
theology now that science speeds things up...

scary world... even scarier people...
THIS DOOR NEEDS HINGES!
bring in the unhinged experts in not-doors!
yesss... we need a house with enough of
BREEZE!
me? i'm just complementing their insanity with
my own special strain that prostitutes call:
GOOD-CRAZY.
Waitherero Sep 2017
An object can't hear
An object can't see
An object can't breathe
Like you
Or me

What's an object's motives
or deapth of reason to be?

What thoughtfulness, does an Object Have thoughts?
...who am I...
...why am I here...
...how and who should I outta be...
...can I be happy...
...am I sad...

We craft an object
We use an object
We define it's reason and meaning
Why it is and What it should function for

We specialize it's resourcefulness
And squiz out it's worth...until it's?

Useless?
Doesn't work?

Doesn't have the same woth
it used to have?

It's totally in our control
We define how long it should exist
Or how long it's in our presence

An Object we don't like anymore
Or have no care for we lose,...

Forget, dismental, discard, do things with it, without a shameful thouht

Well an Object has no feelings
It's just there
No emotion no motion no tensions
To care about

It doesn't speak
It is always the same
Does always the same it was made for
No smile no hurt

It's there because of you
You chose so
I't doesn't just apear out of nowhere

You baught it
Someone gave it to you
You saw it and wanted it to be yours

You can share an object
You can keep it for yourself
You can show it proudly or destainfuly

What ever you feel to do with it
You do
It won't mind

Well if I think about all this
I guess we can all agree

What an Object really is.
#Object #Life #people
K-ROB May 2020
My best friends name is Lindsay
We like to go and dance
I specialize in the drunken techno prance
Dancing to la la la la la/ la la la la la/ la de da da da
A random guys says and I quote, "Shake what you mamma give ya!"
That's so funny ****...
And makes you want to do anything but sit!
We got to go in VIP- up above
DJ Caffeine was up there and the captain of love
He lives to say "make some noise motha *****'s" A LOT
He can't think of anything else to say when put on the spot
Loverboy is a very ugly guy
When you look at him it makes you want to cry!
The girls in the thong contest were *****,
but they bared all on stage, which took some guts
The place was surrounded with Russians and Hicks,
But I did learn some new glow stick tricks!
Lindsay had three...and was almost gone...
Like a switch it turned dance mode on!
The drink of choice was *** On The Beach
But that ugly guy was such a leech
That guy was such a bisnatch
That was all up in my motha f'n bis-nass
We owned the stage for half the show
surrounded by objects that glow
"Mind distortion was the name of the thing,
And when we left Lindsay got asked to be a model for a magazine!
She said all she wants to do is sleep
Cuz the guy kinda looked like a creep
So we went back to Jamie's apartment and slept on the floor
up eight hours later and out the door
We decided to go shopping,
But once we started we felt like dropping
Me,Merri Lindsay and Jimb went to a party when we got home
I got really drunk, and really ******
I got to talk to a lot of people I hadn't seen in a while;
I was so happy all I did was SMILE
Lindsay was sad, so I hugged her a lot
It seemed like the right thing to do at that stroke of the clock!
Jesse's dad came out in his whity tighties and said "f'n leave!"
That was the funniest moment of the night, I do believe!
Tim had a party too, but nobody went
By the time we left Lowell, we were all spent
So our weekend turned out to be really fun
And now I think this poem is done!
#narrative #fun #ravescene #collegedays

— The End —