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SassyJ Mar 2016
The glass of wine spins on sins
Encircling the royal roulette
All rotating on a hamster wheel
Pinned on canvas and illusional walls

So tiny in errors and unbalanced books
Unaccounted annotated distributions
Twisting hands on colluded coils
Deeper projections from the heart

An eruption of the social notions
Extracted on the paradise of life
For no truth echoes authenticity
Eccentrically finding a lived reality

Plato symposiums and simulacrums
Pavlov trails of social conditioning
Sampled in tented objectifications
Functioning within the invisible rules

We sniffle as we expose the false actuality
Reactive explosions from robust heat
Unloaded rods dancing under the moon
In our tenderness rejecting the paradigm
For Joshua Ingram from the heart.....(Inspired by the  distortion of the 10 commandments and art)
http://hellopoetry.com/atlasmarker/
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
You useless man, Socrates -
I think you need a shower…
I don’t know what the Athenians
find in you but as far as I can see you’re just wasting time
hanging out in the market places
and at dinners and symposiums
where all you do is stay late drinking nights
and talk about philosophy, and ideas
and of origin of things and justice
and nature of human beings
and such useless, impractical things;
and you bring not a cent home
and I can’t count on you for regular support
as all women and good wives might expect of a husband;
and you can’t even hold a good argument with me
for all you do when I use my Xanthippe’s questioning method
against your so-called Socratic method
all you do is mumble and tumble
and use words like shrew and nag
when all I’m asking of you is for you
to keep your part of the implied bargain in marriage
to put some food on the table
and bring some silver coins for the future of our three children:
Lamprocles, Sophroniscus and Menexenus -
have you forgotten them? Do you even remember their names?
And so you bring no money
but instead all you give me are empty words
and lofty words and airy words
and words coined in your head
and you put silly ideas that’s just confusing our children
and if not for me taking the children under my wings
they’ll just turn out to be mere
talkers and market-place prattlers
and hangers-on and leeches at other men’s feasts.
They may have a place in misguided history
if they follow your way
but they will bring weak bodies to their wives
when it is their time.
I don’t want them to be talkers,
and idealists and philosophers, Socrates –
I want them to be responsible
and I want them to bring meat and coins home
regularly and steadily, Socrates.
Socrates, you old man, I don’t care what they say of you
in the Greek world –
I haven’t had proof of your worth and value
here at home, especially in the kitchen.
You useless man, I think you need a shower;
maybe this water from the chamber-*** will wake you up.
an imaginative account of Xanthippe and Socrates as she empties the chamber-*** on her husband, Socrates....
JD Connolly Dec 2011
I was asked to write about a girl I’d never had at all-
It was an easy enough task.  
I haven’t written about anything else since I can remember.

I’ve imagined her as the source behind all of Whitman’s Eidolins
And every young boy’s first faustian plea-

I’ve imagined her as the reason I sold my soul to a wooden box and torch songs-
and forty thousand thimbles full of tequila.

I addressed her earlier today when I should’ve been relating my own moral codex-
To Mitchell’s ‘The Other Bird.’

I had, instead, stumbled across the Blue Tail Fly and thought of how could I slip that into-
A simple (humbly shouted) mantra about getting her to step outside with me.

What a beautiful day to try,
To destroy the things that have left you ary-
You’re just as marvelous as you are shy
We’ll brush away that blue-tail fly,
It’s alright-alright-alright.

How could I address her without the least bit of Americana?

Though, I highly doubt trading spit with me constitutes marvelous dissent.
It might- but only in the context that she’d be as weary of those estival fumes-
Those threadbare summers.
The divulsion from stick wars to stick wars that end with-
a coral flush and real bruises.

That business of cruelty as William Carlos Williams describes it.

It’d be easy to talk about her throughout every-day.
I could tell you that she’d have the incantations to make nature act,

She would have never seen a tornado outside of a television,
but she’d say they emit a wonderful cobalt blue when they’re intruding on peace and plain.

She might even chalk them up to table-legs prone to constant spiraling and amorphous shape-

And up there we’d be- exchanging comments on the land beneath
She’d drink her coffee without any sugar
But, I’d offer it every time
While I focused on keeping my nerves from making the table shake-

Avoiding upsetting anything,
that might get to make it to her lips.

I’d tell her I’ve seen those blocks
Emitted those midnight-shrieks
Pulled from those basement-band symposiums
Tailored those half-alpha ***** tongues

If it made her comfortable with my lack of attention,
My eyes and mind having been reserved for that night-
When she runs in with a copy of The Love Song of J.Alfred Pufrock
Yelling- ‘Hey, isn’t this the only poem you give a **** about?’

And I slap it out of her hands.
Bows N' Arrows Oct 2015
My displays are astounding
I regress to an infants zeal
Because I hate everything around me
And need to tell you how I feel
Tell you things of sugar rain
And crystal  mines of lore
Cuddle my ribs with pure disdain
As my body washes to the shore
Hey man little village
Hey ya the leaves are brown
Hey man the trees are changing
Hey ya they're falling down
Symposiums with the fey are symptomatic of enchantment
(Or insanity)
Seeing beyond a day
Of desolute drudgery
The eyes in my head keep assuming I am dead
(Those whispers from the back of my head)
And the fear of living is the wound of
Re-living what another might have
Said.
Hey man little village
Hey ya the leaves are brown
Hey man the trees are changing
Hey ya they're falling down
Crickets outside are singing so
Sleepless nights feel less lonely
Cannot decipher which side of me
Is dreaming when I'm awake till
Early morning.
Hey man little village
Hey ya the leaves are brown
Hey man the trees are changing
Hey ya they're falling down.
By this time 2019 the onslaught had begun..
devastating attack on mankind not carried out by guns..
just a virus, tiny yet deadly ravaging the world..
not an equal monster in decades, Covid-19 it was called.

mysteriously crept into our world, inexplicable origin..
lurking around rails, trails and air just to gain entry..
wrecking down all systems immune, nervous and circulatory..
sniffles life out of victims at the early stages, men was scary.

left us so terrified  in our towns and in our cities..
grounded and brought to a halt economic activities..
built up a partition of no solid material..
amongst us all, rich, poor and even the influential.

Once crowded streets in its wake were lonely and desserted..
nice playground activities and symposiums neglected..
for the dread of the global monsterous virus..
oh! no! never again we hope we beat the virus.

It took from us loved ones both promising and elderly..
frightening mode of operation, collapsing the lungs steadily..
trailing wails world all over from the healthcare facilities..
universal pandemonium, we were overwhelmed seemingly.

Emotionally traumatising was the unpleasant experience..
of watching its victims gasping in the midst of abundance..
I cried like many many others seeing a menace to existence..
and all we did was pray for return of peaceful ambience.

till date still place a limit on human interactions..
medical practitioners working their ***** off..
to get a cure for it although now there's vaccination..
was an era in human history, covid-19 what a distraction!
Rob Cohen Dec 2022
douse my beehive mind
in liquid amphetamines
to steady the blurry split screens
of multi-tabbed greyhound speed
barking madly at stalking shadows
fallen from my heels
jolting me out of my skin.

throw a rope ladder down
into the entrapment basement
resident stage to the passive aggressive
clinking cutlery orchestra
conducting butter knife cutting taunts
torturing my melted butter split aura.

hanging on to the edge of a chair
inside my chest where every breath
echoes the beat of a marching band
& trembling hands stand
on melting ice as they somersault
in the winter solstice
frozen from cavity vault to my face.
              
i look to see through sleeps eyes
where the mercury penny drops
under arrow pierced apples
in shade dripping with nights clarity
on a melted sea beneath
the flowing eastern wind
blowing the misty uncertainty to smithereens.

neuron explosions sketch constellations
out of flame infused
squeezed citrus peels
as sparks dance
where beasts of land, air & sea
collide in dotted starry symbols
drawing borders across synchronicity.

my rubber soles are worn thin
while stones fill the insides
but rubber-band wings stretched wide
bending tides & mountains appear as molehills
from weightless vapor heights dissolving the sky.

i seek the calm of crocodile waters
where i can stretch my legs
on fertile silt riverbeds
& soak in the golden sunshine smile
washing down in spectacular arrays
of scepter conjured waves.

open the gates to my airborne castle
where hope finds ****** interpretations
along the path to eternal symposiums
i'm lead to Jericho's jenga answers.
x
In this place I've retreated to,
Away from the noise and light that
Illuminates all of my wrong, all
My guilty feelings are written
Down my back as
Everyone I know looks down, in
On me -
I go into the cave,
I shiver against rough cold walls and
Listen
To my own breath echo.
To be alone here is new to me, like
A fresh house cat beneath the bed -
I don't want to trust.
I don't want to listen.
They're looking for me, I see their
Flashlights and glow sticks and
Emergency packs,
They all want to help me, that's all.
I am
Surrounded by piles
Of scrapped letters and explanations,
Crumpled allegories,
Unfinished symposiums, my
Sweat is all about me and my
Stick of graphite leaves more on my hands than
On any sentence of elaboration as to
How I feel,
What I want.
I've nearly
Used all resources here, I've
Crushed the sharp point of my utensil, I have
Very little ability to amount these thoughts
Into dialogues of truth... I don't mean to lie,
I'm just
Out of time like a mouse in a corner
Feigning death, stalling for
Some better manipulation I can
Replace with my relationships so that
My ambiguity will remain charming and unquestioned.
My candle runs dripped over and small,
But I'll learn to write without light
If I have to, learn to
See without sight if I have to,
Learn to
Demonstrate my highest capacity to
Stubborn my way out of this hole -
When I do,
I wont stop running
Until the water hits me,
Cleans my hands and
Drifts me out
Into the neutral, knowing sea.
Noah Roberts Jul 2014
1
We are
walking streets unknown
wearing headphones and apple products inserted into our flesh like addicts
all around an angry empty black tar pit throwing in capitalism and old socks
sloshing in snow and dancing in sun and basking in rain
vile and putrid beauteous dancers on stages indoors
twirling drunken swirlygigs and pirouettes underneath shattered naked lights
caressing the skin of the stars on early LSD mornings after long nights of jazz and jokes
taking buses and trains to avoid the dangers of atmospheric destruction
staying up late listening to your “Howl” in prison shaped dorm rooms blowing cigarettes out windows
we are those
who sweating and giggling make furious love lying on rocks under autumn leaves with the wind at 3am in september
with singed fingertips and blue eyes and red skin and dark hair smiling in the sunlight on porches
with circular gravitational searing earthmarks on our ashtray skin because we lost ourselves
we are actors
we are dancers
we are painters
  we are writers
     we are angels
    we are lovers
    we are killers
  we are dyers
we are drinkers
we are smokers
we are children
walking to the moon and back every night on tattered shoes and squelching socks haze of smoke
sitting on rocks and drinking until our kidneys scream in pain and demand we go home for the night because it is getting too late and they are getting worried
refilling zippos with stink and fluid and lighting countless tobacco stains for our lungs on wintry days in new york
taking showers at 3AM because we can't sleep and unlike any activity we are not exhausted
driving until the sunsets and crying in the drivers seat window because we are falling out of ourselves   into our own heads
blaring rock and roll or jazz in our small cell block on herb fueled afternoons reading Eliot in our beds
sitting at our desks pencilpushing out the last of our minds onto screens because nowhere else will take them willingly
wasting our time happily because we don't wish to save it for when we are old and unhappy so we choose to be young and unhappy instead
we sing songs of stars and satanic ****** rituals outside of symposiums for the sardonic
we are standing on the edges of buildings and nobody is telling us whether or not to oak leaf tumble until we hit the brick
sadly slumped in bottomed out chairs we zone our somethings or somehows in claustrophobic rooms
daydreaming daddies and dandelions and drip drops of pitter patters on tin childhood roofs
This website reformatted part of the poem. Where it begins "we are actors" is supposed to cross the entire page and then pass over again, forming a sideways V shape. Whatever. I do what I can with what I have

I wrote most of this while drunk at college, or hungover in a coffee shop. There will be more added to this in the future, as I feel like this poem could use a lot more.



Good that LOVE is not life
Good that LOVE is not work
Good that LOVE is not a marriage
Good that LOVE is not an agreement
Good that LOVE is not a signed contract
Good that LOVE is not a Terms of reference
Good that LOVE is not a Job description
Good that LOVE is not an Annual plan
Good that LOVE does not have a budget
Good that LOVE does not have to give account of expenses
Good that LOVE does not have targets
Good that LOVE does not come under HR rules
Good that LOVE does not come under LEGAL laws
Good that LOVE does not follow rules, regulations
Good that LOVE does not care for moral, ethics
Good that LOVE does not get awards, trophies,
Good that LOVE does not get citations, certificates
Good that LOVE does not get applause, fame
Good that LOVE is not a post or position
Good that LOVE does not care of hierarchy
Good that LOVE is not about status and power
Good that LOVE does not fetch you friends
Good that LOVE is not a job or business
Good that LOVE is not about 9 to 5 job
Good that LOVE does not expect meetings, conferences
Good that LOVE does not expect workshops symposiums
Good that LOVE does not make you pretentious
Good that for LOVE one has to wear a fake mask
Good that LOVE does not let you follow any ideology
Good that LOVE is not reimbursed by salary, wage
Good that LOVE is not paid for your work done
Good that LOVE is not found on Internet, social media
Good that LOVE does not bother about likes, dislikes
Good that LOVE does not exist on laptop and mobiles
Good that LOVE is unlike any other relationship
Good that LOVE is not restricted to family & friends
Good that LOVE is not about learning, knowledge
Good that LOVE is not about literacy and education
Good that LOVE does not care for wealth and riches
Good that LOVE is not about decisions and making choice
Good that LOVE does not believe in religions, God/dess
Good that LOVE does not suffer from phobias & neurosis
Good that LOVE does not hide behind ideologies & doctrines
Good that LOVE is liberal and progressive
Good that LOVE is a rebellion against everything
Good that LOVE is the one that kills EGO "I"
Good that LOVE is.... "LOVE"...!




Some diadochi came escaping from the Vóreios of Zefian, the ships of Boeotia married the dynastic of the new progenies of their infants, who prepared them for the fourth Bestiary, which in turn also escaped from the third Bestiary of the bear that tore apart everything that presented itself, within its claws and its jaws. The third imperialist beast of the bestiary was Hellenistic; It had bear claws and crushed the fish of the Aegean Sea with its fangs, this, in turn, tried to grab the dragon's back with its snout with the bear's paws and the feline's steel claws to stretch them over its lion's jaws, unleashing the inter-bestiary that severed the parallelism of the Amphictyony and the Apocalypse, summoning Alexander the Great to revive him from his larnax in the highest Prophet Ilias, this will entail the ablution of his soul and appropriation of his new empire of the Seventh Heaven to atone for all the atrocities of his empire of Blood and Corruption. Alexander the Great was aware of the existential drama of eternity for him, in order to aspire to be anointed as a Converted King and dispense with the root of the inter-bestiary in the claws of the bear with the claws of steel of the lion of the fourth bestiary. They all sailed by one major mast starting from the Delphic prophecy of Herophile, which transfigured the Trojan chronology by more island resources into dramatic new deity cultures with over twelve deities which had to include one more of the demi-god Vernarth totally dissuaded from the plague of Aristaeus in great dishonor due to the taxonomic Animalia that was in its vanguard, re-leveling the nuanced skies, also the oceans that were erected mostly on the level of Hisarlik with thirty-three meters above sea level, plus as many from the cavern to 269, and under the Prophet Ilias of 798 as a consequence of parallel parapsychology with Troy. The theological transcendental civilizing mission trembled to the Tempe valley, Thessaly specifically in the small valley in the Agia Paraskevi church, for altars that will return the ancestral domains of the locality to their voices near the Arethusa fountain. From here they will triangulate the libertarian magnificence of the animality of the bees of Gethsemane for the reciprocal of the source of Castalia, up to the Source of life on Patmos as the second coming of Jesus. From where Eurydice will always flee as she once was away from Aristaeus, so as not to be bitten by the serpent. All this transcription of the double consequence of immortal Eurydice brought gifts for each component of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, making sure that Aristeo's bees did not die, being saved by Vernarth's bees, who redoubled submythology, hanging on it as a parallel classical narrative in the construction of the Duoverse under the Áullos Kósmos. The three sources were unified with Vóreios, becoming the patrimony of the Moshaic gods for the good of an outstanding Mythological virtue with sub-mythological parallelism, with gods conditioned in the rabbinic divinity. They undertook the glamorous descent with the vapors of Delphi with their ethanol, alleviating Alikantus towards the pilgrim resulting from his connotation of a taurine steed close to a ram, but of Delphic psychic magnetism saving potential victims with the repeal of the beekeeping world of Aristaeus.

The gods of Faith went hand in hand, in some cases, they did not recognize their gender or status, but rather the divine and ineffable condition of the unrepentant Seventh Heaven, ad libitum of Titania as a mental abstraction of pro-Olympic labyrinths, which have not born under the eaves of it. Spring and winter came arrogating themselves in all the rapes and abductions of the flowers that would not germinate, and that would go away due to the promiscuous twilight that was made of dawn in some flowers that did germinate on the defenseless edge. The converted Alexander the Great caressed the tunic that he looked at more than the one used by the maiden, he looked towards his own chlamys that did not make him helpless from his gaze in the ability to transform into a Converted King, almost like a beautiful celestial lion after leaving the libidinous gestures of Astarte as a foreign goddess and mother of the lift that made her doubt the rain that was refined as a gregarious hostess in celibate women who tried in outbursts of Alexander the Great by removing Astarte's veil of darkness, in cases of lost loves of the transcript Forest of Hylates, or in the awakening of the Apennines when it was the trophy of a felid winged tetra in the rooms of the runaway Bayard of Charlemagne.

The rain bathed millennia that traveled from the boreal of Vóreios to the insane Argive spaces in the Peloponnese where the first maiden hangs her braids sixteen times to forty times more, before all the brides who stay awake in the hours that have not sworn eternal misogyny. Spring served winter mead with sweet late-harvest wine from the valley of the Sharon plain, they embraced by the chamsin, squabbling in the sand that Zefian had hoarded before enchanted by the interval of Delphi. The north and south forks dried up the cobblestones of the dusty ground, where the chamsin reverberated suffering for more than forty-six weeks, making light prey on the song of the three sources of Life, the Castalia and the source of Arethusa. A solemn red stain could be seen on the little sky that blinded the chairs that held the intramurals of the wind tunnel, breathing on the chamsin turning it into murals of dust forced to channel it and always be levitating in the gushes that shelled drops of rain, and sand in the disturbed electrical animations that made him possessed in the spiers at the mere tone of liquid marble in which they already spoke of Hellenic modernity of barbarism of the Ruah Qadím, banishing the spire from the east wind for fifty days. The lights and festivities could be seen illuminating from the feared height when descending from the diminished light of the amplified candle; everything resembled a dwelling where everyone was seated at a long table that had no end in the center of seven candlesticks, seven bread baskets, with a chalice, everyone gossiping along with the bees of Gethsemane that did everything in their glosses and nectars that they celebrated in the mansions gleaming with the transit of the muffins of San Juan and its Hexagonal. Raeder clung to the red and blue Gerakis with gold seams that talked of dining and their oblate.

They began to sit away from the cruel gods of those gods who deny their children who were engendered by the cruelest and most chaste reconversion by staying on Olympus as guests, as opposed to sitting at this free table of the very well-valued elixir with the deities invited Phrygian women, who only laughed and favored the secrecy of the bread of eternity, and well-being that was subject to the conscious tolerance of who await a lavish banquet on a table in these conditions with mood and prolonged perspective and tablecloths of penance and cross in exotic chores. They drank the hanging sheep on the branches of the fruits that hung from the cornucopia, and the baking that altered the enzymes of some harsh dispute against Asia, which Leiak concocted with benevolent sorcery by giving it sip water from the drinking sea of Asia Minor. in front of illuminated Troy. The table is made of seven bread baskets, seven mistletoes that escorted the gluten bread that was sprinkled by Persephone's strong winds as she fell hastily and longing to meet Demeter; she is picking it up from the gale with her feet pulverizing the soft grains of Hapalos Artos, with goat's milk and olives that she would anoint on the very nails of her daughter Persephone of hers when cleaning them with white leaves of the dough fluffy It used to be called Cappadocia yeast until it reached the edges of the noble bread that were installed on the table as Lakhma bread as a metaphysic of the Eucharist that took place on the white tablecloth that shrank every time it was taken as domestic bread when rolled in the angry parts of the Mataki tablecloth, for healings that continue from the protective actions of those who take advantage of a good alliance of water, and the bread on the table with bad thoughts that anger the battered thick curtains of abundance and prosperity of the ill had. The Iaspis or Jaspers resembled supra scalded as of natural belonging and shimmering authenticity in the rarity that did nothing more than make buffoons from Southeast Asia and not from Asia Minor. The greenish flashes spoke of life at full strength to fit followed by a wisp of flash deposited by Zefian coming and gliding in the seasonal, holding on to some veins of the Alikantus sapphire eyes that were adapted to sipping from the dense spring that floated through the waves. The atmosphere of the Mataki, to later pour it into the chalices absorbed by Leiak's sorcery, speaking of superior lapses of any known numeral but the seventieth preceding the current one. This martyrdom of the Mataki made Leiak's esophagus secrete with the desire of a sommelier who sips the distilled water from the ravines over the chalices that lessened the badly criminal cruelty of those who do not taste the food for another dinner, congratulations if there was a failure of the Caucasus, where elixirs of mixed and sanctified muscatel wine are brought out under the table of San Juan. Everything was of ascending ambition for any liver who coveted this table of Mataki for whom he cordoned off the mountains and made those of the valleys embrace each other, for the uniqueness of the Dodecanese islands. All of those who let go of their shyness and did not allow them to refer to drinking or eating deposed by paying sacred attention to Zefian when he arrived on Patmos as a physical, and not spiritual taste, becoming effective in those who toast with muscatel for all the star maidens who followed him above, violating the seals that held them prisoner, then just then the eye of the Iaspis was made of the karats for its recalculation, subjecting them to the safeguard to signify and meet at this time between seven polyélaios, and seven discopotira immediately to the bag of the phasmatemporos or Enchanted Paneros to taste Self-corrections were approaching with the necromancies of Leiak, they took the seven candlesticks or Polyélaios, and the seven chalices or Diskopótira immediately to the bags of the Fasmatemporos or bread basket, the crimes were archaically repositioned in this Mataki tablecloth enchanted by Leiak, the sin was self-corrected in the parallel line of slip doubly marked as a sin of omission, and concessional violation of the desert's desire to self-correct fully empty having hands with wax from the candelabrum of Kerós' spell or wax made by the bees of Aristaeus to please the avatars present at this inaugural banquet, for libations that spilled part of the lipoids of the bees of Gethsemane, along with those of Aristeo to clean the ground mixed with parasitic spiders that ****** the milk that fell from their rituals. By nightfall of the third dream, the Mataki was wrinkled by thousands of leg joints from mating arachnids from the spider's trochanter drenched in milk and Corinthian wine.

The precautionary did not wake them from the third sleep when they had just broken the bread and made the libation for the first time with alcuzas that shone superimposed on the icons of the Attic vases, here is the lavish clothing of the entomological world under thousands of overloaded spiders in the Mataki, and it is overloaded on the oak inn that supported it towards the entirety of the Tagmati in the formation of a model of hoplite spiders that would transform into specialized units formed by the deprecation of the bees of Aristeo by balancing the unevenness of the tables by attaching them with the figured beards in the icons of the vases, where they saw these images of the future and past with the Tagmati with Byzantine expressions of Constantine V, and with Philip II dispensing financing for the new military uniform of the hoplites completely financed by the Greek coffers, naming him hegemon of the Amphictyony after Philip entered central Greece and won the battle from Chaeronea (338 BC) to the Thebans and Athenian allies, here seven thousand of the fallen Athenian and Theban allies graced the figure of Demosthenes, for new vessels encrypted with Philip's iconic images "Lover of Steeds" where a spear crosses hearts in the offspring of his horses in his heart too, wronged by the page Pausanias of Oréstide as royal guard. Gradually the table was made with more guests represented in the numismatics that ran through the drag of the cornucopia, and in the majolicas that classified the blood represented right there on free floors to self-correct for all the ****** campaign carried out by Philip and his corrupt but unifying mission to dissuade providential enemies unworthy of sitting at the historical table of the Amphictyony remembered in these vessels, on top of the Mataki that absorbed liters and liters per second of the blood that was drained by the description made of the hoplite representatives, who for the first time They once sat next to the close track record of a hegemon. The Sibyls arrived commanded by the Herophile Delphic, they were served wine of conjectured blood reverted from the Mataki but from the ground preceded the greatest libation on spring propination equipment that made amnesty bonds where everything reigned for self-correction of the brutality of the symposiums, where nothing made to have Bearing in mind what would happen to Vernarth's stipend, he was still delighted to see more guests come up from the wind tunnel of the Profitis Ilias that expelled them.

The ashamed gods hid behind the candlesticks that shone with the ****** waxes of Aristaeus, and the polis that harvested the Sponde, sipping the effluvia of Persephone in the meeting of the canticles with her mother, pouring out the earthly gynaeceum that awaits the ceremonial, before only those who observe and correct themselves. Spray water fell from tidal waves from the Aegean with throats plagued by a ravenous and invasive rain of flavonoid metabolites; of the plants that poured down the gorge that Demeter burst upon, flat and monumental goblets for all who arrived with skillful fists to give rise to the mixed consumption of libation with essences of the sleet turned into the blood for the chalices on the table next to the Mataki, which began to replenish pure essence of necromancy to start with the suppressions of evil eyes on the hoplites that began to pierce them and protect them from a certain visual intoxication.
Vóreios
Vicki Acquah Dec 2015
TODAY I made a choice...In the quiet stillness of my mind.
to let nothing keep me from the essence of this unique day.
TODAY I have decided to enjoy this day for what it’s worth.
I have decided to appreciate what was already in motion, to create no commotion,
and silently feel my emotions. TODAY I will not be led astray I will receive the grace
of this abundant DAY. I hear, as I listen, I envision, as I see. I inspire, as I speak
I appreciate, as I spectate. The birds provide symposiums in an array of songs for my
enjoyment.
TODAY I have chosen to be the victor as I gather my thoughts, and write them to the
sweetness of their various harmonies, The birds enlighten my presence with the symphonies
they sing as they entertain me each with his own song. This morning I was awakened by
bird’s-songs delighting me with melodies, I the guest of honor lend precocious ears to their
cause. Tweeting, throaty rhapsodies calling- calling. Others join in with renditions that blend
perfectly as the day begins. Next the babbling of the water in the brook adds a rush to
the thrush of the warblers song. The sound of water fills my emptiness as it flows
magnificently to flush the streams of my captured soul. TODAY I become at one with nature ;
the Water and birds have effortless nourished my soul and restored my integrity so.. TODAY
I have lived harmoniously without concern for whatever may come tomorrow. Because
TODAY I HEARD the birds sing, and have decided to listened intently.
Vicki Acquah Dec 2015
TODAY I made a choice...In the quiet stillness of my mind.
to let nothing keep me from the essence of this unique day.
TODAY I have decided to enjoy this day for what it’s worth.
I have decided to appreciate what was already in motion, to create no commotion,
and silently feel my emotions. TODAY I will not be led astray I will receive the grace
of this abundant DAY. I hear, as I listen, I envision, as I see. I inspire, as I speak
I appreciate, as I spectate. The birds provide symposiums in an array of songs for my
enjoyment.
TODAY I have chosen to be the victor as I gather my thoughts, and write them to the
sweetness of their various harmonies, The birds enlighten my presence with the symphonies
they sing as they entertain me each with his own song. This morning I was awakened by
bird’s-songs delighting me with melodies, I the guest of honor lend precocious ears to their
cause. Tweeting, throaty rhapsodies calling- calling. Others join in with renditions that blend
perfectly as the day begins. Next the babbling of the water in the brook adds a rush to
the thrush of the warblers song. The sound of water fills my emptiness as it flows
magnificently to flush the streams of my captured soul. TODAY I become at one with nature ;
the water and birds have effortless nourished my soul and restored my integrity so.. TODAY
I have lived harmoniously without concern for whatever may come tomorrow. Because
TODAY I HEARD the birds sing, and have decided to listened intently.

— The End —