Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
C Jul 2010
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.

For change, there are things I would give up.

I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.

For change, there are things I would give up.

I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.

These are moments I would give up.

There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Mikaila Aug 2013
If someone ever gets me a box of those little word magnets you can put on your fridge
I'll be gone for hours whenever I go to get a snack.
I love words.
I love the challenge of saying something meaningful
With a jumbled stack of them all scrambled up.
I love words.
Having them there to swirl around and make strings of
Like a child makes popcorn garlands for the Christmas tree
Comforts me
In a way that pulling them from thin air can't.
It marries my two soothing balms- expression and mindless motion.
If I see them in a friend's house or a store,
I disappear for... sometimes hours, to be frank.
My English teacher had them on the board.
I made myself late for the following class every day
Because I couldn't keep my fingers off those words.
Finding purchase, somehow,
Tactility,
It satisfies a wild craving in my heart
That mere thinking and typing just can't satiate.
It's really absurd.
Once I visited my friend,
And I wandered into her kitchen to get sodas for us both
And she found me there an hour later
Sliding little black and white type words
Along her stainless steal freezer compartment.
She said, "What are you doing?"
And I jumped, pulled back from some focused, faraway place,
And guiltily realized the sodas were warm.
I love words.
I love touching the things I love,
Feeling their existence.
I love limits on words,
I love figuring them out,
Because even with the tiniest amount of them
You CAN say what you need to say,
If only you distill the meaning to its essence.
I just... I really
Love
Words.
If I ever get my hands on those silly little magnets,
I honestly don't think I'll ever make it past the refrigerator door again.
That's why I don't buy them myself.
Bea Burnett Jan 2021
I move from room to room,
A phantom in the morning sun

I move to fill the vacant,
I move to fill the stillness,
I move to mirror my interior.

Restless in the comfort of silk,
Confined to the four walls of my brain,
I move to an irregular beat,
My feet dance across the negative space,
Fingers outstretched to nothingness

Maybe if I move,
Maybe if I manifest,
I’ll find tactility,
Maybe,
Lenore Lux Nov 2014
Here's where the line goes
for the show, maybe
Although I'm fairly sure it is
and I know that I'm first
Here's where the worlds collide
and the lies in their songs unfold
Forest of feast and tactility
Do I love you and need you?
Well, false to both, though
I admit you're my favorite

A veil of secrets
keeping you bleak and
numb, vacuous, and dumb
Are you in deep with the rhythm or open and bald
of your original skin and placement?
A different life, or would you say paradigm?
I.* there is no thicker undergrowth than feeling. first to go is reason, everything
    else levitates into something graver than say, one foot deep  in the grave
     and the other somewhere off-tangent like an offbeat adagio zigzagging
      into slammed slalom.

II. the crush of oregano against mortar, and the clasping of a hand. carbon monoxide
      fades into air as youth takes on momentousness. take for instance this once soft
    hand like a breath of cotton in a precipitate noon: once whirling in claustrophobic
      space, this slight inch of feelingfulness is dazed into the span of *Maya
windhovering
       somewhere unseen like paramours *******.

III. from the window you can feel the bluster of falsetto disintegrate at its slouched peak,
       and from where you hear it, a dance thwarts itself like a cigarette ember
       convulsing mid-air – that slow, repugnant twitch: that is you, when you first
        broke your silence in thick shrouds of disgust over strobe-lighted simian jaw.

IV. what else is there but to take this sour ocean in front of me and decode something
       the blue always means mellow but the froth of white something the tragic caprice
        of tropic: some nights, they remind me of bodies careening repeatedly; some days
                    they just are, like you, just are, like a riot and only sound, or sleep and only
          reticence, something short of wonder and terse with reply.

V. there is a cluster of harmonies flowering in my mind when the sensurround of din
        starts conflagrations in the ornate dark of ear. my limbs snake in the garden
        of plank, my shin bitten in sharp reiterations – my mind crossing the equinox
         looking for shade, or possible, a parasol underneath the crimson of rain.
           say this is the sky, this dense space when I motion both hands into a length
       not an inch could ever devour. suddenly a boy made out of a man, flustered
        in jangled arpeggios and unapologetic thought like a letter of debt opened,
         paying no heed the mind and only what the body dictates: a smash on the
    escritoire or vigorously scratching scalp, reopening scabs and watching
                old blood ooze dry like a lightweight webbed impression
  of       a    dreamy legato.

VI. the night deepens with the warmth of its black upholstery – we do not know
      when to stop and bid for home. last to go is will of force and first to arrive
     in the bleakness like a recalcitrant thought often straying outside with the
       strut of a yuppie, fervor of old haunt. i conjure an image over the cold chair,
    its steel framework thighs untouched, its four decrepit legs the foundation
       of something that refuses to admit its weakness. the very base of what would
   catch the anchorage of my gravity, the very heart of all, and the flattened back
      with a vandal that says “Soleil was here.” the liver shattering in the trance
                    of everything.

VII. night is stupor. i am the lilt of words from a rambunctious machine.         there seems to be an afterthought that separates
                       a concept of vastness and the tactility of narrow ether.
        a word is uttered in extremis - something heaven eschews
                with its bright, arrogant face.
some drunken rambling.
S S Apr 2016
I could not tell you of where, when or how
Or why or whence or with whom
It began.
All I can speak of is what I perceive
My neurons oblivious of floor plan.

Gray matter confabulates my wisdom,
Muddles synaptic impulse.
Confused nerves,
Travel unsheathed in an unpatterned grid
Relay scrambled message with undue verve.

Concerto fifth, notes ripple through the air
I hear not this music rich
But I see
Colours of infinite depth ebb and flow
Sounds live in my eyes, lines swirl and flurry.

Waning sun kissing the horizon deep
I see not this beauty pure
But I smell
Warm scent of sweet cinnamon and jasmine
Pictures translated to redolent swell.

Olfactory bliss of soft infant kiss
I smell not this fragrance warm
But I feel
Velvet satin touch caressing my skin
Scents flow as mercury on fingers sealed.

Hypnotic pressure of pebbles underfoot
I feel not this kneading joy
But I taste
Caramelised coat cut by bold sour storm
Tactility morphs into scrumptious paste.

Palate aglow under five course repast
I taste not this saucy feast
But I hear
Melodious blend of pitch and cadence
Flavour unwrapped in acoustics of my ear.

My topsy-turvy world
Created
By my poor flummoxed nerves.
Never a listless moment
Dished up by
Crossing neurons as they swerve.
Prompt: nerves/neurons
agdp Aug 2010
held up legitimate excuses
fully executing unfocused choices
returning, backspacing this type
same sentences, of looking back
from rough drafts, rewriting
keeping words behind images
spoken actions restricted glances

still looking to find my essence
as repeated waves came tides
contrived to dissolve so to solve
all secured within tiers of a castle,
granulations formed from memory

write so to form, a type of sand
tangible untangled tactility
measured through these hands
we can only grasp these times
AGDP © 2010
prettywhnyoucry Jun 2022
It is hard to tell sugar and salt mixture apart by merely glancing or touching. I wish I could master the art of segregating them without any arduous chemical process.

According to wikiHow, one may assess the grain sizes of salt and sugar. But they too, acknowledge that table salt and granulated sugar do look very similar; the differences in these 2 is minute.

Option 2: Acquire a sieve sized in between the 2 grain sizes so as to let the salt through. However, this method is clearly not fool proof since not all salt and sugar grain is of the same size. A salt granule could mask itself.

The best way to separate salt and sugar is by adding absolute alcohol to the mixture as only the sugar will dissolve, salt is insoluble in alcohol. Then after, proceed to evaporate or boil off the sugar and alcohol solution and you will be left with salt.

Much like in life, it requires more than looking or tactility to tell between genuine and the pseudo. It takes time, takes processes and occurrences. I once more wish I could distinguish them easily.

Then again, as much as I am grateful for the sugars in my life, excessive amount of sugar isn't all that good for the health. Salt heightens the sweetness of sugar; it teaches me to appreciate sugar better. More importantly, salt, to a moderate amount, does good to the body too.

As such, I am grateful for both the sugar and salt in my life. Sugar provides a sense of joy, while salt is vital for personal growth.
all about balance
poopoo Aug 2019
Crude brown-plaster'd brick walls
Layed without proper solder or
Mold or mud or water
A pit of curdled old-heavy blood
And sinewous joint hinge-pins
Of hard goliath, giant's muscles
Heads seemingly shrunken
But blimped to a surley saturated to an
greater-than original size
Their skin peeled off long ago
Bones meaten'd down and scaled-up
The center of this gore-pit
their hellish home
Butcher paper and amish quilts
Thrown in to produce
A dense coagulate
Fine milk-colored, powdered substrate
Bone-meal and motor oil
Plasma and marrow
Worm-wood
Genteel feathers
From a bird that poisoned
The creek-water of a now-lost
But powerful mexican tribe
Jigger meal from a child's feet
And an old mans
In Afrika
The skin dead and leather'd
The insides rap't of those terrible
world's tiniest insects
Macro-scale germs, most toxic fleas
Coca-Cola boiled down
Into a solid black ichorous
Malleable glucose material

And the umbilical chords
Of Two hundred fifty
New borns
Steamed and broken down
To a mushy substance
With a feathered appearance

To the tactility of even the most calloused and rough

Digits
Whether human

or proto-, pseudo- or neo-
hyper- and pre-
Hensile

The seeds of a million poppies
Cowardly, feverishly tossed into this

Horrid ***
Milewed down into a fine
Addition to the general rot, of this
Yet another putrid addition
The ***** from the second stomach
Of a calcified pterodactylus
And a dragon's mouth below the drain
In the center of this certain,
Gross sess pool
Lies a carv-ed Dragon's skull
To catch this sacred druel
Made out of greenheart
Black ironwood
And for the teeth, obsidion and
Caspian tiger bone
Together spliced and mal-formulated
To create a most
Septic funnel
Cone
All if it drains and
Gurgles down

Into a forged
Glass-Vial
Made in ancient, archaic
Olden times
But for this very abjectly
Evil trial
And he throws the switch!
The gurgle wrought
By this very motion of the level,
The level thrown by most
white un-sunned
Wizard-Warlock hand
It travels down into the vial
Mixing through emerald-hoses
With arsenic
And tainted possum spit--
--infused with cud
From cows thatnot
Even Cherised, prideful
India would permit!
And so a mustard-seeded gas
Also thrown into the mix
Clashes, bonds with
Stupid fluids

Made from the umbilical plugs of anencephalic and

Profound Down-syndrome
Czecho-kidnapped
Stolen'd infants

As their bones rake and smash through
The grinder that eats ANYthing
It goes down a rifled fluted core
Of Balsa-wood
God permits!!
Slimy
Messy

Filthy
Nasty
Hole in the witches den
From which spells are NOW born
To take the world
In a sanguine
Magick-whirl wind!
Simon Soane Dec 2016
Thankfully there are many days of the year I adore
that are gilded with flight and resplendent with soar,
even in the midst of supposed bleak mid winter frown
they’ll be a jive and a boogie at a dance in Town,
where it’s far from chilly in a huggy warming soothe
and all is fine in a January’s groove.
Any day in March could prove to be ace
with the appear of a friendly face,
as then chatting swirls with balletic gymnastic,
our rhetoric full of the pirouette of fantastic,
what was just another night of the 365
becomes made with the joy of being alive.
Spring usually blossoms with a sure run,
the unfurl of gentle, the know of hotter sun,
blooming naturally with the grace of the trequartista,
as well as the long weekend off for Easter.
Every morning gets brighter just a smidgen,
summer’s encroach feels fab to be lived in,
under verdant leaves clarities’s clear
and then tent is out because festival’s here;
“Hi my name’s Simon, what’s your name, how’s it going?”,
as music plays and vino is flowing,
“what you like Buffy too?  Ahh man it’s so great,
“yeah man it’s all about love and never leaving life too late!”.
And yeah when I get back I might be a comedown mess
but I love you festivals nevertheless!
Then September’s coming soon,
for fallen leaves the ground makes room,
what once was glistering in the green of the hour
curls to the gone of fading flower,
that’s okay though as that’s just the way it goes,
everything is transient, even great loves will someday part,
it all has an end, that amazing start,
it’s the bit in the middle that makes it serene,
the make of the moment believably supreme,
plus round the corner it’s Halloween;
where ghoulish attire can get “ohh, good call!” and a laugh
with a 31st deviation from the usual dress path.
Then in a few days booming lurks
in the here then disappear of fireworks,
as well, in November, there are frolics with friends
and those fireworks are yet to end.
Now as you can see all those other days of the year I marvel at their behest
but, if I had to say, I love you the best;
I start putting décor up in anticipation of your arrival
I feel festive butterflies begin to rise and spiral,
I get out the banners when I know you’re coming soon,
I throw tinsel all around my room,
as I want you to know that when you get here
my heart is full of splendid cheer,
you always make me smile with consummate ease
as welcome as July’s warming breeze;
as soon as my eyes open on your morning
I feel the effulgent skip of the dawning,
I rise to greet you with wide open arms,
“yeah, you got me, I fell for your charms!”,
every second with you is full of wondrous thrill,
you are top, you’re easily brill,
your magic tactility, the sing in your touch,
aww, I love you so much.
So yeah all the other days I don’t love you any less,
just you Christmas Day, you’re simply the best!
Mike Essig Jul 2015
In the Beginning, God touched the world;
not Logos but the embrace of tactility.
God pressed himself into creation, every
animal, vegetable, and mineral imbued with
the exalted power of consecrated touch,
leaving marks that remain for us to discover
like marvelous pieces of a sacred crossword puzzle.
A celestial charter, holy Magick, necessary theology.
But seeing is difficult and knowledge is demanding.
We are shattered, splintered, fractured lenses,
mirror fragments of  broken insight.
Rational and credulous, we see only what we want.
To read God's fingerprints we must first of all burn,
burn away the human barriers of debate and common sense.
To meet the transcendent requires clear-headed madness.
Unshackle yourself from argument and logic,
the Magick focuses into a massive corona of power.
Dross and gold separate when touched by that flame
and only the purest, precious metal remains.
You must connect directly to the mystical
to access such bold, terrifying, inhuman force:
only stolen fire or knowledge contains this power
and that theft demands sacrifice of great pain.
But with them you can meet angels personally,
discover the Soul's hidden treasure horde,
speak with corpses, become animals and plants.
No longer chained by causality, you fly free,
in danger of igniting and dying of gladness.
Only walk through the fire and reclaim your birthright:
to see God's imprimatur on every earthly object
and to know that fingerprint is set upon you too.

  ~mce
He played in her lushness all night long
She had a comely garden of pleasure
Within it he could place his stem's treasure
His tactility twas earnestly strong
Her ******* were so delectable of taste
She became excited by his action
The feel of it made quite an impaction
Their love instruments were most hot of baste
Her inner petals did hold him spellbound
Beads of sweat flowed so very profusely  
Together they explored feverishness
Upon their bed nest twas a sighing sound
She and he were getting it on nicely
As they did discover deliriousness
ArianaRusso Jul 2014
Vagrant man- father
perpetual tactility
of a spiraling reality

a mothers tears
unintentional
such sorrow
in her blooming blue eyes

emanation
blemished being
brown eyes
the baby cries
tainted throb of the heart
now molded into jasper
rapture
Andrew Guzaldo c May 2018
"Ardor yet torment are so abutting in tactility of amass,
Yet the latter is so very arduous,
Love can be like the flower that will not bloom,
Yet carries the love you had to others hidden in the dark,

We must thank the love we had may shed the aroma,
May the love once had may survive dimly within our souls,  
The incandescent that rises from ground to your cilium,
Your alluring artistry protoplasm your prose your aroma,

That of a love that once cared yet left your palate in torment,
When your love and beauty gave exigent to my heart and soul,
As does the sea give oxygen to its living things to live,
Of my heart to my noumenon maybe I can live without you,

One day a new love I shall affix a diadem in my lonesome dynasty,
What sorrow did I not express to you was my sorrow immersed,
From crest to surge I still canticle your name as I wonder,
You were the long stem floret that comminuted my soul,"
BY AG 05/25/2018 ©
How to forget someone
whose eyes met
for a concise moment
with so much emotion

How to forget someone
with the hand that recognise
the tactility made a moment
of owning each other

How to forget someone
who ensnared my soul
with a succinct kiss
making a forever

How to forget someone,
someone with so many remembrances
though it befell in a jiff.
Mark Aug 2019
Tactility is nearly lost, exploring this wall
this plain white wall, where hangers once pierced.
Like a mime, almost, but hands have little feeling,
each white indent a symbol of a time - hopeful smiles.
Contact, is hesitant adherence to regularity
below the threshold of social living.

Heaviness diversifies through the vein maze,
like a bulkier fluid with no vitality, purposeless;
Except to disseminate the morose sense to the brain
filling like in a tub - bathing in burning tar,
burning - only temporarily relieved by peeled skin
burying all self worth and nostalgia.

Existence becomes consumed by waves of neurotic death
the plague wins the inner feud against movement;
cry or yell - what will it serve when light is dimming.

Mother did suggest therapy, thought she would,
how can a mind degree diminish the weight of these boulders
placed on each nerve, rolling back and forth;
on my heart.

Options for relief? Pressures release
may come in a silvery sharp form,
Just one, surely just one would last long enough
to drift this being from the sorrow and shame.
Dribbles at first, then the flowing burgundy waterfall
trickling hands, onto the hardwood floor.

It takes me away
I drift with the ripples, streaming
a wry smile arises and finally: sleep.
Hospitals are all to familiar
that disinfectant odor
and that beep - that constant beep monitoring pulse and life.
Now all to aware of: burgundy falls.
Kenya83 Feb 2018
The birds are singing
Welcoming me home
Greeted with sincerity
In a smile
With truth
I missed tactility
Craved authenticity
Mutual connections  
Gentle reciprocation
Excitement wears rapidly
Grasses are not luscious all year
Lessons are not always learned
Ego seeks worth
In the wrong place
At the right time
Darkness succumbs to the light of the day,
Purging all the nightly monsters away.
The day continues with peace and tranquility,
Until the night flies back with great tactility.
The monsters return to terrorize the town,
Scaring the citizens like a circus clown,
Nobody knows why the monsters don't stay,
When the darkness succumbs to the light of the day.
Take it how you may like to.
Borker is instructed in Demiurgy, after learning that everyone was gathered at the banquet. He tried to intercommunicate with everyone looking for the reason and intelligence of the soul that he attached to him when they were reunited. His faculty and the authority of the souls of Trouvere led him to the ancient of Helade, in her ritual that was of great heritage and vernacular purity. His freedom of action led him through the forests of Nothofagus to discover his qualities as a Demiurge, fasting alongside the Geodesic quadrangular of Vóreios, Notós, Dyticá, and Aftó. Leiak with the assertive legal chastity of him assisted him for the possibilities that were priorities of the same to distance himself from the magnetism of the souls of Trouvere and the Ghosts of Shiraz, who were unified in the face of geodesy, to excite flat emotions. Borker takes the sword Xifos from Vernarth, makes a circle separate the barriers between the ghosts and the souls that were summoned, so the hoplite grotesques that were relatively close to that dimension, began to grasp the center of eternity. The circle will break the taboo so that the rules of the Duoverso allow the opening antiphon that is pre-figured in the eclectic portal of the nearby cell of Procoro, there was also a bronze vase that would be used to symbolize the reality of unreality, under the level of the condensed water that used to be stored in these Borker rituals. Annelids and pieces of meat from the Falangists were seen entering the circle, scaphoid ossuaries prowled the larnax of Alexander the Great pointing in advance on the losses of the Soul after winning the World. The Souls of Christi were added as a corollary of the common reason to be alive or dead in a verse, which could inflict a sectarian aligned in the Mortis arsenal league, that is, it began to continue moving before the eyes of others declaring a common parable to the magical sighting. The first ritual was circumscribed to the necromancer circle, which in turn towards another round of front on the precognition of another curved space, which mediates the sepulcrity of all to the future in the senses that have never been referenced for a common, that only sees on himself, and sometimes invisible like a Shiraz or a Trouvere. Borker looked carefully into the eyes that were not typical of those who observe, but rather of those who diffuse inter-spirits that flow through his pontificate, clarifying the vision of others to make Vlad Strigoi the one to assist him, since he would gloss it better. The sensations spoke of the true spirit that passed among all and lived to be reborn in the neatness of their actions, in later seconds they would verify their roots with the image of Notós, for the superior moments of spiritual governance, where everything moves and now it will visibly shake it. , unimpeded by the stages that made her invisible, and without the awareness of abandoning a body, which has always been verve among all the perceptions that speak of the Psychic Being, incomplete shimmer of transition towards the Austral, towards the supra-austral! where the Necromancer calls to the Demiurge to quench his physicality, to turn it into a physical and psychic tactility, which invokes a moderate spirituality that converges on the physical, but without limiting in his vitality. Borker released the fetters of the Notós, to travel to the southern-Boreal of Jakidiki, near the sea of Cassandra, very contemplative of the rapture of foreplay to Kallithea, towards an epithet so that the coast of the Cyclades is not demonized, making the circle of Borker a summoning of Cassandra as a living Sibyl, ordering the dawn of an organism allegedly biologically disorganized. The air becomes furious and the wings become gigantic with Borker's orders to sculpt the obsolescence of greater harmonious sounds, over a breath that needs Aion and limbs to move, before the sudden differential of the spirit that only systematizes the connection of liberation of a being not released. Temporality decides to shelter itself from combined conservatories, and from risky guardians who spread their powers risking their own essence as a refugee object and subjective sedentary.

The forces that were born from others, scalding the physical arcane that transmigrated to the psychic arcane zone, systematizing salutary hordes of immunity, which inflicted the natures of the Corpus that were being formed with the demiurgic necromancy, the willing was based on the ordered numerals that made the acrotera rise. , which remained weightless on Zefian's tetra saeta, marking the Eruv of positioning in the greatest preponderances of a fervent transition risk, which was deposited in the hands of Borker as constructive pollution to get close to the ossuary of the Falangists of Arbela, which they were returning to the world of the Living, from the Tremens or trembling delirium that was aggravated in the non-converted supra-gifted bodies in the fangs of history. All the skills of the world roar through the lamps that will discover the work that hangs from a Níma, which is spliced by its rethreading in the Physical Spiritual world of Borker. The will to dig over himself transformed into the revival of the Arbela soldiers so that they would revive, to assist in the construction of the Megaron, then they would stop being unburied spirits purging the broomsticks that throw the dice from the cunning of the throw. , and from the bravery hoplites that instruct the intruders that they are only risky pavites, but without necromancy training. The despotic of the swarming souls are liquefied, with empty bodies but as whole spirits, the ossuaries are quickened and trembled with cold, the bad regretful moment of the bad omen shone in the circular container, and vanishes before everything with the ocher nails of Vlad who assists Borker to open and then close the environment, under an arcane attribute that would resemble everyone's appearance under such *******. The movable objects of the pantry and cellar of Prócoso were sneaking along the path of expropriation, leaving visions behind the ashes of the mantle that temporarily sheltered the full moon of the uncontrolled regression by the shoulder of Getsemani, which alluded to winged tetra appearing in the lattice. that hid the night in its curb, beyond the exact devotionals of San Juan and San Pablo. The lifeless tongues lay to revive in the sacred spaces that touched the earth of the unlived new world, from nothing they only aspired to the prototype of Hillel, for the intelligence that flourishes in the ******* coarseness of those who do not escape from ignorance and who he only thinks and does not act. Shemash and Apochróseis (Sun and Shadows) were lengthening from those that grew through those who still stood on the flat Encina as a console, and were under the predestined Mataki of the pilgrimage of two worldly and momentarily unexplored dimensions. Saint John takes the chalices and illuminates them with the Menorah, where they were encouraged to reside on the sparkling curves of the full moon, which was only preparing to reside in only two cosmos that would unite, under the ******* of one who did not collegiate ... they empowered facilities in the trances.

The Ekev or reason or cause, was in the domain of Saint John when he blocked his eyes and was transported to the year 70 AD in the Judeo-Christian war. Jerusalem was destroyed and its temple too, devastated as well as the Beit Hamikdash that was collapsing, each stone deposited in the free fall of its walls textualized a Christian Gnostic in the stage of analysis of the Apostolic Apocalypse, which led them to the Analogy of the Ditycá , or Equinoctial after the points of expectation that everyone captured when San Juan opened his eyes. The values to prove the truth pontificated before the Ekev, which consolidated the importance of the events of the fall of the wall caused by Tito's troops. This flaunted regression of parapsychology was always guided by Vernarth, Saint John interceding with the matrix of the collapse of the Neshama soul of the Beit Hamikdash, which was inaugurated from there with the free fall of the grafted stones of the voice of the Mashiach, to appear together in the reinforcements of the Zealots to collect the orphan stonework from their free fall, generating the blessed word and testamentary supplication with the fact of bringing all that daring to collapse, for the next oscillation of the Ekev that affected the Testament of Levi, with a large amount of mass tonnages that would follow the parable of ascent, to ***** the word and the action of generating and raising the Megaron, before the Stav or Aramaic winter from where the Mashiach will resemble.

Saint John says through Vernarth: “we were surrounded and lacked legions to stop the advance of the barbarians, the walls were destroyed by the draconian battering rams, but our tefillah turned in the adversity of the siege, seized by our resistance and attracting the forces that rebuilds everything, captivating the volume of voice that determines everything that has already been done, beyond all periods without any architect to redesign it, free fall will be what is catapulted from the uncontrolled fire of catastrophe, which is also rebuilt in reverse. People and their moans became escape routes to sneak into the Tefillah or prayers that skimmed past Caesar's head on his dais, taking with them the souls in the flames that engulfed everything. The demolition was the grace of new construction of the elemental material, and of the consecration of the wasteland of a table under the Mataki, where everyone with total normality dried up seeing the visions of the Prophet of Bethsaida, tying the laces of their sandals, with the towers of Fasael and Miriamme, for a great height of observation of an equinoctial that was now made in the analogy of the Dyticá, which carried the aromatic images of Saint John to perch in the cyclamen forests, towards a divine encounter in Patmos, moving the vocality of the crowd that brought with the force of his voice, in all the building of the stalls that would be contemplated in the twinkling of the eyes of the Saint with his Ekev, for preterism as a prophecy of a Yeshua who was born in the walls turning their voices into the bricks, which built the living gospels in the column that diverged in the Vernarth archivolt, celebrating with him.
Borker Demiurgy
Praise Nesvinga Aug 2020
I know how your lips are macadamia husk amber, rosy and crimson, lubricious and subdued like silk sashes, radiant and warm as cloves in burlap sacks.
Their live, insatiable kiss, moist and breathy, rouses quick and electric heat, brushing softly and passionately like butterfly wings.
The feel of your waist, tender and delicate like the half-curled frond of a sun washed fiddle-head fern, sizzling and thermal under my hands.
Fingertips tracing the figuration of your rhythmic contrasting thighs, navigating your rounded hips with familiar fascination as your skin orchestrates an exhaled symphony of inaudible passion.

Scattering nascent rays of unfiltered moonlight, yes your unfathomable, unbaked clay eyes form the immortal art of a perfect soul with a swallowing incomprehensible depth.
Swirling warm and edged with a muddied silhouette canvasing the luminescence dancing in your irises with a soft glimmer, conjuring lucid eyes that betray this poet.
If I could touch your face, to be a fleshy passion fruit on your tongue, to be the skin inside your palm, to be yours and tender as steak imagined off the bluegill's pearlish bones.
O' show me the detail my love, the intricate structure of your faultlessness and the languish against my slow chapped power.

Your infallible inerrant hands, touch in a slow successive tactility as though arching away at every bone, inciting and conjuring upon approval even from the very last toe.
Your embrace is the most exquisite distress, sweating, feeling an impetuous volcano strain at its peak inside me, urging to explode my steaming self over you
That voice that floats off untethered as the corners of your mouth tilt up like commas around " beautiful phrases ", glazing with human light and espousing them to your lips.
Adoring the twilight of your skin, it's brilliant light tone beginning to blush evenly, each cell inspired to push toward that ruddiness of purpose and that sigh.

In neither absent nor a pensive mood, the bliss of your solitude, the grandeur of your ever happy self, tossing its head in a sprightly dance, you are my passion
For Nelida Ndaubvonga

— The End —