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Stars gleam -night/snakes run their races,
Rain always seems/to find our faces,
Drowning deep abyss/those dark and evil places,
Wanna' die, release/trapped time, a Beast,
....come end this stasis,
....come end this stasis,

I wanna' die,
Transpose,
I wanna' die,
Cosmos!


We have eyes/still won’t see it,
Hearing without hearing, ears won’t believe it,
Argo, course, pivot/never touch, feel, regret,
Hunger boils feel/pain, life, hurts, reveal;

I wanna' die,
Transpose,
I wanna die,
Cosmos!


I wanna' dine at the table of Kro-nos!

Grinded, gnashed, sliced, eaten/devoured as a Cretan,
Die, soul to fly/meet in the sky,

I wanna' die in the cosmos,

I wanna die,
Transpose,
I wanna die,
Cosmos!


Trapped mill machine/they eat, they gleam,
Meet for the feast/Almighty beast, Almighty Kronos!

I wanna dine,
It a crime?
Swallowed by time,
In the cosmos,
I wanna die,
I wanna dine,


I wanna dine cosmos/retch my body, I transpose,

I wanna dine at the table of Kro-nos!

*I wanna die,
Transpose,
I wanna die,
Cosmos!
Cné Sep 2018

Each body part
sizzled in pure pleasure
in the blissed wake
of your oral efforts
brought forth the waves
of rapturous delight...

                                       Spurs poetic inspiration
                                        in equal liberation
                                        of desires to please.
                                        Bodies transpose
                                        in fluid motion
                                        as brazen eyes meet.

        Savor the voluptuous image before you.
        Indulge your eyes in my carnal halo
        before they roll to the back of your head.

On all fours
knees between your thighs
tips of swollen breast
caress your chest
tasting fresh honey
upon lips in a kiss.

                                        Ripples of ardor
                                         hover
                                         by wet trails
                                         of sensual kisses
                                         suckling towards
                                         the apex.

Breathe in
the slow motion pace
that pulsates eagerness
to the fore tumescing bulge
leaking with anticipation
of viscous lava.

        Tickles of silken hair
        against flesh edges closer.

Emerging subtle grumbles
in deep resonance
betray your impatience .
Hands tightly twine
in tangled hair
to maneuver
the treasure hunt.

                                         Licked lips pause
                                         at the sight of fire
                                         burning in
                                         glazed gazes
                                         before engulfing
                                         the throbbing member.

Plump ruby lips
greet velvety texture
in a slow deep dive.
Tongue curls around
the flavor
in a dulcet embrace.

                                         Moans release
                                         as grip tightens
                                         in my hair
                                         settles the
                                         rhythmic pace
                                         to taste in an
                                         oscillating dance.

        The masculine aroma of heady musk
        lingering there, arouses my appetite.

With my enthusiasm
attuned to
your preferred rhythm
suckling, slurping
surface and dive
in measured unison.

                                          Break of breath
                                          allows tongue
                                          freedom to roam below,
                                          licking, soft kissing
                                          the tender hammock
                                          of testicles.

        Tongue and lips escalate higher
        to mount another assaulting dive
        deeper in the depths
        of the cusp in cavity.

Wetted fingers
probe even lower
circling superficially
as gasp escapes
your heavy breath;
flaming eyes lock.

                                          Finger dips in
                                          with expert finesse
                                          gorging hardened growth
                                          within a wrapped hand.

Thighs tighten
with rocking grip.
Head thrusts onward,
drilling forward
in each dive.

        Salvia slips
        fingers grip
        lips dip

Engorged swell, flesh tightens in an intensity
of volcanic eruption ...

        HALTS
        assault

Pace retracts.
Loosened lips kiss tip.

“Soon sweetheart, your time will ***
inside me as we surrender to synergy."

Inspired by Multi Sumus' love...................................lust (act I) with my reciprocation in collaboration.

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2678968/lovelust-act-i/
(As she is usually expressed with a Seraphim beside her.)


Well meaning readers! you that come as friends
And catch the precious name this piece pretends;
Make not too much haste to admire
That fair-cheeked fallacy of fire.
That is a Seraphim, they say
And this the great Teresia.
Readers, be rul’d by me; and make
Here a well-plac’d and wise mistake
You must transpose the picture quite,
And spell it wrong to read it right;
Read him for her, and her for him;
And call the saint the Seraphim.

Painter, what did’st thou understand
To put her dart into his hand!
See, even the years and size of him
Shows this the mother Seraphim.
This is the mistress flame; and duteous he
Her happy fireworks, here comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men!
Had thy cold pencil kist her pen
Thou couldst not so unkindly err
To show us this faint shade for her.
Why man, this speaks pure mortal frame;
And mocks with female frost love’s manly flame.
One would suspect, thou meant’st to paint
Some weak, inferior, woman saint.
But had thy pale-fac’d purple took
Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book
Thou wouldst on her have leapt up all
That could be found seraphical;
Whate’er this youth of fire wears fair,
Rosy fingers, radiant hair,
Glowing cheek, and glistering wings,
All those fair and flagrant things,
But before all, that fiery dart
Had fill’d the hand of this great heart.

Do then as equal right requires,
Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires,
Resume and rectify thy rude design;
Undress thy Seraphim into mine.
Redeem this injury of thy art;
Give him the veil, give her the dart.

Give him the veil; that he may cover
The red cheeks of a rivall’d lover.
Asham’d that our world, now, can show
Nests of new Seraphims here below.

Give her the dart for it is she
(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee.
Say, all ye wise and well-pierc’d hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,
What is’t your tasteful spirits do prove
In that rare life of her, and love?
Say and bear witness. Sends she not
A Seraphim at every shot?
What magazines of immortal arms there shine!
Heav’n’s great artillery in each love-spun line.
Give then the dart to her who gives the flame;
Give him the veil, who kindly takes the shame.

But if it be the frequent fate
Of worst faults to be fortunate;
If all’s prescription; and proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song;
For all the gallantry of him,
Give me the suff’ring Seraphim.
His be the bravery of all those bright things,
The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings;
The rosy hand, the radiant dart;
Leave her alone, the Flaming Heart.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her
Not one loose shaft but love’s whole quiver.
For in love’s field was never found
A nobler weapon than a wound.
Love’s passives are his activ’st part.
The wounded is the wounding heart.
O heart! the equal poise of love’s both parts
Big alike with wound and darts.
Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same;
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame.
Live here, great heart; and love and die and ****;
And bleed and wound; and yield and conquer still.
Let this immortal life where’er it comes
Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms.
Let mystic deaths wait on’t; and wise souls be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art,
Upon this carcass of a hard, cold heart,
Let all thy scatter’d shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large books of day,
Combined against this breast at once break in
And take away from me my self and sin,
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be;
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
O thou undaunted daughter of desires!
By all thy dow’r of lights and fires;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;
By thy large draughts of intellectual day,
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;
By all thy brim-fill’d bowls of fierce desire
By the last morning’s draught of liquid fire;
By the full kingdom of that final kiss
That seiz’d thy parting soul, and seal’d thee his;
By all the heav’ns thou hast in him
(Fair sister of the Seraphim!)
By all of him we have in thee;
Leave nothing of my self in me.
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die.
Steven Hutchison Mar 2012
Walked in like B flat
Slow music playing
Heels clicked like staccato
Dress cello imitating
Blue notes sunken
Drunken with the motion
Of the left right sway
Spin, dip, heads floating
River more than ocean
She never stands still
She don't shoot the breeze
Heart-breaker, shoot to ****
Then she transposed the thrill
B harmonic minor
Tango, stomp, clap
Somebody shot the dress designer.
Violence in the night
Gasoline on the floor
Swift step matchstick heels
She adores the
White
Light
Like coconut cream
Musicians bathe with the moon
Sleep with its beams
Play until the world
Seems to burst at the seams
Set fire to the rivers
Inhale the steam
Descend with the fifths
Never rest on a trill
Cut the drums, spotlight
Let her transpose the thrill
My adopted metaphor "Transpose Thrill"
Can you hear the sounds of summer silence?
Listen closely, listen closely
close your eyes, let summer take over

Expose every emotion inside your heart
Transpose beautiful noises outside
Foreclose all your worries
Summer silence

Free your soul, free your soul
Be yourself, become whole again
Summer silence
Summer silence

Birds have broke the silence of summer
fly high into summer
Birds fly, birds fly

Become whole again
control, control
Summer silence
Summer silence

Can you hear the sounds of summer?
Listen, listen
Close your eyes tight
Dream, dream  until the light goes
down

Expose every emotion inside your heart
transpose a new day
Foreclose all your worries today
Transpose, transpose

Free yourself, take time to become whole
again
Enjoy the summer silence
The Iron Horse can still saddle this Coach,
Whose Extract nourishes the Children he trains:
One the Golden Girl; The Other a Hodge,
Transpose to the Miracle-Boy remains
Two-Scores-and-Four his Dedication baits,
Like Tunes based to emasculate them both
Here in the Pillow-Jungle Success does wait
Bending limbs into Sport; Then promotes their Growth
What Circus! Said the Lame Artist envine
Yet in Prayer begs him to join the Fray
He looked at his Pearls; And saw that they Shine
Which, suspend, trained his Boon-Dogs to obey.
Hence, to Devotion his Shoes retire
Partner and Career; In Big Thanks suspire.
#andybanksdive
Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.
hiperverb and imaginery poetry, based upon the eternal endless realistic living and non  logic  retoric literature.
copyrigth JOSE LUIS CT  2018
brooke Jan 2014
you're living under a warm
pink light and I can see you
holding her hand between
the wooden seats in that
cafe

there's a glass of cold water
on my desk and I'm about
to go to bed.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014

a poem about acceptance.
Amour de Monet May 2014
Your light is beautiful,
and mine is glum.
In your eyes, I find
sensations my estranged blood
has never felt—
to touch, to love…
a soul unselfishly,
for no other reason than to love.

I want to place my frostbit hands
upon your beating chest
and ****** you away,
or might I chain your hands
and take you with me.

I could pull you into my gale,
a hostage of my lonely curiosity,
but I’m afraid—so afraid that your light
will fill the empty, gaping blackness,
and your gentle breaths
will calm my feral winds.

You alone will effortlessly transpose
the thunder of my bones,
and I will assent that only your nearness
can bring the calm to the eye of my storm.

But what follows when you
tire of breaking my weathers?
When your chains rust into reddish ash
and I can no longer keep you, my love?

I can’t imagine this place will ever be
as fair as it was with you,
and I can only foresee that
which will become of me.

For when the day does break,
and I find myself alone,
when the silence of your absent lungs
deafens my troubled mind,
my storm will surge again.

And as the black clouds surround,
I will bring my withered hands
before me and remove the foolish eyes
that once lost themselves in you.

So there are two sunken holes
inside my skull.

I will cut through my sternum
and rip my dour heart from my chest.
I will undress from my flesh
and pull the nerves you once caressed.

And my naked soul will dig a grave
and settle into the dark.
i am tired.... and i am a mess... and i am all things love and darkness at the moment. something has left me cold. i should rewrite this one day... when i'm more mind and less exhaustion.
CautiousRain Nov 2021
"God, I really wish she talked like you,
dressed like you;
how do I get her to think like you do?"

Policing her to be like me will never serve you
because the one who does me best, is me.
Be truthful with yourself,
when you ask her to behave like this,
do you dream of me?

You cannot easily transpose my image onto your lover,
because no one else loves like me,
talks like me,
dresses like me,
can transfix in your mind like me.

Do you love her like you love me?
Does she know the blueprint you use to mold her from?
Could she handle knowing what I know?
I appreciate the admiration, but consider what it means for you...
dean evans Jan 2015
The old man told his story, lost within his troubled youth
His words quite labored, heavy... his raspy voice by now uncouth
At times mixing the conversation with gin and ice, and sweet vermouth
His eyes were clear however, and I saw therein...
a quiet truth
He talked of her at length, his thoughts concise,
composed... serene
At times he’d pause, efface another silent tear he’d wished unseen
His dreams would countermand the years... love and youth,
would reconvene
She’s waiting there for him you see… The girl with eyes,
of Paris green

Some had said her ways unsound, disposition... introject
He said she knew the rumors, and she thought them all quite innocent
He told of how she’d laughed at them… of narrow minds,
and intellect
He found in her the love he’d sought, although his hope remained suspect
He looked into her eyes, and saw the faintest touch of sorrow there
Shining through the gentle mist, and the eglantine within her hair
He felt somehow her pain, although she’d kept it obscure...
nom de guerre
And so his own mistakes were viewed, in Paris green...
and sad despair

Their time together thus unfurled within this anguished declamation
Of years now spent in solitude, with lost and lonesome lamentation
For one whose essence still bestows upon his dreams, in meditation
Aspirations there arise, to leave his heart in desperation
His thoughts remained unchanged, unbroken...
memories demure
He stood to mix another drink, then paused...perhaps his mind unsure
Gathering his memories, so past and present touch... concur
And then continued once again, his sad and doleful dream of her

I listened there, throughout the night... I lie in sedentary pose
Then as I fall asleep I see the here and now,
and then... transpose
I see myself in dreams with her, but why? my heart has not disclosed
I'm lost within some late, late hour envisage... or so I suppose
I then awake alone, to find my thoughts of her and then, no clearer
The snow outside my window cannot bring her memory nearer
Though I can dream of Paris green, and all those places, so familiar
Tonight I'll listen once again, and tell my story..
to the mirror

Dean Evans
1-06-15
Caroline Badon May 2018
I am not an artist
I cannot paint a beautiful landscape that makes you believe you're looking at the real thing.
You will not stare in awe as you wonder what compelled me to paint those lines so uneven
And I can't make my color choices dance in your eyes like sugarplum fairies
Off of the canvas and into your mind
For you to transpose the choreography
To your own understanding

I am not an artist
I cannot capture a single moment in time with the simple click of a camera.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words but every shot I capture seems to be silent
Mute
But they're beginning to be heard
Screaming millions of words
Hoping someone will just hear one

I am not an artist
I cannot make your skin shiver as my lyrics echo through the room
Your emotions will not crescendo as each note burns nostalgia in your memory
And I will not leave you wanting to hear more

I am not an artist
And I can't create a masterpiece in two hours
I can't write words that will break your heart as they enter your ears and fill your soul with the emotions I'm feeling
I can't make you believe that I'm actually the character
I tried so hard to become at rehearsals for the last three months
My movements on the dance floor dont flow with ease or grace
And you will never give me a standing ovation
Or shower me with roses as you cheer for the art I've created.

But
With every step that I take on this earth
I am leaving brush strokes in the dirt and in your memory
Every laugh
every sob
every word that I speak
Is going through your ears for your own musical enjoyment
My eyes are like cameras capturing every moment and every face each time my lashes flutter
And even though most of we don't have photographic memories
We still remember the precious moments our personal cameras caught on film

I am not an artist
I am art
Brenden McNeil Jun 2012
I get scared easily.
And I always have persisted to allow my mind to be torn out when I let it affect me.
They say, "Worst case scenario is rare." in most situations.
I have yet to seek why they ignore worst case, become it, leaving nothing left for the worst.
Habitually it creates an aggression with associates: replacement and correlation.
Without me noticing inevitably.

Behind.
This shadow that follows, desires its personification;
Consequently the main man must fall,
He will dissipate towards the rock where the one before him stood.
Rather take a spot of one greater, it is that of less higher.
A demotion of sort.
In order for it to transpose into progression, a compromise is of order.
The compromise of time, itself, playing the waiting game - (let us back step)

…replacement…correlation…

The understanding of this is of which I no longer feel that emotion;
It is configured by the other, making a statement which is unrecognizable.
So much, not even I, the speaker, can do anything to prove to you what I mean.
--For keeps sake--
This is no where near a poor pardon for my actions.
They are far from a credible stature. Far from a pity fete;
Indeed a fare apology is in par.
Yet this is a means of report to say in far value: worry.
It is of pure arrogance that I state this claim. Keep this in mind.
That I fear the replacement emotion shall take place in fair time once more.

As the tail is coming back again, second time to be specific.
And your steps in self-fulfillment climaxes,
The steps to which I take are mimicked to that of the first tail.
(The apex forms and your entitlement proclaims its spot.)
I wish it not, to be furthered in my rut.
As of the annum before, was explained by dis-valued ties.
This is not to which I think.
It is your confidence which speaks and separates your feet.
Placing one foot in one path, far ahead from the other.
As I stay with the other, while the other one is altered.
Being free as it walks along with out I.
I wish for an ignoring of replacement, and to this I will forcibly try.

For you, my love.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway
there is a bus stop two blocks away.

****.
****.
****.

Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?

I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.

Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as  couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.
True story walking  at night in La Boca, one of Buenos Aires' most crime-ridden neighborhoods. Bless the soul who gave me bus fare back to Palermo.
1

A great year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother’s heart
closer than any yet.

I walk’d the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice,
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar
of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings;
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running—nor from
the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the
tumbrils;
Was not so desperate at the battues of death—was not so shock’d
at the repeated fusillades of the guns.

2

Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

3

O Liberty! O mate for me!
Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to fetch them out
in case of need;
Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy’d;
Here too could rise at last, murdering and extatic;
Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.

4

Hence I sign this salute over the sea,
And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,
But remember the little voice that I heard wailing—and wait with perfect trust,
no matter how long;
And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeath’d cause, as for all lands,
And I send these words to Paris with my love,
And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,
For I guess there is latent music yet in France—floods of it;
O I hear already the bustle of instruments—they will soon be drowning
all that would interrupt them;
O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,
It reaches hither—it swells me to joyful madness,
I will run transpose it in words, to justify it,
I will yet sing a song for you, MA FEMME.
Ana Kruscic Oct 2012
And my blood stirred redgold, and the pit of my stomach shrunk into a seed of derision.
My neurons released from their chamber, an epileptic soul as consequence.
Pores opened like rabid mouths foaming and spitting liquid,
I stand in a sea, and shake my fright.
I dance my worries into a hurricane of lost words,
And transpose rhythm and insecurity by the deadly trampling
Of pillows.
Dedicated to my dear friend, Nebyu Yohannes
Nick Durbin Sep 2012
It's as though I put the blemish in the perfect peach...
I am suffocating under the weight of breathless air...
A comodity in which only I am entitled...
There is no light in the direction in which I adhere..
Yet, I aimlessly transpose further into the darkness...
I would have gladly ceased to exist, than to taint the life to which I was entitled...
And for this reason,
The puzzle has lost the pieces to finish it's picture -
To complete it's beauty..

I am not....
I didn't expect such an eloquent piece of work to slip from your mouth,
An amazing set of words put together as intricate an atom bomb,
Or as an improvised explosive device, so i see,
Thus I must be careful where i tread my glass slippered feet,
and be aware of what breath of words expels from my lips.

I never expected such a skill set of destruction and warfare,
From a beautiful mouth, so deceptive, that it almost seems,
you are an undercover lover,
both beneath the sheets, and between distinguished conversations,
regarding such tentative ideals of love and the ambiguity of trust.

A terrorist it seems amongst the ranks with a finger on the trigger,
with a finger on my lips, and a whisper hush in my ear.
It seems i was blind to your type of sweet deception;
There are codes i didn't understand, and my mind was melting,
from the heat of your touch and the sublime twist of your hips.

I can see your eyes ready to deploy a subterfuge of promises,
as they look into the distance calculating the logistics,
of this moonlight illicit flit of passion;
Never did i expect such an eloquent transpose of intentions,
Even remarkably as this feels like the Romeo and Juliette of modern times.

I am the 'x marks the spot' in no-mans-land it seems,
I am the calm after the storm in the aftermath of your expostulation,
You, my love, are a sublime soldier in this battlefield we call 'togetherness'.
No-one asked you to go to this infernal devastating war;
Yet i long for your return from the eternal, internal battle,
you fight between your heart and your head.
Klaus Baumgarten Jun 2014
finite rapture
well defined. organized
organelles squirming. spurning
unnecessary imposition. repitition
severing me further.
it's still a bright fixture on the horizon
viewed at the far end of winding tunnel of mirrors.

captured in a jar. admired ideas
appreciated from afar.
trembling extended hand retracted.
strong stiches binding. scabs still crusty.
musty attics, shuffling feet.
melting.
swelltering in the possibility
of a potential interpreted properly.

I work better as an idea
than a human.
compose the tune and I'll be the words.
transpose your soul, I'll be the vibrations.
speak between the lines.  I will be blinded.
Beyond thought.
we are aware that we're unaware.

Crystalize.  Mezmerize.
It could be so simple.
To notice the cheeks, but not the dimples.
Four perfect points of light  linger in the shadows
two by two
Ideals. a concrete truth.
Glaciers slowly crack foundations.
Pounding. Pouding.
Resounding. Cannot be ignored
before I am the boomerang
that cracks you on the head.
Blood pooling at the base of my skull
control watered down.
Concrete giving into stress
and a flower has room to bloom/
Violet Wade Jun 2012
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,

And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,

Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,

Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.

A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the  bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.

But a poet,  a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt

To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.


And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,

Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile

Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet,  a poet will spend lifetimes trying

To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.

And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others  
That the poet will feel only rage,

And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,

For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
kaitlyn-marie May 2014
I really should stop making mixed CDs
for boys who will never listen to them.
Spenser Bennett Feb 2016
I sit alone beside the window,
rain falls through the trees outside
striking the leaves in mathematical fashion
tearing apart the stone below with molecular passion

Multiply the endogenous disease I carry in my lungs
I am loved
Sweep the sparking lead under the rug
I am loved
Transpose the heart burdened with grief for the young
I am loved
Our lives in succumbing to decay
we watch them every single day

We sit silent in repose
Our voices lost in the storm
We sit silent in our bones
Our bodies forgotten, hosts to the swarm

I am breathing, not living
I am breathing, not living now
My life lost in the separated sounds
of breaths gasped before I drown
in this white knuckled slumbering tomb
beneath the hallowed ground
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
Boiling fury, unattainable power, white eruptions,
Pushing then it pulls, striking then it steals.
The silence of the oceans anger, power with no corruption,
A strength and passion causing all within to kneel.

I stand at the crash point at night and feel its aching,
Whispers the sand silently speak, shifting it's patterns on my feet.
The silence on the surface tiptoes across the breaking,
God's metaphor for power, silence and where they meet.

I leave the water, my feet again meeting harsh road,
The warmth of the day almost gone.
the last heat remains yet its release is slowed,
the moons heart is heard and will be felt again at dawn.

The power of the sun found in the power of the moon,
the power of the waves, oh Lord, speak enough to me.
How one thing's power seems gone but returns so soon,
you transpose yourself, and through the ocean I see.
Io Dodgeburn Nov 2013
Exchanging
recommendations under flickering lights                                                           ­                                !                                        we transpose the nature
?                                                      ­                        of our insect-like movements

$                                                   ­                                               
with the slick of our collars,                                                
our dull-shine badges.                                      

Eye             ­   
                    makeup
arrayed in sheens                      
                to blow your eye's burn
away

back into
                                         the cold of space,
                                        where you belong

the skirt of the star's burn,                                                        
to sear you (un)clean
without alarm.

with a certain sweltering silent charm


Somewhere, saturations swell  
in non-                                    
casual ******* singsong.      
Klarity is substantiated.          

Forgive a whiff into cigarette dust.
Into reticulated (t)rust.



How many leaves
connect
    to form the               tree's glow?    
I'm sorry               for asking
now
I must go

...

Forbidding madness
with a
keen
brow-
bent
glare

ballroom harpies                          
                               ­     chase you backwards

down
a
flight
of
stairs

.              
.
            .

what is this caution
here cushioning me
porous like bed foam
harm eating me slowly


?
smirking consistent smart
a loneliness for hatred

.              
.
            .


Tear me up for what is holy in me
crumpled '****-poor' regard, it's a satin-shure smile
I am churning and I know (not the exit)
November 5th, 2013
Io dodgeburns
North gusts rush the trees
Oak and Birch clap twirling leaves
Swelling squalls sing through the boughs
As autumn grows in the Ramapoughs

Dogwood berries a scarlet scant
Branch and limb shake and chant
Woodchucks forage a forest floor
Red Maple's rust transpose a score

Pine scented chill of an early morn
Convection fog on a bog forlorn
Ascending sun an orange congeal
Summer’s fate a cycles seal

But green plumes still shout a season’s glory
Closing the chapter on a summer’s story
Cold Canadian highs hard by my home
As autumn grows in the Ramapoughs

Oakland
10/05/88

Charlie Parker with Strings:
Autumn in New York
Baylee Kaye Jan 2019
your might is like a river
your unfailing power flows
readied arrows in the quiver
but it’s mercy you bestow
you don’t relish in the flesh
rather it’s delighting in the heart
for my life in turn be blessed
is the reason you take part
your love is what admires
my humbly surrendered name
what your soul desires
is your compassion made my fame
and it’s your conceit you abdicate
to transpose my wayward state
d.c.

I really wish to get better at sonnets. This year my resolution is to write a poem every single day, I’ve been following this well. I plan for the month of February to write sonnets to try and get better.
When silence screams, it deafens all.
For those who listen close shall find,
Mistress darkness beckons to its call,
Seeking to shake up your state of mind.

In darkness lies monsters few dare see,
They encroach from the shadows,
Much taller, much wider than you or me,
Twisted creatures unfold and transpose,

In life there is no greater fear,
To be alone in a cold world,
Means to lose all that you hold dear,
To the point you're nothing but furled.

Mistress darkness beckons her call,
Awaiting her next victim whomever shall *fall.
*Uhh.... Sorry? Yes another english sonnet. Um... Dark much?
R Thakrar Dec 2011
We arrived brave and bold, art and science at our backs -
A rigid grid of perception to transpose upon all we would see before us.

Expectation of the unexpected,
Of normality with new norms.

Alas, close or foreign, observing or feeling,
Pain is one and the same.

Navigating slow waters muddied by social pollution,
Our lanterns cast a feeble light through the detritus.

Then, as the stream presented the sea, black and thick as a Venus night,
A dart of colour transcended from the voluminous burden.

Do the waters behind represent those ahead,
Or should we portend this tiny creature an omen?
25 Aug 2008
S Smoothie Jan 2014
When we chance upon loves opportunity, no wonder in the universe could move us from the inevitable pain and sorrow.  We are casually seduced whole heartedly into the spiraling supernova swallowing up everything in our fusion of love.

Other worlds and other ways are suddenly all opened! A connection unable to be lost by the simplest act of acceptance. It clings. It is a forever thing. Good, bad, ugly or beautiful it will never die in us. it is born in us to grow like an infant and thus return to its infancy. It will transpose to fire and ice and a delightful inbetween but it will not fail to stretch your limits or tear them apart and carve a new dependecy or inspired independence.

The world will ne'er understand how the boundaries of love will crush common understanding and prevail through darkness and light, sick depravity and ulitmate compassion. We love this beautiful thing by its very own perameters and inscriptions. Its meaning brings meaning and how tied we are to its presence scraping its essences from cracks and hovering over its residue- we need so much to connect with it again through one path or another.

Our beautiful agapi has an escape like none can ever plan for. And, when I fell into the clutches of this truth, I understood most happily the indemnity was nil and this made it the most beautiful thing of all! I took the leap and I am still falling in a thousand places through a million spaces and an infinite set of times and places. I am completely protected by loving the climb and the fall cloaked in the hope of never understanding...


It all...
T Daftar Mar 2013
A year has passed
So here's to you
I'll raise this glass
And drink it through

I'll find solace in Summer
When the Sun frees Her rays
On my porcelain skin
'tis my heart's favourite days

The sweet, mellow sound of your laughter will drown
In a sea of salt and dead memories
That sweet, mellow sound

I'll find solace in Winter
May Her clouds fill with rain
Her cold lips kiss my cheek
My skin stays the same

The dark, shallow scent of your body will fade
Yet the humid wet scent of cement
Will remain

I'll find solace in Autumn
Cherry blossoms and dreams
Birds sing their good news
Music flows like a stream

The heart-stopping touch of your hands on my skin
I'll forget it as soon
As this wine's kicking in

I'll find solace in Spring
Flowers bloom their bright hues
I'll watch swallows dancing
Oh idleness, I've nothing to lose

The bittersweet taste of your lips I'll find
Easy to regret
For wanton ways start with the lips
Then transpose to another set

So a full twelve months has come to pass
One season at a time
Yet the only thing my heart still clasps
Is your eyes
A reflection of mine
On voit dans le Musée antique,
Sur un lit de marbre sculpté,
Une statue énigmatique
D'une inquiétante beauté.

Est-ce un jeune homme ? est-ce une femme,
Une déesse, ou bien un dieu ?
L'amour, ayant peur d'être infâme,
Hésite et suspend son aveu.

Dans sa pose malicieuse,
Elle s'étend, le dos tourné
Devant la foule curieuse,
Sur son coussin capitonné.

Pour faire sa beauté maudite,
Chaque sexe apporta son don.
Tout homme dit : C'est Aphrodite !
Toute femme : C'est Cupidon !

Sexe douteux, grâce certaine,
On dirait ce corps indécis
Fondu, dans l'eau de la fontaine,
Sous les baisers de Salmacis.

Chimère ardente, effort suprême
De l'art et de la volupté,
Monstre charmant, comme je t'aime
Avec ta multiple beauté !

Bien qu'on défende ton approche,
Sous la draperie aux plis droits
Dont le bout à ton pied s'accroche,
Mes yeux ont plongé bien des fois.

Rêve de poète et d'artiste,
Tu m'as bien des nuits occupé,
Et mon caprice qui persiste
Ne convient pas qu'il s'est trompé.
Mais seulement il se transpose,
Et, passant de la forme au son,
Trouve dans sa métamorphose
La jeune fille et le garçon.

Que tu me plais, ô timbre étrange !
Son double, homme et femme à la fois,
Contralto, bizarre mélange,
Hermaphrodite de la voix !

C'est Roméo, c'est Juliette,
Chantant avec un seul gosier ;
Le pigeon rauque et la fauvette
Perchés sur le même rosier ;

C'est la châtelaine qui raille
Son beau page parlant d'amour ;
L'amant au pied de la muraille,
La dame au balcon de sa tour ;

Le papillon, blanche étincelle,
Qu'en ses détours et ses ébats
Poursuit un papillon fidèle,
L'un volant haut et l'autre bas ;

L'ange qui descend et qui monte
Sur l'escalier d'or voltigeant ;
La cloche mêlant dans sa fonte
La voix d'airain, la voix d'argent ;

La mélodie et l'harmonie,
Le chant et l'accompagnement ;
A la grâce la force unie,
La maîtresse embrassant l'amant !

Sur le pli de sa jupe assise,
Ce soir, ce sera Cendrillon
Causant prés du feu qu'elle attise
Avec son ami le grillon ;

Demain le valeureux Arsace
A son courroux donnant l'essor,
Ou Tancrède avec sa cuirasse,
Son épée et son casque d'or ;

Desdemona chantant le Saule,
Zerline bernant Mazetto,
Ou Malcolm le plaid sur l'épaule ;
C'est toi que j'aime, ô contralto !

Nature charmante et bizarre
Que Dieu d'un double attrait para,
Toi qui pourrais, comme Gulnare,
Etre le Kaled d'un Lara,

Et dont la voix, dans sa caresse,
Réveillant le coeur endormi,
Mêle aux soupirs de la maîtresse
L'accent plus mâle de l'ami !
mhm Jul 2019
I hear the sounds
Seems to quiver my martial senses
Praying illusions of the baying hounds
Give me a moment
To absorb this recollection

Hate to hear it
A sorry crime
Flowing through my spine

Wait to fear it
A wise man's words remain
Stop yelping this dismay

You've made it home
Was behind me
Really this cold?
Or is there a difference in heat

You hear the cries of the wolf
Was the planted seed
Really this old?
Or am I chained by the disease?

Visions have Faded
Glory pains have remained
Delusions are needed
Let this game be marked
Upon my waiting grave

His words were deep
You were never week
As I pillage and weep
Waiting for sleep
Seems i forgot how to eat
Olivia Mercado Nov 2013
Imperfections are the beauty of life.
The whisper of a fragmented shell, the uneven receding of the ocean and the glimpse of a half-moon, neither crescent nor full, while the sun begins to rise.
A quiet dawn, absent of the flaming colors of super-saturated images on an “artist’s” computer.
The fact that, as a writer, I am now ******* the rules of grammar and the fragmented, half-beauty of an imperfect sentence is the only result.
Beauty doesn’t come from using big words or even perfect words. It comes from being halfway there, half the joy of our sight fulfilled, half the excitement and mystery and sorrow of not knowing, of not seeing, of not understanding.
Beauty isn’t meant to be understood – or even appreciated.
It is meant to be.
As long as it exists – without the passion, the ****** struggle of the artist’s search for meaning, without the human condition of imperfections and rectifications, art is.
Art doesn’t need you, the artist, to exist.
But you need art.
Beauty that mirrors your own imperfections.
Your own incompletion.
You are not finished yet – you are not an artist yet – you never will be.
You are not creating. You have never made anything original in your life. You can only transpose that which is already in you. And as you are completed, you can begin to know completion, fullness, consummation –
But not quite. It is something that you will never reach. Not on this earth, in this body, with this bound and sleeping soul. A flicker of a spark in the darkness is not enough to truly wake your spirit; death alone can rend the iron chains and throw you out beyond your body.
Enough
Never enough.
You are never enough.
Art is never enough – always maddeningly imperfect, broken. What does art do? What do you do? Beyond the existence of the dripping seconds, absorbed by deserts of the poor, the tired, the embittered – they act. They do.
They are always doing.
But what is it to be?
Complete in yourself and in all? To be I am, the one condition by which anything can be anything or have anything, and to be enough?
I am lost, and blind, and cold, in the echoing halls of time.
Alone.
Barren.
What am I?
If I am not an artist, not enough, not – somehow – alone?
What can I be?
You – all of you – this human experiment that has reached new heights of love and joy and passion, ceaseless, peaceless, senseless and hollow.
Look at the world. Look and believe.
Death devours all; never satisfied, even with Shakespeare, with Napoleon and Caesar and Alexander the Great.
Even with you, and me.
It will never cease consuming as long as a single breath stirs the air.
Why are we? Why do we keep striving for that fragmented beauty, the misty song of another way to be?
Is there anything but the carnal, the voracious appetite of Death and Man for blood?
Or is humanity nothing but animals who have deluded themselves, told themselves that they can see what others cannot, that justice reigns and that this world is something other than what we see?
And I, caught amidst the whirlwind of all the nothing new, caught and spinning, pretending that I can see what others cannot, that I have something to offer through these black and white and formless words.
Nothing new.
The world never changes its axis; it spins and moves but never really goes anywhere, year after year, in the blinding plummet of galaxies around their black-hole hearts.
Is that all a heart is?
Is lightning only the fire flashing through black clouds that illuminates and kills?
Is poetry only syllables and words we cannot know?
Is the world only what we make of it?
Because then, well, ****.
I guess this is the story of my life, guys.
An arrogant, blind ******* who hates herself and draws away in silence. I drift in the vast reaches of space, unreachable, unlovable, with the rest of humanity spinning around until we get too dizzy to bear the tide and surge of life any longer.
And then we keel over and die.
JR Rhine Feb 2016
Mother pulled the beat to hell diluted blood red minivan containing my brother and I into the darkened parking lot. The car couldn't park fast enough as my brother and I tore the creaky side door open and leapt onto the awaiting pavement. We stepped from darkness into light as we hopped onto a curb to be greeted by the brilliance of neon lights erected atop a single story rectangular building squatting at the top of the rectangular lot like a full measure rest. Glass windows as whole walls teased the treasures that lay before my eyes window-shopping like madmen I felt the objects of my covetry leap from their white shelves into my sweaty youthful grasp. Mother breezed forward, stepping across the tier confidant and disengaged; the front door rang announcing our presence. Two bells sounded: ring ring. The Rhines were here. Like a pistol shot signifying the start of a race, my brother and I scampered and scattered and scuttled like wild animals, scouring the shelves that sat dispersed through the gleaming room consuming with our eyes words that told stories with pictures that danced and sang. Clusters of shelves huddled together under several flat signs hung by frail strings dangling from the ceiling displaying themes that told me where to avoid "Romance" and where to find my beloved "Science Fiction." I halted, realizing almost as if there were indentations within the itchy carpet that had alerted me to the place where I had cemented by ruddy feet countless times before. I took my roving eyes from the stalling ground to peer up into the shelves that loomed over me like giants, arching over my head like holy stones erected atop holy celebratory sites of yore. My fingers traced along the shelves trailing over the innumerate plastic spines that encased my bountiful riches; I mouthed the vibrant words imprinted like cattle on each of them and sang to myself stories that spawned off of each one before finding the paragon that most expertly weaved JR the Raconteur into its fabrications. I bore into its dazzling shell hungrily, gobbling up faces and places and names and dates I spun it over to its backside to read plots to read histories to read legacies to read memories I read and read and saw and saw my mind was never more alive with the astounding conception of limitless potentialities my night was just getting started and with my final selection--and mother's blessing--I would march home victoriously wielding my fortune, my medium for which the pictures in my mind would transpose and dance before me like luminous sprites on the brilliant splendor of a luminescent two dimensional stage that is the television screen. It was the weekend getaway I waited for with anticipation every Saturday; I was an unversed monk relishing in the ancient libraries of History.
To the video stores of yore.

— The End —