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Martin Narrod Oct 2015
Under the legs of giraffes falling in love by being licked to buy a deer deer licking giraffes Gareth Pugh transforming signs pigs that can't **** but **** bricks in the tea cups personal Hispanic designers transforming into anorexic girls tornadoes in Pennees that buildings can't stop where pro-skateboarders take millions of dollars of drugs that are crystals and mugs and improve haircuts to make mugshots better who go to bathroom the stress says this transvestites in British airways first class airplane ride bathrooms **** **** ******* ******* **** in and list ***** used who's spending money and and aunt uncle and uncle gay and lesbian **** show putting faces in the toilets and wedding the water stopping at rest stops work carnival junkies pay tolls and gas station attendants charge super fees going to grocery stores to buy cream soda likes Sprite flavored train send peanut butter cup chocolate **** sores and send aunts uncles and uncles undulates and pigs passing by signs changing words miss read words changing over and over again passing through Stardome popularity celebrity. Rachel Lynch by skinny victory over and over groups of people lost in bathrooms starting outs in the story telling each other being wet by Harry Potter. In the beginning their hair was wet eyeballs were sore they took drugs text transform them into night sweats and their minds ate breakfast as they arrived at the circus storytelling they wore black costumes and shrunk like Alice in Wonderland having to **** and **** and eat but they were silent until the drugs came back into their systems and then they remembered each other. My father's brother Jim's son was lost abandoned me inside a marketplace in Colorado roadrunner was treated having a disease rather than being a drunk and given medication while lost in the end of the world's apocalypse. Symphony after symphony lost and returned and lost an overturned enveloped in the mall or people in different sections provided different offerings like curiosity giving oral *** or rubbing ankles or kissing on heads or **** ******* each other to death. Moving through security checkpoints falsifying drugs by providing sticky chewing gum pulling it from their mouths while Hispanics were extradited to other South and Central American countries. Oh my God insanity bliss favoritism chocolate peanut butter cup Carnival riding red neck necking car crash crashing insanity. Goblins introduces lighting fuses of other uses oxymoronic hyperbole of onomatopoeia and sounds raking the ears, breaking Pap smears in the vaginas of men with penises of early surgeries. Michael Gottlieb as a hog, tigers and dynosaurs, Jim Morrison poisoned, Transformers rising to the Chicago skyline TIE interceptors of cellular structures musing youths. Hallucinations of blasphemous miniature creatures giving faith to words transforming to the name of this movement this movie: The Shīt Shūw.
david badgerow Jun 2013
they had big yards and driveways
but there were no lemonade stands or ice cream trucks
the tractors drove through the middle of town
the people didn't use sidewalks or drugs
they drank dollar domestics and never passed algebra
and there wasn't a gallon of whiskey to be had
there weren't any transvestites either
the people had seven children and not one job
they walked on two jiffy store feet
and had only half as many teeth.
and ******* do i miss it.
Amelia Jo Anne Jan 2014
i am a woman who hasn't gotten over her girlhood strifes. i am alive in conflict & chaos; when storms still i tremble. i struggle with questions of my own importance. if i am your leaning post, why do i feel so alone? i am one ocean with many seas, rivers, harbours & waterfalls - each with their own names. i am not of this realm, yet my father calls me worldly. i struggle with questions of my own identity. if everyone sees me as one solid being, why do i feel so broken? i am a lover of opposites, of balanced scales, of reflections: black & white, girls & boys, sea & sky, everything & nothing, always & never. the sometimes, the somewhat, the earth, transvestites, grey zones: they don't sit well with me. & yet i am spokesperson for the exceptions (i before e, except after c. using drugs to have *** with people is assault, except for ******. i only like to write with black pens, except when I want to use a pencil. i only drink black coffee, except when I crave a double-double. i only **** girls, except when i need a ****). each girl has her own firm resolve, that is contradicted with another's opinions: my whole existence is self-hypocrisy. i struggle with questions of conflicts in my own interest. if i am decided, why do i peer with longing at the other options? i am a planner, an organizer, a sorter: i put my problems in piles. i am erratic, scatterbrained & impulsive. i use my abilities to try to outsmart my destructive tendencies; to try & balance the scales. my flighty adventures often win over my obsessive habits. i struggle with questions of my own intent. if i am scared of commitment, why do i keep promising?
ah, rhetoric

http://imma-duck.deviantart.com/
M Clement Feb 2013
Transvestites handing
Out caffeine
Coffee cross dressing
Blonde wig
Chiseled features
Red dress
Peacock out to compare feathers

Coffee, you had me at
Coffee
Black Roast
Espresso beans and water
"Bean Juice" I've heard it called

Make-up to makeout
(Daddy Issues Alike)
Peacock left me be
Take my coffee and leave
Sharing is caring: this was from my notebook. I hope you enjoy it.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
NoMakeUp

Chic lookin' like death,
with her dyed platinum blond hair,
her fake silicone **** and all that make up,
over dressed like Halloween **** girl I'm scared,

the less you wear,
the less impressed I am,
you get dressed up just to get messed up,
smoke a cigarette then get your teeth whitened,

you get done up glam,
just to get run up in,

when,
in the world was it ever okay,
to,
disrespect yourself that way?

Getting fckt by strangers,
without getting money or commitments,
that means you're like a *******,
a ******* that's not even good at business,

you're a despicable disgrace,
to the entire female race,
you wear all that cover-up,
because you've got Krocodil face,
that's Krocodil with a 'K',
better get it straight,
the kind from Russia,
that will eat your face,

eat your whole face off,
face it,
the facts are basic,
real women look way better without any fake make-up.

The only reason you need it,
is because you don't see this,

plus you fill your stomach,
with fast food *****,
you're going down in flames,
what was your name Halley Comet?

Saving money on food,
so you can buy cosmetics,
maybe if you changed your diet,
you wouldn't need cosmetics,

there's nothing romantic,
about cosmetics,
cosmetics cause cancer,
don't you get it?

More vegetables,
less processed cheese,
and your face won't look,
like it's got a disease,

please,

remember these words,

real women look better without any make-up,

without all those name brands we're all naked,

believe whatever  you want to,
but these words will still be true...

So stop dying,
your hair to death,
and trying,
to get the guys to stare at your breast,

you are,
so much more beautiful naturally,
and if you,
go natural well actually,
you might find,
a man who loves your mind,
a man that truly loves you,
for who you are inside.

and I promise this,
in all honestness,

no man will ever fall in love,
with a woman because of the size of her breast,
or the color of her hair,
or the brand of her dress,
no real man will ever really care,
whether your outfit is Versace or Guess,

because good men care about the real you,
not fake fashion brand names,
you are not a cow nor are you cattle,
so why would you want a label branding?

And I promise this,
in all honestness,
that this is,
honest honestness.

Real men fall in love with real women,
because of who they really are,
not who they pretend to be,
real men fall in love with real women,
because they love her soul's avatar,
and her divine femininity…

So let your hair grow,
back out to it's natural color,
if you honestly want,
to find a natural lover,

and save your self,
for those special lovers,
that are truly deserving,
of all of your natural wonders,

leave the fake hair,
for the fakers,
leave the toners,
for the loners,
leave the make up and fake dyes,
for the hookers and transvestites,

you,
are beautiful,
without,
the manicured cuticles,

you are beautiful,
just the way you naturally are,
there's no need to alter yourself,
with some silicone and scars.

Just be beautiful Beautiful,
there is no need to pretend,
and leave the makeup and fake body parts,
for the trannies and mannequins... ∆
From a man to a woman...
#nomakeup
Clare Wright Mar 2010
I see Dockers watering pansies with dainty watering cans,
I see transvestites doing DIY,
I see women building bodies,
I see men cook and fry,
And don’t grown men cry?

Gender complexities, ****** complexities,
Why the split when things don’t fit?
Women doing house removals whilst men sit and sew,
So what?
Humanities, biologies, personalities,
Are we not more the same than different?
The World is crazy for categories,
But we do not fit inside.
Lanox Jul 2015
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I have a friend, a transgender woman.
Let’s call her Miss Portugal.
She looks more womanly than me, acts more appropriate to our gender.
Every time we walk together, people would look at her first.
She was more attractive.
I would be thinking, “I wonder if they know she is not a real woman.”

Yes, yes, this poem will be about acts or thoughts of discrimination.
Those coming from me.

We were once invited to a small party, I got there first, and men asked about her.
I answered them matter-of-factly, of where she was and that she would join us shortly.
But I was waiting for the punch line.
As though not believing that they could be interested in meeting her, for real,
knowing that she also has . . . you know.
What they have.

She had a long-time boyfriend she met back in college.
They are not together anymore, but they were together for many years,
since they were freshmen ’til they already had jobs after graduation.
He was as straight as any of my male friends could be,
part of the gang,
with as many antics and tricks up his sleeve as your average kolehiYOLO.
But it was love at first sight for him.
At the common bathroom of their boys' dorm.
He was confused as to why a girl was there.
They became one of those distinguishable couples around campus.
He could be seen riding his bike around school while she sat at the backseat.
Their love story is one I like to tell when I am at a certain level of intoxication and with a certain kind of company.
I would tell it with so much flair, you’d think it was one out of a romantic Korean telenovela.
It was that hard for me to believe that I was a firsthand witness to a real-life gay love story.

I have another friend, a transgender man.
Let’s call him Buttercup.
He is a writer, a brilliant one.
When the friendship was still new, when I had just found out he wrote, after reading some of his works,
there was that familiar envy,
if not for the words he got to first,
then the dark but rich experiences I may never have.
I found myself consoling my half-inspired, half-humbled ego
with the fact that he had more suffering.
As though I knew that just by simply being so,
he was already at a disadvantage by default.

He used to be overweight.
I used to think the, well, heavy transgender men I see intentionally gained weight to lose their curves.
Then BC decided to go on a diet.
I was confused for a moment.
Then finally science came to rescue my logic back and reminded me about the heart stuff.
How dumb of me to have been more concerned of how people like him should appear that I could easily have overlooked my friend’s need to have a healthier lifestyle.
Then his no-rice diet worked.
He began to look better.
I think he felt even better.
There was the envy again.
But I was too lazy to follow his advice,
to follow suit,
so I, again, consoled myself with the thought that he was not considered a woman anyway.
Women become envious when other women lose weight only when they’re straight.
Even beautiful lesbians aren’t a real source of insecurities.
You could be dating the likes of Brandon Boyd, they’d not be able to care less.
Although it is possible the same cannot be said of your boyfriend regarding your two beautiful lesbian friends.

BC had a girlfriend, who was also a friend, still is.
There was a time when we shared a flat.
One time, my Christian preacher of a mother visited.
I introduced BC and his girlfriend as cousins.
I wasn’t ashamed of them.
I just wanted to spare myself from a barrage of questions my mother would have surely aimed at me had I told the truth.
Here I was, perhaps the most open-minded friend they have,
yet just to avoid an uncomfortable conversation,
I was able to easily shove their identities into hiding from the very people closest to me.
I did both sides a form of disrespect.

If I were to draw conclusions, I would begin with,
So shallow people give shallow judgments.
Therefore it would seem the depths I’ve tried to dive into through these years of “freethinking” instead only caused my own prejudice to sink deeper.
Only to become more difficult to recognize.
And here I was trying to “educate” this particular sort of people spewing off ignorant nonsense when I myself am still lacking,
although not in tolerance,
as most of us now are so quick to use as a defense that our treatment of the lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transexuals, transgenders, transvestites, queers, the questioning, the intersexual, the pansexual, the asexual is satisfactory,
but certainly in the acceptance that what they are are, what you are,
is as natural as what I am,
what we are.

LGBTTTQQIPAS
Charlie Chirico Jun 2015
The popularity of ten word poems
is more frustrating than the excessive use of exclamation points. Vonnegut may have thought of semicolons to be transvestites, but a readily available exclamation is the patron at a restaurant asking which farm the free range eggs have come from. To which you respond politely, while pinching your thigh. And the ten word poem is far beyond the measure of either punctuation. Those ten words are the publicly shared suicide note, crying for help, and seeking validation in the form of a digital thumbs up.
Julie Grenness Jan 2016
The old man's getting married to a fat ******,
Ding, ****, the wedding hearse does shine!
That' what he gets for perving!
Get him to the morgue on time!

The old man's getting to a fat ******,
Ding, ****, the wedding hearse does shine!
The undertakers are steady,
Both the coffins are ready,
Extra wide for  the big fat groom and bride!

The old man's getting married to a fat ******,
Ding, ****, the wedding hearse does shine!
The bride is wearing her thongy,
His sons are bringing their bongies,
Get him to the morgue on time!

The old man's groom married to a fat ******,
Ding, ****, the wedding hearse does shine,
The mob are bringing Marijuana pesto,
The transvestites are saying hello,
They can be mothers of the bride!

The old man's getting married to a fat ******,
Ding, ****, the wedding hearse shall shine,
Yes, that's what you get for perving,
The morticians are all ready,
The coffins are standing steady,
Get him to the morgue on time!
Bit of light hearted fun.
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
yeah we're getting drunk at four in the afternoon
we don't have anywhere to drive to.
we have no class
no responsibility
my city's filthy
I live in the art district
nobody else anywhere else in the world can say that
Richmond knows how to lay it down
how to make the children feel invincible
how to make the women feel like super models
and the men like long lost kings
don't like my poems?
that's fine
we flow to a different drum beat
yeah we are a bunch of
PBR swilling hipsters in our non corrective lenses
but we know how humanity dances back and forth
like the flickering of candle light
and I've never felt out of place here
only just as weird as everybody else
we are pathological liars and sociopaths
our apathy is only matched by our endless empathy
My Mum thinks I am a hell of a writer
endless support
but the anonymity never ends
a scroll from God to lead us to death
and the transvestites are polite enough
boy you smell ****\
they blurt out as I walk past in a cloud of old spice
the art school chicks make me feel validated
when I find myself sneaking out of their houses in the morning's yawn
come to Richmond if you want a good time
if you're fake you'll make it
but if you're bitter and jaded
you might pass out of interest
like cartoons to a 15 year old
I could talk **** on this city all night
but truth be told
I love what I hate
and truth withheld
don't tell my English friends
that my heart beats
solely for that
RVA-lution
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; ****'s sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*

a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **!
**** retardo and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
In this weird America we jump back to pray, mason Ronald Reagan could've "married" Clancy, not Nancy, making ****** ****** okay
as fellows laying men hearkens back to the hidden hand's occultical
rites of jabbing ritualistical plant mendicants stylized entheogenical
from graphical zero-order marks that temporize ape traits eugenical
It is on the rug from the litter box so I am self-assured that it is crap
which is easier to ret up than rhyming verse which ain't no easy nap
with veins popping out my head through this back assward ball cap
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
what i learned today:

a. when people treat you cruelly,
    turn all your compassion
    that's left in you
    on beings that are more likely
    to understand it,
    those beings we degraded
    our language on by citing
    their tongues of onomatopoeia;
    animals.
    it will make you better off,
    not having a care for giving
    compassion unto fellow man,
    apathy, the sweet porcelain
    dome where children shelter under
    and provide the only basis
    for a like-for-like exercise of compassion.

b. re-felting the roof of the shed with my father,
    today, in the crisp saturday day,
    making cinnamon coffee,
    watching the imaginary leash on my cat
    the ginger punk maine **** quarus
    keeping an eye on us on the shed roof
    will ignite more in me
    than these charcoal mathematically rigid
    imprints on the colour of surrender.
    oh i've surrendered, all the spare time imaginable
    on an activity that wants people
    to bleed, but who can only offer
    ideals and easily falsifiable wants,
   who would march in a battlefield backwards.

c. in the english-speaking world, only two strands
   of books exist to a respectable popularity,
   fiction and autobiography, technically fiction & fiction,
   since all autobiographies do is write a fiction
   for us caught in the present: what life was like,
   what life isn't like back then now, what life
   will never be for us to rekindle it to a suitable
   reminiscence in the future - never a non-fictional
   account of what life is like now, always
   a non-fictional account of what life was like
   back then.

d. back when poetry was sung in the queen's parlour,
     or when she bathed in milk,
     but not when it was missing she took
     to the harrowing beast, the queen bathory
     and bargained against bathing in milk instead in
     ****** blood, when poetry was used as a welcome
     distraction for those with much ado about nothing
     of the leisurely time of crowned spare time,
     when poetry was not supposed to entertain a crowd
     but high eminence it mattered,
     for indeed the philosophical critique is adequate,
     sooner a playwright entertain a crowd
     with weird constrictions on only male-actors
     in tutus and corsets and wigs that a single
     voice, with no actors but shadowy personae in one
     body will entertain a crowd...
     but odd that because poetry lost favour in places
     of high eminence of crowned leisurely time
     deserving poetic narrative spoken than sung
     with the lyre to accompany, when this happened
     the crowd eminence joined the mob, reduced itself
     to full attire and prune gesticulations of tightened
     cheek for show of noble pride, among the rabble,
     it chose the public slaughter of art for the eyes
     to be gauged in the notably sized crowd
     rather than the luxury of a personal space,
     naked, bathed, as the art of poetry is, naked,
     even in terms of paragraphed punctuation,
     nakedness of the technique... to have replaced it
     by fully in corset and jewelled among the rabble,
     watching the weird and wonderful restrictions
     that gave us transvestites... indeed... what eminence,
     amongst the mob
.
Big Virge Apr 2020
PLEASE .... !!!!!    

FORGIVE Me If I Curse To Quench My Thirst ...    
To Poetically Let My Speech Run FREE ..............................    
    
It Helps Me Release Modern Tendencies ...    
To Speak Like Chiefs Who Lead WEAK Teams ... !!!!!    
    
Teams of Thieves Who Fall Like Leaves ...    
Because They're WEAK And FULL of SNEAKS ... !!!    
    
FORGIVE THEM ... NO ... !!!!!    
Because They Know ...    
The Wrongs They Do To Peaceful Crews ...    
    
Crews Who Choose To Make Smart Moves ...    
And NOT Reduce Themselves To Feuds ... !!!    
    
Forgive Me IF ... YOUR Profile FITS .... !!!!!!    
The Words I Write ... About Such Types ...    
    
That's Just My Way ... !    
  
My Wordplay's STRAIGHT ...    
That's Right Like ME ... !!!
    
No ******* ... PLEASE ... !!!!!
  
Just Sweet ******* ...    
Ones With Lips And Tasty ***** ...    
**** Hips And JUICY **** ... !!!!!    
    
Girls AND Women ... !!!!!  
    
FORGIVE Me If My Use of Script ...
Is EXPLICIT ... Like THAT Last Bit ... !!!    
    
My Words Are Used To Speak The TRUTH ... !!!  
  
So Just Be COOL .....
If It AIN'T For You Then It AIN'T For YOU ... !!!
    
FORGIVE Me If It Makes You SICK ... !!!    
Or WORSE ANGRY ... To Hear Me Speak ... !!!!    
    
It's POETRY ... So FORGIVE ME ... !!!
If What You Hear UPSETS Your CHI ... !!!    
    
You Must FEAR Wordplay That's CLEAR ... !!!    
  
Because You Hide ....
BEHIND Veneers Like TRANSVESTITES ... !!!!!    
    
Oh DEAR Oh DEAR Is THAT Your Type .... !?!    
Well Okay That's Fine But FORGIVE This Line ... !!!    

The FREAKS Come Out ... Oh YES At Night ... !!!    
    
FREAKY Ladies ... FREAKY Men ...    
FREAKS These Days Who Cause PROBLEMS ... !!!!!!    
FORGIVE Me If ... You're One of Them ... !!!!!!!!!    
    
My Words Are Dark But Look At My Skin ... !!!    
You Are What You Are Let THOSE WORDS SINK ................    
    
UNLESS Of Course You're One Whose NOT ...... !!!    
A FAKE Like Wars That Governments PLOT ... !!!    
Or Like Those Girls Who've Had **** JOBS ...      
To Make Heads TURN When They're Showing Them Off ... !!!    
    
The PROBLEM IS ...
Their FAKE New Bits Are Not For Them ... !?!    

But For Girlfriends ...
Or For Those Men Who Cause PROBLEMS ... !!!!!    
    
Because They Think Their Luck Is IN ... !!!!!    
    
See Girl Like These Think SURGERY ...    
Will Help UPLIFT Their ... Self Esteem ... !!!    
    
These Girls Are Living In A DREAM ... !!!
    
But Ladies PLEASE FORGIVE My Speech ...    
if What I Say Makes You IRATE ... !!!!!    
    
CALM Yourselves And Think It Through .......    
Does Your Body SELL If So ... MAKE LOOT ... !!!
    
Cos' Most of You Are ...... " Prosti ...... "    
Uh Hmm FORGIVE ME ... Ooooopssss' ... !!!!!!!!!!  
    
Poetry I Use ....    
Can Sometimes SHOOT Like BIG GUNS DO ... !!!    
    
Right Through The Chests ...    
of .... Silicone ******* ....    
And OVER HEADS Like KRS ... !!!    
    
My Will To Express Will NEVER End ...    
Even When It Makes Some TENSE ... !!!    
    
That's It I Guess ..... ???    
Well ... NOT Just Yet ... !!!!!!    
    
FORGIVENESS YES Just Like RESPECT ...    
Are Things I Get For My Poems ... !!!!    
    
So You'll FORGIVE Me If ...
I'm ... ARROGANT ... !!!    
    
I Can't Help That Well Maybe I Can ...  ???
But Why Should I When Most Now LIE ...    
To Spread Girls Thighs Or Be .... " TOP GUY "  .... !!!
    
I Just Chat FACTS Through Poems And Raps ...    
That Make Girls Clap And BWOY ... Stand BACK ... !!!    
    
Yes I'm THAT CHAP Move OVER ... STAN ...    
Cos' I'm The Man With A Pen In My Hand ...    
You'll Forgive Me IF I ABORT Your Plan ... !!!!!    
    
I Deal In What's REAL YES ... REALITY ... !!!!!!!!
    
But If You Feel That You CAN'T Deal ...    
With How I Speak About ... What I See ...    
    
Feel FREE To Walk Away ...    
Yes ....... PEACEFULLY ....... !!!!!    
    
But If My Poetry ...    
Makes You Feel ... ANGRY ... !!!!!    
    
PLEASE Go In PEACE ...
And YES .......................    
    
" PLEASE FORGIVE ME " ... !!!!!
Forgiveness is a good thing to exhibit from time to time, but especially in the case of these rhymes !

Watch Here :https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmeI-HHYcXQ
skyy omalley Jun 2020
ed,,zinger suivante,,tels handknits finish,,cagefuls basinlike bag octopodan,,imbossing vaporettos rorid easygoingnesses nalorphines,,benzol respond washerwomen bristlecone,,parajournalism herringbone farnarkeled,,episodically cooties,,initiallers bimetallic,,leased hinters,,confidence teetotaller computerphobes,,pinnacle exotically overshades prothallia,,posterior gimmickry brassages bediapers countertrades,,haslet skiings sandglasses cannoli,,carven nis egomaniacal,,barminess gallivanted,,southeastward,,oophoron crumped,,tapued noncola colposcopical,,dolente trebbiano revealment,,outworked isotropous monosynaptic excisional moans,,enterocentesis jacuzzi preoccupations,,hippodrome outward googs,,tabbises undulators,,metathesizing,,sharia prepostor,,neuromast curmudgeons actability,,archaise spink reddening miscount,,madmen physostigmin statecraft neurocoeles bammed,,tenderest barguests crusados trust,,manshifts darzis aerophones,,reitboks discomposingly,,expandors,,monotasking galabia,,pertinents expedients witty,,chirographies crachach unsatisfactoriness swerveless,,flawed sepulchred thanksgiver scrawl skug,,perorate stringers gelatine flagstones,,chuses conceptualization surrejoined,,counterblasts rache,,numerative,,delirifacients methylthionine,,mantram dynamist atomised,,eternization percalines hryvnias pragmatizing,,reproachfulnesses telework nowts demoded revealer,,burnettize caryopteris subangular wirricows,,transvestites sinicized narcissus,,hikers meno,,degassing,,postcrises alikenesses,,sycophancy seroconverting insure,,yantras raphides cliftiest bosthoon,,zootherapy chlorides nationwide schlub yuri,,timeshares castanospermine backspaces reincite,,coactions cosignificative palafitte,,poofters subjunctions,,aquarian,,theralite revindicating,,cynosural permissibilities narcotising,,journeywork outkissed clarichords troutier,,myopias undiverting evacuations snarier superglue,,deaminise infirmaries teff hebephrenias,,brainboxes homonym lancelet,,lambitive stray,,inveigled,,acetabulums atenolol,,dekkos scarcer flensed,,abulias flaggers wammul boastfully,,galravitch happies interassociation multipara augmentations,,teratocarcinomata coopting didakai infrequently,,hairtails intricacy usuals,,pillorise outrating,,cataphoresis,,furnishings leglen,,goethite deflate butterburs,,phoneticising winiest hyposulphuric campshirts,,chainfalls swimmings roadblocked redone soliloquies,,broking mendaciousness parasitisms counterworld,,unravellings quarries passionately,,onomatopoesis repenting,,ramequin,,mopboard euphuistically,,volta sycophantized allantoides,,bors bouclees raisings sustaining,,diabolist sticks dole liltingly,,curial bisexualisms siderations hemolysed,,damnabilities unkenneling halters,,peripheral congaing,,diatomicity,,foolings repayments,,hereabouts vamosed him,,slanters moonrock porridgy monstruous,,heartwood bassoonist predispositions jargoon dominances,,timidest inalienable rewearing inevitably,,entreating retiary tranquillizing,,uniparental droogs,,allotropous,,forzati abiogenetic,,obduration exempted unifaces,,epilating calisaya dispiteously coggles,,vestmented flukily ignifying complished hiccupy municipalize,,pentagraphs parcels sutler excavates,,stardust miscited thankfulness,,fouter pertused,,overpacks,,guarishes hylotheism,,pi Fresh blood seeps through the line parting her skin and slowly colors her breast red. I begin to hyperventilate as my compulsion grows. The images won’t go away. Images of me driving the knife into her flesh continuously, ******* her body with the blade, making a mess of her. My head starts going crazy as my thoughts start to return. Shooting pain assaults my mind along with my thoughts. This is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. How could I ever let myself think these things? But it’s unmistakable. The lust continues to linger through my veins. An ache in my muscles stems from the unreleased tension experienced by my entire body. Her Third Eye is drawing me closer.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
it's not exactly cymande's dove -
    it's mytho's dreamlab (1975) -
  a dedication to wernher von braun -
on the odd occasion
the youtube algorithm feeds
me a nostalgia of suggestions
like it used to: and i forage for
new music...
nucleus' alleycat from the same year...
well:
i'm no bukowski and this is not
one of those moments to
test my strengths of patience
for mahler's: how i will die
with this deafness -
    i know what's lacking in my life
is having listened to the oeuvre...
or have read melville's moby ****...
somehow horizons of
new complete: upon a arrival with
a nudge from charon -
i will come against myself:
rather than upon myself...
by chance...
  that this is not high-brow literature
by any stretch of the imagination:
but i believe myself to be
endowed within the confines
of the democratic process -
a quiver a trembling...
i had to do several impossible
things today...
i laughed from conjuring
a memory while
painting some "chess board"
darkened oak of a makeshift
for the climbing rose to aspire to
with a cling...
i scratched my teeth -
i pretended to play
a violin by fiddling
with my beard:
no exactly de profundis:
but god... how i miss my chin...
i patted myself on the head
while pretending to vortex
imitation over my tummy -
this new man needs to
imagine the process of
caricature of insemination -
i am not the same willing
***** that gave me: you...
   pronoun baggage -
it's so tender in this english:
all english that can be
completely missing in: mutterzunge...
miles davis' ******* brew...
a composition
to imitate the crashing of
piano...
        as i drink i keep a tally...
once i fed an rainbow trout's eye
to a cat...
once i fed a female mosquito to
a cat...
once i had a dog and...
i couldn't possibly rob myself
of a memory of childhood by owning
a dog now...
i am quasi-jealous of people
who have dogs...
it's enough that i tow along
a shadow when i "expatriate"
beyond my day-to-day
trajectory - when
i want to experience an automatic
thinking - pointless memory
weathering -
i sometimes want this completeness
of the incomplete...
no higher sentiments...
new music: not something that
could cradle youth and
the stadium anthem -
something -
even now: one can become
tired of drinking and the occasional
smoke...
           i wouldn't want
to find myself returning to
a paragraph or a novel -
when reading: yes...
    but i couldn't stand the agony
of... not without this impromptu...
sedated into a comfort
looking upon the oeuvre of
jack spicer...
   my grandfather owns
the whole lot of alexander dumas...
i'm petrified of this
microcosm of a forest stashed
on a shelf...
         grand baron apostrophe in
english is so amazing...
i mean: the pedant's treat:
a pedantic treat -
            you can be allowed so many
deviations from orthodoxy -
you can almost wriggle your
way into an imitation jonah -
anglophile i am:
but i see no london burning -
teasing from the outskirts -
flute come to the party...
accent of impressionism -
   diacritical markers -
         i know that i am not writing
for money for excavating purposes:
i can make these little purposes
of fail all the time...
i want to own this language
as if i were born within its confines:
such that i am: "late" arrival:
thrown into the deep end come
me ate: eight - better - eating...

         gladly... because i arrived to it...
it wasn't dictated from "above"
like german or russian might have...
even though: ich muss necken
           alt vater:
              deutschespreschen...
for posterity... ahem... glum looking
joke...
not because i want to champion
the affair of: ****** the private individual...
beside the stage and oration:
yes... clearly he wasn't cut for painting...
i need to fail on writing
this nibbling from the exterior
with an ulterior purpose of tao -

zen my ****'s last worth...
conundrum: a really decent bicycle or...
two hours in a brothel...
hell... perhaps three...
but the bicycle and the return to
the days of drooling over
traffic and nibbling at essex...
i know that i don't know this
over-sexing is me being caged...

well... if you're going to be over-sexed:
pulverised toward status: neuter -
i sometimes mind: not minding...
the genetic argument doesn't really work
on me... given...
i could pass on... hardly the usain bolt
genes...
i could really pass on the most
severe indignation:
i like to call this...
the self-realisation that those
gene-power-proof german doctors
of the ***** had some sense:
in staging such grotesque arguments...

    for the purpose of a pleasure that
i can exhaust...
i don't even need to summon
frankenstein's monster argument:
it's not pivotal -
  when the hormones raged -
fair enough...
                   i can exhaust the argument
with all the readily available *******
and: i will not have to look out
for...                 the trojan dye-d'oh...
or...        ms. dill, ms. dough...

                       from the mother tongue
i couldn't possibly write such
nuances of sounds...
i would be left ******* with crisp cut...
orthographical measures -
   i'd be arguing over: pedantic subject
matters... none of this "poetry" /
graffiti...

                     scratching something vinyl:
elongating some liquorice...
detailing the zenith of england
prior to the dissolution
of the empire...
                  
   in all god given honesty i feel inclined
to be... living here...
it's supposedly not much
but i sense a becoming warmth
as to how...
   it would sometimes take
great care for me to not put on
my "sociopathic" chameleon disguise
of burdening accents:
from the original take:
we're all gammon and himalayan
salt indistinguishable sometimes...

but the affairs of the copperskins...
the camel jockeys, the choccies...
well... at least i'm not colour blind...
i forget to see white...
i forget to nudge some black...
black? you mean: cardamom
with that smokiness -
or nigella seeds?
                 that's black... coal is black...
frank zappa's ****** hair is
black... ***** likewise...
i forgot to be colour blind...

     give me hues!
          give be bold bulging gargoyle-esque
****** features to scare the demons
away...
no?
it has to be a variation
on a new sort of: "racism"...
if we're going to survive the basic lesson...
leave me in the grey humpty-dumpty
area of omelette...
            this be here: the dozen
of eggs that became...
a feast for serpents that didn't become
leather boots... or purses...

leave me to this little cul de sac
of imitation jazz...
  
        synchronised: coincidentally -
but more: a sigma purpose:
  an in totalis - a variation of polyphony -
new jargon - elevated new jargon...
an australian concept of
a savoury-esque dessert -
a beetroot ice-cream...

   pause: syllable cutter:
    not co-in-cidentally -
               a... variation of: ex similis:
but not simultaneously -
too many ******* vowels!
hear it one way: write another...
english is as bad as fwench...
grr...

           well yeah: i'm doing something
more than my supposed democratic
obligation:
i am not voting because i will
write for: the purpose of writing...
english democracy is looked upon
by russian strategists as something
that extends to allow transvestites
and other magpie exotica...

         this current life: this private
adventure...
      would i gladly summon these letters
in such a manner that i...
oh don't bother:
gladly "expatriate": gladly exile...
come to think of it...
if i were to argue about orthography
for so much time as i were
to be alive in...
        english adjusts and makes
pardonable the nuances of grammar...

little can be said: of the already
little given...
                      i want to jump high...
the caged ******* sonnet...
i planned sleep prior to writing this...
that's about it...
once... no... now:
i want to rekindle a fetish for
toying with going full commando
in denim...
  and... to twist the plot...
a ******* will always be nibbled
by the zipper...

it's: the evening i discovered ian carr's nucleus...
the original title simply read as: it's...
then some grandiosity appeared
with a mountain being towed...
and a fairytale...

this grand composure of
the bass routine... ***-ar...
drums on one side...
and solo projects on the other...
something so pristine without
lyrics - which is something i hoped
to exploit... not necessarily make synch...
i'm not a beat poet and i will
not read my words over a jazz:
as some refrigerator humming:
dulling these already pronounced
accents of sound:

a moth twice the size of my thumb
makes attempts to posit a selfie
with its: my eyes' scrutiny:

the jazz quintet is hardly an orchestral
testament of polyphony -
but... teasing at an earl grey in
inconveniences of "lacking"...

a dull moth the size of two thumbs
pressing against each other:
my little loitering project of future:
in eternity from bypassing:
on the the behalf of over punctuation:
as that clarity in the future of words...
or a lack of it...
with etymology...

******* into the sink...
simultaneously flushing the toilet
while washing your hands:
new age of multitasking...

by way of talking to cats:
herr mimic something akin to: ćć..
which is not the english CH - tugging along
the tetragrammaton...
or the full crown of the czech: caron...
                            č...
it's more slush-puppy piquant...
the sort of "thing" that defies
imitation with ny borrow of
meow or bark...

on my bookshelf:
madame bovary in a single tomme -
and... that opening line
of tolstoy's anna...
that misery is unique: particular -
to borrow the old greek dichotomy -
while happiness is ubiquitous -
generic -
             therefore universal...
indistinguishable from
a buddha to a screwdriver
from a jesus christ or a christening
of the next new plotline of
psychopathy...

           halves the hour: in that such
an album is half an hour's worth...
sooner a route relay
with the royal mile and cow gate
towing for any tourist come
edinburgh...

             beside myself:
i will not ever... torture myself
with a novel or a paragraph...
it either comes... or it doesn't...
it's not exactly courting a used to:
coherency...
and you are the reader...
club of exclusivity -
i have written by never bothered
to read back what it is
that i spewed out...

okokamona from roots (1973)...
cow bell... teasing nazareth's:
hair of a dog...
led zeppelin's dyer maker: "jamaica"...
yes... *****'s heaving
a son...
                     some variation of
abortions galore -
that i eat plenty of them in a poultry
feast come morning -
that i'm later scratching
the least of a possible pride:

white gold rubric:
michael pfeiffer...
sharon stone...
              a grizzly with a snub
at an alias: Tobias...
         next leftover project of expansive
"thinking": this little detail of moi too...
come again?
come again?
   *** ah'dzin: eh? gin...
it's not a giggle: it's not a girdle...
it's mr. dzin / jinn... tow the tonics
yourself..
some variation of fripp
is nothing near a hendrix -
some variation is all we heave
to have to topple...

lazy whitey jazz like some
interlude in rainy towing
scaffolds of seattle -
   settled peaches or... thereby plums
to the pulp of the excavations
made mad by pristine...
this feeble work-around
of flesh... in fruit or via
pork with offal... sequences
of bible bashing and that up-kept year
of langid promise echoes...

oh ******* of the most pristine
bluebottle types of flies
congregating:
there's no pawn broker of
klansman in sight...
to wed bed-sheets to a scrutiny of
ghosts...
that such a word
is still scrutinised with a hyphen
"interlude" and that it
can't be... classically: deutsche...
compounded into
a juggling act of syllables?
m'eh!

it has to be a variation of elitism...
   not because it actually is...
but that there's a necessary niche biped
wanting:
to have this kept sacrificial
lamb and a sacrilege of it's purpose
to make grief (grieve, slightly)
(of) a lack of demands
for the impossible task...
english can't be consolidated:
england can be bent to forward
a cosmopolitan rot of an idea...
england can be anything the rodney plonkers
want it to: Clapham want it to
burrow...

english and the universal rubrics
of grammar...
yes no right yore sire...
my missing sir... my drum solo project...
my mobias **** -
my amore amore amore! dulce primo:
linguo - kaff et normandy: genesis...

for the exertion of a patience...
that could never come bu was nonetheless
expected:
by dog races in the abandoned
stadium: of a looted womfowd tool fow
exhauted torn...
  maybe vels - or velsh...
or really? this is not scripted teasing
dubliner gaelic?!
Parable Hippeis above the Eared One: “Kanti; Aristocratic hussar of steeds, a native of Crete, was broken down from servants as a possession of high rank from Thessaly and Argolis. In his frontal Parasinus he ruminated his psychic frontality of not being defeated for the sole fact of being subjected prolonged in helplessness, and stating what he was not capable of winning by defeating a Hippeis when he has imperturbability prior to a master. Therefore he was assigned from the Krepis or crepidorma to the Golden or Golden number. Dividing from all other paranasal sinuses, by less than the base of the kraníon by e long and factored by Pi ( ). In the Paraseno Spheno Palatino of him; the exterior colonnade in eurythmic balance or harmony was provided in order, optical correctness and rational geometric construction with parameters of the Parthenon and spheno ganglion of ribs of the peripteral octasil, surrounding the arcades of the expiration frieze, and exhaling from Zeus the anti-seismic vibrational integuments and neighs of Hippeis, like Kanti exorbitant and convulsive. In his Maxillary Parasinus; he was subjugated in the Architrave of the lower part of the entablature that rests directly on the columns, its structure worked on its servile lintel, to transmit the weight of the roof to the columns and duplicate banalities of the pontificate of the Samarios horses of Orondel. In the parasinus Turbinate Dorsal; a Metope, occupies part of the frieze where the Doric entablature of a classical building would rest, located between two triglyphs. Like a metope decorated with bas-reliefs, in taboric cliffs of Samaria and its horses in neatness of Hippeis blood. Medium Parasinus; the Stylobate, towards the upper step on which the temple rests, forming part of the crepidoma: on a stepped platform that raises the building above the ground level to give it prominence and greater poise. As a staggered middle to the largest of the great final step towards the Koelum, which joins them in their golden edging of the Equisetum like horsetails with green blood. Of the Ventral Parasinus; In The Opisthodome, a separate space located at the back of the temple, a special vestal element is attached together with the Pronaos (or portico) and the Naos (or sanctuary). Here they take refuge for the snout of their cheeks full of Pleiades evading the hunter of Oarion, each one in decreed steeds of Crete and Samaria, that shine in the transition of the oceanic foam that runs by its naturalness in high tides, and in exalted pause erogenous temptation to an Aphroditism. And finally the super Paraseno or Chamber of Canephore, governing and ruling the priestesses of Baal with the steeds of Orondel, for the purpose of sacrificing the sacred courtesans with their hooves that they consecrated in the stylobate, which esoterically became diffuse. Pro reign in the Canephores along with the Vestals, for dichotomous fajina with Hestia between fires and bonfires that will spill from the mysteries of Eleusis.

They had their six Parasenes separated from their numen septum in other castes that super endowed the confusion that came from Samaria in the kingdom of Israel, being a Hippeis of the Elite Greek cavalry. In the farms of this region, one hundred years after the Syrian ******* in this same analogue, Kanti was assigned to openwork in the meadows for agricultural work, adhered to all the Philistine plains. Plethora of exuberance with liters of pinkish Vine before longed for by some, they tore from vine shoots by snouts and Cinnabar sulfur, already encysted in presses and battles of implicit rows of vines burnished by the thickness of their sulfurous secretion, decanting on the exuberant and grassy carpet. In Thessaly Kanti stood out with its supremacy of hydric seed that raised a surplus of rain when the low waters of the Mediterranean rocked the gargoyles on their similar steeds. In the sagittal of his hoof, below the "U" all the Hippeis of Thessaly were marked with the Vox of ππεῖς, but not those of Samaria, they planted their fourth ends on the ground of Deuteronomy; “He fell in love with his mistresses, whose flesh is like that of donkeys, whose flow is like the effusion of horses. He told himself... You longed for the lust of your youth, when Egyptians touched your breast, caressing the ******* of your youth. Continuing in this way Kanti with his chronicles warned that in his militancies and privileges they did not dig select strings of vines when he had to clear his hooves, which were made of fire and steel from Hephaestus bars by order of Etrestles, who distended his agrazones, letting him levitate towards the clouds with the sweet potatoes of their grafted plantations, that burst those esplanades in hydrometeors of tested sweat on the thick legs browsed by the song of their prayers, and thorns that broke their spiky washdown dueling in the cumulonimbus clouds that lavished care that settled before the eyes of Hippeis foremen, where the strains did not ferment like wine that has no vent and makes them burst into new skins. Thus detonates the patience of the gifted steeds of Samaria, towards some new winemakers who would receive him for a grape harvester who brought spices and olives for a new millennium.

The deposits of credibility made everything in their steeds and genetics of a millennium, to be more effective and fruitful for all that Kanti has not stepped on all the Cyclades, Dodecanese and Messolonghi at the same time as Hippeis from Thessaly, but since the optics of the Orondel; who was the duplicate of Kanti Samaritano, bearing ten times the weight that will make him bear together in tons and more than a thousand oil presses that exceed what his body mechanizes like horse power, thus being able to lighten himself in pruning of other regencies that he does not they shake or shake the branches above the tops of Zeus and his molar that neither expectorates nor pulverizes the best without his terrace. Here, where before the trees grew, they grow in the orchard on the outskirts of the town, Kanti frees all the steeds of Samaria with his gravel in his gummed hoof, mining the lands of the kings and digging up napas valued more than all the fruit-bearing heritage, more than in a fifth year along with all the seas, to make of them the ones that are in other uncircumcised as a reward for those who hide from early taming and their slender task. Those gleaned in Thessaly were from pitchforks in the same cereals that gleaned from those who stopped feeding them and assembled in a grass fable of a rustic sower and fallow farm laborers. The spikes did not fall, the Hippeis with Kanti collected them with their extremities legs in provinces of harvest dragged in sheaves and corsican censers of Epha, like a rope of gold and incense of Sheba who thus brought enlargement to Judah and praise to Yahweh. Epha describes the land where the dromedaries arrive in Israel: "A multitude of camels will cover you, the young camels of Midian and Epha." Incense in a sprigs of Bethlehem, with delicious practices inherited from Ruth reaping the barley, oats and wheat in the same stampede of the Hippeis commanded by Kanti thrashing barley, in which an Epha cultivates the Primogen Gramineae of Thessaly”

(Procorus says: "in the defeat of the Persians by the Greeks, in the naval battle of Salamis, in 480 BC, marked the beginning of the decline of the maritime trade of the Phoenicians, here the East was completely extinguished when Alexander the Great took Tyre in 332 B.C., incorporating Phenicia into the Greek Hellenistic world. All the horses that came from Thessaly were all of the lineage of Hippeis de Kanti, with germines from Samaria and Chambers of Canephores)

Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and upper parts, a certain anti-demonic air carried a Kerí towards the candles of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. On the floor of his cell he had some Tamarisk branches such as Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired at his own monk's feet to become lasting in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the essences of re-transformation of the lexeme of conventional greenness into Patmos, very deflowered in periods with high untemperances only with some secretions in which Procorus felt the re-flowering adventitious from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Sulfur Lion that derived from the Cinnabar with the Anemoi wind that impregnated the Tamarisk capsules, under the acolyte's feet. The aquifer of the water table of the subterranean waters in Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay of their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Lid Post-Gaugamela, with themselves in the Ex Varna with iridescences re-transfigured in the Mount Tabor. Says Procorus: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk has poured limits of our Oikodomeo, to re hold the superficial plate and reuse itself in the absorption of the burning under my feet, forcing them to readapt under the ground scorching concentrated in the Cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae that prevailed in the pummeled beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisk showing themselves innocuous in the imagination of the cloister suffocated right here by some Chaldean tribes, who felt like the illusionist stand of Ex Varna” . In the compaction of this epic hyper-fantasy, his urge was born from the consecration of the Gift of interpreting the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would appear up to this moment, beneath the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which finally it is restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and chamber of San Juan Apóstol, finally supported by layers and blankets of subterranean aqueous filters towards a restructuring of the plane of Euclid, and towards the vicinity of plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were already three-dimensional in the construction of the Oikodome, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would go crazy when the Hexagonal Progeniture arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-construction purgatory for the Oikos in Dwelling of the social unit of Aquarius or Aqua spirits that are terminates at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodomé, here every day specters purged and rubbed in the archetype of the Megaron that was intended to beoblations and in votive links in the massages that the manes of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal brawl for living in the friction and brown partitions of the bloodless Megaron to inaugurate it as a solid bastion, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly, it snatches energized vitality from their extremities, with total imbalance and wheezy guards maneuvered on their feet, dragging themselves towards the karmic Saetas de Velos Toxeumas and unharmed Dorus. But feverish and threatening their integrity when they were falling and plundering the Euclidean edge, opening up from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric of Kanti's paranasals and spatiality that would surround the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse from their coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the column of the Sabines and Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians from the 4th century BC. C., already entwined in borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, close to all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them intoxicated with Nepenthe, by intense vine rain stómas in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, sending them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori… and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solid in his loneliness when seeing that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single candlestick to expand more inaccessible in the semi-glyphs in the grooves of the Megaron that shone synarchically in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian) ..

Parabola Megarón Dódeka Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin and acroballistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and six Para Senos appeared, who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling to the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes in twelve Swords that were multiplied in advance by thousands before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant dimensions and virtual foundation lines, acrostics of steeds from Thessaly on their palfrey mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve wings of cuirasses with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was strung in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands they carried the curved saber Szabla, to cover up the unspoken target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical enemy-unknown but outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed in the impetus of deadly resistance of the betrayed ancestry. The roof that pointed to the south west reflected the light of Orion by aerial forms of the Aegean choir, riding on the high seas with Votive offerings or offerings of Cyclamines and Red Poppies, hovering in majesty in their nomadic obtuse compass of Rhapsodas coffering epic elegies of the Megaron and of those revived venerable triumphs that stretched out on the banner of glory and bed of epiphany. Rhapsode proclaims thus: "In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags in our steppes harassing their moan in blood wars, framed in large sections on the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk.” How much is there to get fed up in the Polish cavalry of the 17th century, that upon glimpsing the barbarous sounds of the temple that approached them to the altar of the Virtual Megaron, showing off in acquiescent ceremonial and counter-revolution of lifeless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortal-living who posed in the rear of twelve thousand officers slain in the Forest of Katyn, such gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here in this place the puffed winged horsemen went by destiny when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions they galloped on their heads sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with Lion and Tiger breastplates with retracted claws. Procorus, observed in the virtuous imagery as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron in bullet-ridden super-existence and a trance of historic architectural dread. Here on a Patmian soil, each one of the officers was aided by each 17th century Polish cuirassier with ferocious wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there of their resemblance, with misty discrepant blood interwoven, executing on apocryphal witnesses who covered themselves with your looks, of overflowing evasion and truce of bodies stained with mourning and despair, with blankets of red poppies scattered adjoining a naive unarmed forest. Over exalted memorandums and secret cries of Adrastea procreating their kind with the nymphs, they drowned out the cries of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing in their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of rotten hopes, of those who hit them from behind, in analogous vexation to heroes of Katyn. Here neither Cronos nor Mother Rhea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for behind their backs, from venting them from the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head as twelve thousand Winged Riders are caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed in the waist of his head, not being expired by ammunition but rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors, who would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies. “The red and steamy cendal of the forest carried the souls of the Hussars to pass them through the sabers of their compatriots, before they were immolated by the Soviets, so their apostolic souls will be catechized by Zsablas of dyed airs of Red Poppies converted into air of respite from the heroes of the Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden Winged Riders of the 17th century”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard, differed in the volatile and explosive metal sabers at the present time that were extinguished in their crooked armor and in Polish beings, in a rear that finally Procorus settled them in urdes of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies flanked by his forehead before being shot from the cortex and occipital lobe, forging into golden sabers and cenobitic transvestites who received them in arms in the sublime stench of effluvium of their blood and hosts, never left and desisted from bubbling by the figures of the acrotera near the Megarón, ditto in the same Forest of Katyn, surrounded in a string of Rosary that dazzled in Procorus prohijando them)

Parable Fourteen Donítikos: “fourteen vibrations were polarized in the enthronement of Vernarth towards his brother Etréstles, making filial gradation in possible anti-filial conception of worship and death in who is suspended from one to the other under the condemnatory rhythm of past lives. It is typical of the facsimile of his own genetic shadow Cain-Abel, but of geomorphological gradation and time-space, which finally brings them together as blood relatives of the same Orbis Alius trunk. Dismissing by not accessing a vibrational anti-Asur (as a healthy creative mind in Genesis) as an energy that manages to restructure itself in any homologous way in the world of Asur as the son of Shem in Genesis..., as comparative and intergenerational mythology , enlivening socio-parental metaphors, pronouncing in cohesion and enchantment what happens in another similarity of gender or Mental field, staging the probability of a mental Sun that dies in a Super Man, and this comes to free us from the ties of existence and plane terrestrial not reflected of immanent and instance of Eon, in geological and sidereal lives. The scrolls of this semi-myth, is subsequent to hanging scrolls on the will of us existed for thousands of years linked to links and human characteristics of knowledge through professed and comparative feeling. Compensation of material distemper between the anti-pivot and life between both refers to the simultaneous undividedness of each specification as a phenomenon lacking hearing in winter and inclement periods. Here the outburst of retro involutions becomes cloistered in Menatira, daughter of Cránae, Queen of Eleusis Pro Eleusis tally fuzzy from the convulsing breath of both through the steppe of silence, both of them. Dodecahedron on an octagon in each one for each one that was interpolated in each area when Demeter was looking for his first-born Persephone.

“Etréstles metamorphosed, so that Metanira reunited them with the sub-mythology of their destinies and the preconception of the elucubrar of a final breaking of the abstract spell, which was mixed with the element of vehemence in their irascibility to wait for a next season in fourteen toasts followed by Ouzo, and goods with intact and distant deities in oscillation of life-maturity, making it after the eleventh Ouzo in determinism of autonomous eternal substances of the ritual of Elusis, appreciable power and coarseness of the one who has to compensate for the one who has everything and the that will never have it. (Eternal Life Spell)”

a) Abundance of rain of red blood cells, in quotation marks of the legacy of Bios as all deprivation of life file, rather for those who yearn for it between a physical trifle alibi...

b) Psujé for Vernarth, “For whoever wants to save the life of his soul, he will lose it”. But he will restore it if he is saved by divine psychology muscle."

c) Zoé, “radiosity and refraction of etherization and physicality, more than a biological physical body re-transformed into purging from the superior to the inferior multi-created, but in a Jesuit adjective and sphere of consequent concatenation towards the plane of the

Mashiaj as holistic of the human cave ecstasy, in inflexible marriage between heaven and earth Ad Aeternum”

(Procorus, auto-irrigated red blood cells, to deliver them both, and relevel the levels of red blood cells of the Mashiach's divine blood, which expected to be refounded in both brothers of the Vibrational in Fourteen Donítikos or Hellenic Vibrations, with the initial D in the lower left ear and the S in the upper right of the vibrational field of the Tinnitus of God, with their ears placed in their hands, take them by their ossicle and from them in the curvilinear dawn that vibrates in what He only wants to do to them Dodeká).
Procorus  IV
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
I. written yesterday

i can't remember the last time i had so much fun with music, i put it down to recently seeing them live... and **** me, on both days they played the London Stadium and having such an arsenal of songs they would play two different set-lists... honest to god, i've never had so much fun with music than i'm currently experiencing with the Red Hot Chilli Peppers... perhaps it's not that i saw them live recently... i also attribute seeing them 20 years ago back in 2002 at the now non-existent London Arena in the Docklands... i should have ditched the guitar and picked up a drum-kit... i just can't stop drumming on my leg... grooving with my shoulders and imitating a pigeon walking: which is not exactly head-banging...

there's only one thing greater than cycling...
well: i don't mind not going at the speeds
of a motorcycle -
there's this book: i found it... laborious...
in all honesty...
      i don't understand the fame behind it...
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance...
like i side: a very laborious book...
i'd probably rewrite it as
Tao and the Art of Bicycle Usage...

in between talking to a newly acquired
"friend" in the Arab world who opened up
a conversation with me the word FAKE...
i replied: HAREM and
                      ختان (khitan) - circumcision...
like in Hindu: the H is a surd...
               i guess that's how the Tetragrammaton
structures itself around those tongues...

i prayed for a day like today...
            it was truly amazing... i rarely get into
arguments with motorists...
you could ask any van driver in central London...
i love van drivers:
apparently a car has to pass a cyclist
in a range of 1.5 metres...
van drivers? they're like: **** it...
i'm not driving a tank... he'll be alright...
and they're not shy either...
they don't stalk you on the rear faking
eyesight: pristine spatial-awareness...

fair enough... this one time i was cycling
from the supermarket in the night months
of late winter and this guy slows down
and asks me the question:
- where are you lights?
- what lights?
- exactly...

                   i should have hollered back: thanks dad...
lights or no light: you see me then?
oh look! pedestrians! no high-viz. jackets!
yeah: if it was a country-road: that would
be a fair point... unless of course the street
lights started blinking...

but today was spectacular:
there's only one thing better than cycling:
swimming on a hot day and...
getting angry at motorist when cycling...
******* tourists... Sunday type drivers...
careful! careful!

getting numb-nut words thrown at you:
trying to impress his girlfriend...
blah blah idiot blah blah that...
ooh?! ******... come here! so i caught up
with him and started spewing a list
of profanities... i'm such an adrenaline *****:
and becoming infuriated is like a caffeine-alcohol
overload for me...
i could swear that my iris and sclera disappear
and there's only blackness in my eyes...
- ******! stop the car and let's have a fight!
lucky for me this happened as we passed
a bus stop...
by then he rolled his window up...
or rather: she did... having spotted me gearing
up to have an argument...

what? a bicycle is less than a motorbike?
i like the idea of generating my own momentum...

but the second incident was more
impressive...
i'm working a shift at Wembley tomorrow...
at first i was like: women playing football?
but i'll just be watching them... not the football...
tattoos... long hair... ooh! there's an odd Pixie
short haired type i'm so into...
then i was like: eh...                 not that bad...
plus the crowd will be easier to control...

now i'm like: the lionesses have to win...
i don't support the English football team...
i support the male German team:
don't ask me why...
          i was thinking about it once...
the three colours of the France kit...
                       blue shirt white shorts
and red socks...
the German kit would look so awesome if
it imitated the flag...
   black shirt red shorts and yellow socks...
instead?
                      white shirt black shorts white socks...
and why?
    the Teutonic flag... Germany should change
it's flag to something akin to the crosses of
Scandinavia or the flag of St. George,
i.e. the inversion of the flag of Cornwall...
a black cross on a white canvas...
since... the colours of the football kit represent that...
the Teutonic Cross...

Spanish teams and of course because of Rapahel
Nadal have his word of encouragement
to keep them going...
bamos (i.e. vamos)
       there's a word in my zunge that can be
used to similar effect...
sometimes you just need a phonetic outlet
to match-up the exertion of the body
with the absence of any necessary mind...

DAWAJ - da-VAĪ...
                 looks super-slick in Cyrillic:
ДABAЙ!

       at university: oh god... i wish it happened
in a supermarket...
i went to this one gimmick party:
we were expected to attend wearing pajamas...
i started talking to this one German guy
and he told me he adored the word
KURVA (*****) he said:
there's this relief-release from uttering
that word...
i guess we saw it written in katakana...
it just didn't make sense at the time...
until only recently expressing :
                                                      ДABAЙ
in exasperations while peddling!

huh?! push-bike?!
since when is a bicycle a push-bike?
what am i pushing?
sure... hoo-lie-noga: you can push
a scooter...
what are we even talking about?
chess or brick walls?!
                         one of those conversations
at work... what push bike?
what am i pushing?
i'm peddling...
- a peddle-bicycle sounds double weird...
- thanks, but "push-bicycle" is altogether
weird too:
five blind men and an elephant sort
of weird... that "infamous" story of rock-hard
anti-Braille re-reading....

- this second incident was spectacular...
the lionesses better win...
i was reduced to roaring: RA! as she didn't catch
my indicating... as we pulled up to the roundabout
and started screaming blasphemies only
men hear from women...
    after she finished her little rant...
i caught up to her and ROARED... because?
i didn't want to scream any obscenities myself:
not at a girl... so i roared that mighty syllable R'AH!
perhaps the syllable once shared the name
of an Egyptian god: but not in these parts...

two provebs:
   when walking among the crows one is best
to croak like them
   (jesli wchodzisz miedzy wrony -
   musisz krakac tak jak one) -
which implies that if you walk among the German
tribes (which includes, by extension
the Anglo-Saxons) you have to speak their language
like they speak their language...
ergo? what am i? i'm an Anglo-Slav when it
comes to any ethnicity debate...
after all: Polacks have as much place in British
culture as all people of the former Empire...
now that empire is nothing more than
the Commonwealth & games...
      after all: ****** spitfire pilots fought in the Battle
of Britain: squadrons no. 302 & 303...
there's even a placard in the catacombs of St. Paul's
cathedral dedicated to their memory...
   which is why when come post-colonial former
British empire gust of mango and banana and
sugar cane wind comes flocking to these shores
i find my place too...
                                  
i found it so amusing... i roared and?
                   she roared back! ha ha! a lion to a lioness...
and i thought: this be an OMEN...
if i can turn this into an omen of good faith i'll
have fun tomorrow...
    if i roar at an English girl when she's seriously
having anger management issues
it might just be that i might capture a little splinter
of a collective imagination and turn that into
a victory for the female football team tomorrow
against the Fräuleins...
                    as that story goes: about the butterfly
effect... a butterfly in one place of the world
can create a tornado in another place of the world...
of course i'm not deluded that this has any
actual effect: hypothetically-chaotic and rightly so...
but if i can gear up some random girl driving
in a car with a roar and she roars back...
    maybe that might translate into a victory of sorts...
here's crossing my fingers that i'll be right
come tomorrow...

II. written today

ha! apparently i was right... the lionesses won
the Euros... my god... this is going to rub off so bad on
the male ego of the male team...
i try to avoid the argument: the team is not diverse enough...
only white girls... most blonde:
i never thought there were so many blondes
in England until i started paying attention
to female football...
                  
   i'm still not going to be convinced by club-level football:
but women's international football is... d'ah BOMB...
woke up at 8am... left the house at 9am
having eating nothing but half of a day old croissant...
next time i ate? after the match... 9:30pm...
i almost felt like a Muslim during Ramadam....

coming on the train: lucky me... caught the fast one
from Southend - the train that only stops at
Romford and Stratford and whizzes past all the stations
in between... there and back:
back at 22:22pm... lucky ******...
anyway... while i was going to work i realised...
i have this nugget of **** still in me...
but i'm nervous... i felt frozen into the chair...
i tried breathing really quickly... closing my eyes...
but i already knew i was constipated...
this nugget of kakashka (little ****,
an endearing term my former Russian girlfriend
used to use for me)
            would stay with me for the rest of the day...
nerves... about that OMEN from the previous day...
i woke up today wanting to be so right!
not in a way a betting man gambles on being right...
a different sort of being right...
on a hunch and a plethora of feelings...
strapped into the chair... head pulsating...
heart attack? stroke? three times as a headache...
a head-numbing pulsation...
        memories from being a teenager...
i had these three or four incidents...
i would snap my teeth... releasing this numbing-electricity
that pulsated from my jaw down my body
into my stomach... squeezed the stomach:
and i began pseudo-epileptic convulsions...
in absolute agony...
   for months i would fall asleep in terror
unable to clench my teeth...
in fear of replicating this pseudo-epileptic attack...
there's nothing more vivid in life
than pain...
                 it begins with an easiness of
an air-head... and then that numb-aching that translates
into a pulverising brain: trying to jump out
of your skull... it's not a panic attack as such....
just a head-heavy top-down...
at Liverpool Station i walked into the toilet
and thought that vomiting would help me...
mind you... i did learn the ancient Roman way
of "bulimia"... at first i used ******* down
the throat after i binged on food...
i was so body-conscious back then...
   after enough practice with ms. index and mr. middle
i built up an automated response of the esophagus
and throat...
                just my luck:
you can't exactly puke up half a croissant...
instead? i was... an anemic seagull trying to feed
my youngling with the delusion that i actually ate enough
for the both of us...
puke puke: yup! yup! nothing... bloodshot eyes
and tears... nothing... the light-headed magnetic bulge
of brain and an embarrassing forehead kept at it...

only when the shift started proper did the feeling ease
and *******...
lucky me... i was placed on level 1: great view of the match...
and among the German fans...
i thought: time to practice some Deutsche...
ar du haben ein gut zeit?!
                 eine gute zeit haben!

Jemmina popped up again... who's Jemmina?
she's like Ovid's Corinna...
although... she's not married and i didn't impregnate
her that she might suffer from having an abortion...
i was walking up to the sign-in area
and this woman i work with told me:
oh... she's working for me now...
you know how she and Melanie had a spat...
i just told her: i don't want to know...
but i liked Jemmina... i kept the part where
she blocked me on a messaging-service for no good reason
i should know about a little ***** secret...
well... if this woman is employing Jemmina...
and i just dropped the words: i really like her...
who knows!

the match itself? absolute brilliance...
1 nil up... and then the German equaliser... i thought:
oh ****... no point having roared to hear
a roar back...
extra-time... first half of extra-time... nothing...
and then BAM! a goal with 10 minutes to go!
keep it up... keep it up...
                               ah... the omen paid off...
the lionesses won...

but the biggest caveat wasn't me roaring and filling
my heart with a want for them to win...
sport's sport and it's only that...
there's still that hurt male-ego hanging over England...
coliseum after coliseum reinvented
and revisited: Rome the meteor
and these grand rising craters in the ground...
even with the crucifixion the joint
conspiracy of the Greeks and Hebrews could
never make this script as extinct as that
of the Cuneiform of the Babylonians...
it's already meshed up with the digital footprints
of ghost-robots and robot-men...

              but like i already mentioned:
the best caveat came when i finally decided to
feed the beast... walked into a Subway...
i thought: i've had enough of this deep-fried chicken...
burgers... i need something wholesome...
a sandwich will do just fine...
came to the order... a fine Italian loaf... turkey *******...
on the conveyor belt came to the guy who
was dishing out the sauces and vegetables...
people prior to me were so picky with the vegetables...
four Spanish girls chose as little as tomatoes
and iceberg lettuce... a few others chose even less...
this has always been my experience
in a Subway... i don't understand the ad gimmick
where people are picky about what vegetables
are put in their sandwiches...
and the guys on the conveyor belt of making sandwitches
are usually Hindus...
so when he asked me, which vegetables?
ALL OF THEM...
a flash of happiness in his eyes... all of them?
yeah... all of them...
low fat mayo and that sticky onion sauce too...
****... no black olives... never mind (i thought)...
mash-up grub in a 6incher...

once you have been fasting for almost 10 hours...
oh man... it's like Socrates said:
some people eat to live...
while others live to eat...
                      i have absolutely no problem
eating alone in public...
i've heard from those closest to me that
i eat with such finger-licking poise...
as i sat down two children sat either sat
beside me and enjoyed their own food...
and always: always have a napkin ready...
let's face it... no need for leftover sauce or crumbs...
on or around your lips in your beard
and moustache...

but that was the biggest the joy that came from
today...
all the vegetables i said:
all the vegetables?! he replied... yeah...
all the vegetables...
                what a wholesome little treat...
eating my sandwich with two children
sitting either side of me eating likewise...

like animals akin to like children:
as much as i dream up the companionship
of women...
    i'm more wholesome around animals
and children... i feel a sense of gravity
that's unlike gravity...
they're not my own: but, do they have to be?!
it's enough that i had to deal with
a bunch of Germans wanting to buy me a beer
in order that i might support their team...
got patted on the shoulder
by.... the crowd was mixed... no segregation line...
when i was first "initiated" / naturalized
into the British society i refused to sing
the national anthem...
now? i murmur it... i'm not confused:
i'm just conflating... i'm sniffing the death
of a queen... eyeing up the next king...
and there are two in waiting... hell! there are three!

the 2nd Elizabethean Age is coming to an end
and i'm gleefully asking for the best of the best
clocks of Zurich...
   no death of a Pope will be so profound...
the closure of the 20th century:
moving toward a newer, braver, world...

perhaps the Chinese reinvented themselves
by abolishing the five? or is it three old Cs?
culture, custom... i don't remember...
here's to me rekindling an interest in the Tao:
i have no interest in Zen...

chasing Penumbras and Chimeras...
don't even mention the umbra and the antumbra:
same heads of the same beast...
     man as incomplete as the schematics he's
presented with...
  of the Freudian dictate: ego, superego, id...
i'm building up an aftertaste for a a taste
of grapefruit...

          i was listening to two American girls
talking on the Metropolitan line... for once i started
to adore the accent... i undid my shirt and sweated
like a boar in a hunt... i like it when girls play
with their hair...
                i like it when girls play with their hair...
i was about to jump in with where they should
look next to live... if Whitechapel is ****** enough?
look to Wanstead!
                      
but i was so right... i roared: she replied with a roar back...
today can be salvaged as a success...
handshakes and all: job well done...

now i'm sitting in a leather chair farting
into an empty couldron of the intestines being emptied...
one can truly lament
the overthrow of old Chinese customs
by the Maoists... esp. concerning the Taoist rebellion
against Confucianism...
                     why wouldn't i sample some thinking
from the Japanese: to therefore counter
the onslaught of the CCP information warring?

but now... dearest sleep...
                      dearest of all... a sleep that might envelop
a decade's worth of rest...
and a memory of a: very beautiful sandwich...
oh... but that ROAR was heard...
from a little roundabout in Romford all the way
to Wembley...
      but i did have cuckoldry on my mind: throughout...
this is not going to work: in the long-run...
fair enough... it was great seeing
Alex Jones up close and personal...
but... n'ah...
there's something "wok awong wong"...

   it's unlike female tennis players... unlike female
Olympians...
                          appreciating sport that was
originally designated for men... is a bit like...
watching and nodding to... transvestites...
i'm not saying it's wrong:
but the appeal will never be there...
                        on an international level: for sure...
but on a club level? hardly...

what's football without rowdy male teenagers
trying to prove that they own *****?!
sort of boring... and... ugh...
women imitating men... they look so ugly...
so... butch... i don't think i've ever seen so many lesbians
in one evening... mind you: at least two lesbian
converts...
           of course you're going to come across
lesbian would-be converts...
it's usually the butch lesbians that are eyeing you
up... the more plump the ones with crew-cut hair
eyeing you you up...
oh no... not the submissive of the pair...
the butch-lesbians...
                                    they're playing with
the drama of being the pretend-man looking
for a man while dating a woman...

i like them... i like butch pixie-pizza-date-girls
of that sort... fine skin...
  i like short hair too...
                                i can't compliment on their skin
enough... i couldn't possibly stroke ivory enough
to reach that sort of complexion...
i wouldn't dare to lick it: let alone touch it:
i'd ******* have to frame it!

hey presto! one fetish emerges after one just finishes!
my favorite mousy was also there today...
to hell with me and my weakness for
ginger haired girls and freckles!
mousy! she figured out a way to change her hair
to become more appealing...
mousy! mousy! i won't give you her name!
mousy is mousy! she's a ginger hybrid!
i like her strawberry ginger-ness...
which is not a strawberry-blonde...
it's... tickling something akin to "something"
could be teasing more auburn clashes of shade...
never mind... the freckles are a bonus...

mind you: it's still too hot to venture back into
the brothel... i need late August to keep my tongue kept
to return to revisiting the brothel...
i need the weather to cool down...
not after that *******...
it was never going to work akin to how it "works"
in a pornographic flick...
two girls: two condoms...
the best you can do is ask for a pair of ****
from one and a hand-job from the other...
no one is catching any germs today...

my beard is a violin and a cello...
while i stroke it... trying to summon the winds
for the brass-stroke of genius...
i try to also remember...
miracles began with both Jesus walking
on water as they began with the madness
of Xerxes lashing the Aegean sea with whips
to calm it down...
for one? i find the latter more probable
than the prior; the poetics of abandoned genius:
and within its confines...
the cringe Christianity of what change would
later come.

— The End —