"unmoved" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Her shoes untouched unmoved
lay carelessly
in the middle of her room
the strings still tied
forever waiting to be
undone and redone
tightly around dainty feet.
a wet shiny black nose
rest atop the left shoe.
peering through the
wide door crack
he raises his golden head
paint splattered with gray
making eye contact
with a sorrowful wine,
questioning.
a moment.
the somber shake of the head
a whimper as he settles his snout
back on the left shoe
waiting…
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
1284
Had we our senses
But perhaps ’tis well they’re not at Home
So intimate with Madness
He’s liable with them
Had we the eyes without our Head—
How well that we are Blind—
We could not look upon the Earth—
So utterly unmoved—
7k
one is slightly bound
a congestion of sorts
nothing is evacuating
from a certain passage
the
act
that
is
done
on
the
toilet
seat
proves to be hard
sufficient amounts of roughage
have not passed
through one's entrails
one cannot excrete
all
possible
treatments
have
been
tested
by one
yet
the
binding
cannot
be
undone
hence the number two
sits unmoved
in one's tail
a feed of grains and fruit
in the morn
shall clear the obstruction
before dusk
to
have
a
poo
poo
is
all
one
wishes
to
do
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
I saw her
I saw her smile
Focus out through the sparkle
Reflecting from her danglers
And the ones in the atmosphere.
Turquoise sequinned with beige
Crackers, all around her
Our first new year
Where she took me by
My hand, entangling fingers
Lacing, when she thought she'd
Lost me,skipping between
White walls and brown floors
Finding a way out
Through the maze.
Low hung ceiling lamps.
Dragging me back through my memory doors
Remains the same
White walls and brown floors
While I wait outside.
Inside you're having your chemo.
Crackers
Inside my heart
Slithering through my mouth
I see her in between
Those flinging and swinging
Prayer flags, I recollect
Hanging them in the backyard
Of our home, you
Bargained them out
A flea market, before
That year's Diwali
You had inside of you
A life that would bless us
In three months.
A tangerine Georgette Saree
And rhyming with it,
Rani colored bangles
Sneaking up on the roof.
Crackers
White walls, wooden floors
You lie quiet, unmoved.
A skyrocket ups in a distance
As I light you up in flames.
Crackers
You'd always come back
Focusing, defocusing
My memories' pitaara
Sparkling, dangling
Skipping and lacing
Through all those crackers
Lighting me up
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.
All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.
Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.
6.4k
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Unmoved by your arrival from the west coast,
ten thousand little things are different.
It’s October and the trees are on fire:
a forge that you won't notice, 'til you're gold.
Your Kicks don’t leave footprints on these cobbled streets;
even the children have old, leathery hands.
Try to paddle-board the Eno and the bass go belly-up:
that river’s for scattering ashes and making moonshine.
All they sell at Aldi is ethnic shampoo,
so now your hair twists like the roots you’ve lacked
'til now, because all you’ll ever need is two hands:
for prayer, and work.
Life moves on like a cigarette’s drag,
while somewhere Hope’s fiddle strums;
Take off your headphones and
go put your ear to an oak.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
once in my sanctuary
it came in a loud gallop
followed by a wallop
my sorrowful lumbar
detaching the fear
of a clumsy blunder
shifted away from
the law of physics
an emptied vessel unmoved
like a sealed vacuum
certain a final curtain
pin drop in code of silence
light time alliances
whooshing me into
ethereal plains
a sublime hemisphere
of infinitesimal space, time
an indescribable beyond
gentle breezes
feathery light teases
soon a star-gazing eyes
darted through a
zero gravity galaxy of an
endless empyrean expanse
a’turnin spherical sight
orange white stripes
rosely red spot
churning roiling clouds
speckled dusty rings
what beauteous it shrouds
why am I here
a knowing voice appeared
melodically close but I
can only behold afar
of an ethereally existential
interstellar manifold
questioning mind
told of convoluted ways
as seen and heard
the rhymes and seasons but
for one and the only reason
mankind's whisper'd words
entrance to the portal
as did my dawned immortal
met a peaceful assembly
I lay in days, this rapturous gifts
what divine effulgence of
a truly cosmic lift
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
I look at you
In the photograph
I keep in the corner of my room.
I kiss your eye
As I remember the way you smile
And caress your cheeks
And imagine your heavy breathing.
I look at you
In the photograph
I kept in my back pocket
Like a map a navigator should have
To find himself
Every time he’s lost at sea
Knowing that there’s a
“You” that lies ahead
Knowing that there’s a
“We” to share a bed.
But circumstances aren’t like photographs.
They change.
And they will never be the same.
This photograph
In my hand
Our memories use to fade
Forgotten and unmoved
The world walks faster than me
Fear will sooner or later
Eat me.
Gulp me.
And as I ran ahead
Just to keep in line
I just can’t stay
Where you are all the time
The photograph
May fade
But not your smile
The photograph may fade
But I’m still wearing the same smile
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
man who wears a hat sits still near the back unmoved by the world or the exposed breast of a statue (brain waves do not discharge through a fedora)
tag attached: bald is sanitary
oranges have more delicacy raw smelly and afterward singing allons enfants de patrie ding dang **** like that, all frog-ese so we don’t understand chanteused stiff basso profundo to excite to let us see with the clarity of a dream curled with hate set firm, firmer in the arms of a sleeveless girl then slung to sea level white as a leopard’s eye
remember its peroxide bathed, bleached inclined on the pillow just at the angle of expectancy without a hat sideward glance and the crippled heels of angels sparking down the hall
bulletin: young man willing to wear false beard to ease the pain for all
or trumpet blues broken played horizontal touched by seaweed hands in the light of boats (unfurled)
slowly
and the memory dies slowly half-forgotten, half-remembered
halved again
slowly
only
to begin
again
grim molecules of love
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If I ever happen to meet myself,
I'd sit graciously on silence's table,
And study my evolved, yet un-evolved self,
Undisturbed, unhurried, un-agitated,
By world's brightest gulf.
...and smile back, as I watch myself.
If I ever happen to meet myself,
I'd sit cozily on peace's table,
And watch my wounded, yet un-wounded self,
Un-agitated, un-deviated, unmoved,
By world's sorry self
...and smile back, as I watch myself.
If I ever happen to meet myself,
I'd sit calmly on agony's table,
And observe my painful, yet not too painful self,
Unmoved, undaunted, unleashed,
By world's weirdest self,
...and smile back, as I watch myself.
If I ever happen to meet myself,
I'd sit gladly on glee's table,
With my eyes smiling, and smiling at myself,
Unaffected, unguarded, unremitted,
By world's unrequited self.
...and grin back, at myself.
If I ever happen to meet myself,
Twill indeed be a blessed, contending miracle,
As that's when I could pat & greet myself,
In real, In real, In real!
And make this fact to myself perceivable,
That Our world may sure often demand struggles,
And our mere existence in it,
May just be negligible,
But we never gotta forget
To stay hopeful, smile and giggle at ourselves,
No matter how hard,
or harder are the struggles,
As that's the precious fuel,
That can truly cause miracles,
In a world,
Often so obsessed with struggles!
And then with a grin,
A sparkling hope within,
I'll bid myself,
A sweet, serene,
farewell.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
A WOMAN IS CRYING
In the next room
a woman is crying
a moon
perches upon an hotel sign
unmoved
as a new millennium
dawns
as bright as neon
the woman
still crying
her unknown
despair
shifting silently
from one century to another
human grief
unchanged
from age
to age.
A woman is crying.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
She stood still before the choas; unshaken.
The wind blew its mighty breath against Her core but to no avail; unmoved.
Her coffee'd skin warm like the sun that kisses the Earth's horizon.
Something within Her had risen without warning nor permission:
She was a Goddess, in Her own right.
Brown. The soft tone of the Earth.
Golden hue painted widely across the canvas of Her *****
Her skin like caramelized silk, with the sunglow of Egypt itself.
She pressed Her face to the Earth's floor and moved mountains with Her prayers.
Queen of the meek, ambassador of the poor.
She was the perfect amalgam of beauty and brokenness.
~The Goddess of Humility.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Winters can be tedious.
Sun dips into early dusk.
A dead fire refuses to ignite.
There's a quick repetition
of opening and closing blinds
over a barred window.
In need of reflection
I search a familiar face
in an unfamiliar landscape.
I have her in my grasp,
half illusion, half real,
a symbolic mask denies
her true face,
her glittering crown
divides us by its radiance.
Groping in darkness,
I stumble over objects
of wood and stone,
my unsteady tread tripping
over their contours.
I light a candle.
Bathed in amber light,
our shadows merge.
A new door opens,
stretching the perspective.
No formal borders here,
they wouldn't survive
the present climate.
In their place,
intricately carved
figureheads and totems-
a vision of the past.
My eye is a camera,
retinas branded with imagery
for the photographer's delight-
coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,
tin cans, bones.....
....A Glass Sentinel
(though she isn't visible)
I can see right through her-
a vision of smokescreens
and subterfuge.
Past stumps of driftwood,
past the uncut grass,
a few flowers...
...to the fabricated backdrop
of a burning house, black smoke
rising
in
a
thin
stream.
At the open door -
The Guardian,
(I know her inside out)
unmoved,
(she didn't bat an eye)
defiant in a new skin,
a softer version-
The Mother protecting her children,
arms splayed, prepared
for fight or flight.
A russet flame
Licking her spine exhales
'Get out of my way!'
but she wasn't listening.
Smile fixed,
eyes of a phoenix,
a lion,
a raptor,
protector.
We all need feeding,
but not this way!
Throw me a cloth,
a napkin,
a man-size tissue
a lifeline!
She wanted this,
no, wished it-
this symbolism,
this burning of ironic portraits,
to clear the deck,
make way for new.
It shook the house,
its fate sealed behind closed doors.
I compose myself,
pull her back from the perilous edge,
gather her in my arms.
Fragments of shattered words
flutter in the ether.
What is real?
What is fiction?
A carbon copy of thousands?
A charred corner?
A forgotten candle?
WARNING:
'Eating fire' is a risky business
but can attract a large audience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
1624
Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play—
In accidental power—
The blonde Assassin passes on—
The Sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an Approving God.
4.2k
Mind and body numb
Disbelief growing by leaps and bounds.
Everything I held dear gone overnight,
All because of jealousy.
There is no dealing with a jealous mind,
No hearing the truth with a jealous ear.
No other emotion is so destructive on earth
So subtle, but destroys from within.
Even when the accuser is guilty of the same,
A jealous eye cannot see.
Abuse heaped upon abuse is thrown
Until all is whirled in a heart wrenching cyclone of words.
Laid waste is my heart, my soul and my mind.
Destroyed is my love, my life and the us we had.
My objections not heard, my tears leave you unmoved.
The cyclone has taken another.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
1051
I cannot meet the Spring unmoved—
I feel the old desire—
A Hurry with a lingering, mixed,
A Warrant to be fair—
A Competition in my sense
With something hid in Her—
And as she vanishes, Remorse
I saw no more of Her.
3.9k
If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.
3.6k
People moving in
With their suitcases on board
Standing everywhere
Fumbling to their seats.
"MAY I SEE YOUR BOARDING PASS?"
Yes please.
Plane flies on the runaway
Diving into the clouds
Into a puff of wind
and smoke.
We fly.
I sat unmoved
For the rest of 16 hours.
I thought I had been fossilized.
Hardened.
But I saw it flying
Us flying to mi casa
Time is rolling backwards
My lips tugging backwards
No more jetlagging.
I held on to a light of a hope
with a lopsided grin.
Perhaps,
It's time to say hello
To the land long forgotten
The land with cozy saturday mornings
Where we have dinner at 7pm, not 9.
The land that I long to be in
Where I had been long gone
is 60 minutes apart.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
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hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.
Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the
In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.
i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery
THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk
THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS
Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.
the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC