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Martin Narrod May 2015
Martin Narrod  just now
I started working on a comment in response to "Filling A Bottle With A Tundish"

Sadly I must admit, that even for an American with a college degree, who is a self-proclaimed non-Philistine that grew up in a suburb of Chicago, IL. Where I'm from I've been told is much like some parts of Sussex(I believe it's Sussex), my friend Lili Wilde described it to me on an occasion.

So I must say martin, that for having a voracious appetite for language, language of all sorts, from **** to sin, to cinephile to cynosure, pulchritude to tup, exsuphlocate to masticate, irate, irk, perfervid, wan ewes thwapping their tails, nearly stridulating like the cricket in the thistle. The advanced undulate troche of domesticated shadows, and the sesquipedelien dulciloquent surreptitious diction and other floccinaucinihilipilification and tomfoolery about.

martin, please do tell me what a 'Tundish" is? If you haven't yet, there is a phenomenally interesting reverse dictionary, entitled onelook.com/reversedictionary , and quite contrary as it may seem, and for all the Virginia & Leonard Woolf I enjoy reading, especially his somewhat innocuously underrated novella he wrote, I also read with extraordinary gratitude Ted Hughes's The Birthday Letters, Take of a Bride Groom, The Complete Works, Sylvia Plath's Unabridged Journals, Ariel, Johnny Panic, Ariel, and other poems by writer Richard Matthews. I am still unfamiliar with this word, Tundish. Online dictionaries don't give the best explanation.

As I was mentioning earlier. The OneLook Dictionary-Reverse, will let you for example, search: beach sand. And in response it will give you up to thousands and thousands of word which relate to those two words, together, seperately, and opposing each other. Such as: water, swell, wave, arenose, peat, dirt, seagull, Pacific Ocean, suntan, bikini, The Beach Boys, vitrify. It's very fun indeed. From one Martin to another, I hope you'll stay in touch. I'm excited about your work!

Best Regards

Martin

P.S. The text below is the original message I typed before learning that my presumptions of you being Anglican were correct. Have a great day!

Another Martin, YES! How exquisite, I've never met another one. I have so many questions I barely know where to start. I love marigolds, nose-bags with oats, and as I started feeling the essences if equus and what lurking prurient pedagogy for the didactic zoology that took me and the mind of me to wonder perhaps if though I am quite certain(though not 100%) that your native tongue is English, but using that ridiculous skill-set of immense benality I seem to someone have, am I wrong for asking dear Martin, are you from Scotland or Wales, or maybe even from a country where you learnt English as a native tongue but it's your secondary language?

As aforementioned, there are a plethora of questions that this runnel of sludge and dross that've now arisen in the turpidity of your antiquary of delightful speech. To whomever invited me to play along in the debauchery, and dance merrily with merriment, mine younger docile succubus's slendering beside me, puking up their tissue paper and vegetable soup, so that my pretty girls can fit into Size 2 TuTu's, and learnedly imprison themselves into the tatterdemalion of portentously lurid self-****** and abuse. , and the opprobrious trollop-gossip the gaggle of my skinny victim women eschewing food groups, in order to appeal to my conservative eyes, thrice the child's wild idling to absorb the rancor of their stoic and noisome sedentary lifestyle in the polluted sudatorium that I myself don't use, but that these nonparticular Philistines would serve as Surf & Turf with glazed Christmas Hams for the Hebrews to eat, and another sad storm surge on another deserted quay of sea sands, and our vessel and our deserters, worshipping the Virunga, sacrificing the ghost skeletons of the million year old ape. So I ask you. If even you're capable of expressing yourself under the maddening yet advesperating evening listening to Miles Kane and The Arctic Monkeys, followed by listening to Black Sabbath play Fairies Wear Boots while we drink our childhoods free of the rod and **** the war out of our teenage girlfriends. And in the morning when awoken by the sound of Sopwith Camels arriving on the early, frost-strewn milky, azure-banded stripes of moonlit ecstasy that make for this unquantifiable gesture of succinct believers driving in Summer get stopped for blowing a rice-white swiveling consortium of dishonest affair rivaling ****** addicts, with hummus, plastic bags, and forks in their sphincters, while they autoerotically asphyxiate themselves in a plastic knockoff Mickey Mouse hat, and a Pirates of the Carribbean bandana wrapped around the ***** eyed nightmare of having unsuccessfully sedated a 400-lb crabby, Lowland living-room Silverback Gorilla. More than a primate and a prostate exam. It's like posthumously straining to push tingling 119° Vaseline through the grey and white coffee stirrers which spilled all over the floor while I was saying goodbye to our daughter, while also explaining to you why it's so important to me you love me back enough so that everyone has enough of a grasping glint at understanding yourself, that in managing to reason the arithmetic of such a conundrum and confusing calamity, a phone call free of dial tone happens to be surrendered to an independent Christian organization of the state while myself and my wife's two sons, our sons, Thomas and James, have enough free time from complaining to hire an attorney to disclose the arraignment reiterated by both legal council, city council, and the Screenwriters Guild of counsellors struggling from methamphetamine addiction.

Peace Be With You.

Martin Narrod
martin.narrod@gmail.com
Response to Filling A Bottle With A Tundish by Martin
Martin Narrod Feb 2015
Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road
Sophia Apr 2018
how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept

neither rest nor return
are purpose

neither love nor hate
are purpose

neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question

perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain

it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god

and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent

but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs
steel tulips Feb 2014
this love,
can't be measured.
it grows in different ways.
the  more i know you,
the more i know myself
Pete Badertscher Apr 2014
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.

Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.

The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.  

The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.  
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.

What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
again a bit drafty (but I never seem to get past that stage so who cares).
Does every moment of pleasure,
Have to be reduced an equal amount of pain?
One can be lulled into this false notion
If they choose

Nature dictates no!
Pleasure exists as a reward
While pain signifies damage

I prefer
Seeking the elusive happy medium
A true balance

An unquantifiable flux,
Never equaling the same value
From one moment in time
To the next

Inner peace
Like a circle
It never ends
Kim Mar 2016
Happy Easter everyone!
Yes even all you lovely folk at Google!
Thanks for the doodle (not)
Thanks for being so selectively inclusive-
So open minded and transparent!
Indeed it is a small gesture of bad faith (pardon the pun),
but no less unpleasant for it

I'm so sorry to have to point out to you that you will fail in this ignoble endeavour
Just like so many before you have failed
Just like all campaigns must fail when their core principles are hostility, arrogance, and the increasingly popular brand of cold warfare- selective inclusion

You see the answer to the problems of our world
(yes OUR world, not mine or yours or theirs, but ours):
Is not more war- be it physical or virtual;
It is not more discrimination- be it active or passive; and
It is not to champion only one or a few sections of society- whether by actual good work or mere lip service such as 'doodles'
Putting down the one in a misguided (& half-hearted) attempt to uplift the other is a fool's errand and a dishonourable one at that

You see we have enough division in this world
We have seen enough war and exclusion
Even now there are more than enough cowardly and insidious actors spreading fear, violence and petty resentment through the internet and all your spectacular technology

And what is it worth- this power you have over the www?
And all the information you insidiously and yet blatantly, collect about the hapless user?
What is all that knowledge worth if it does not awaken you to the great struggle of our time?

The struggle to overcome:
Our differences- real and perceived
Our fear of the unfamiliar
Our collective tradition of violence
Our joint heritage of injustice
Our long long history of 'my way or the highway!'

Please grow up, think bigger, be better
It is not your prerogative to impose your limited beliefs on the world
It is your duty to improve yourselves and those around you
As we've heard it said so many times:
With great power, comes great responsibility..
In this age of information, you and your ilk weild an unprecedented and unquantifiable range and depth of power
Do not squander it, or you will certainly fail and fall like all those wannabe superpowers before you!
Dear Google,

Please also refer to my little poem- 'Cookie-Cutter Conquerors', may it serve as a cautionary tale! ;)

Yours in Humanity,

Kim
Sarah Emad Mar 2015
I cry for my heart and for that, I am to blame.
I cry for my heart as it reshatters into a million sweet pieces every time I see the letters of your name.
I weep as my heart pumps poison to my veins and honey to my brain so my body feels the aches and my mind feels delighted.

You've loved another and I'm aware.
while I'm here picking up pieces of me and pieces of my pride,
you're out there, flirting with a date.

That's not fate.

Fate was you and I.
fate IS you and I.
And I know that you know this,
that's why I cry.
Don't you know this?

I'm insane? Define sanity.
If sanity is condemning my unquantifiable love for you and deeming it ephemeral then by God I'd rather be insane.
You are the heart of my heart, you are the mind of my mind, you are my sanity.
You are my prize, my precious,
my torment and the reason of my soul's demise.

And now look at me, what's left of me?
A mere leaf falling from a tree,
The tree that was my balance.
And now I'm shaking cold, old and frostbitten like an unwanted unwelcome cold December night while you roam like spring, blossoming and joyful.

What you've done is cruel.

My greatest fear is not losing you, it is losing myself after your departure.
My greatest fear is that this heart would fall to a disease it can never recover from when the cruel frost reaches my core.
I'm afraid I'm losing the ability to love.
A stone terrain waits

A landscape deserted

Devoid of real

Or imagined explorations

For it turns inward

At a tangent that

Precludes inquiry

It has an articulation

Of slow deliberate movements

Where particularized

Geology has painted it

Cut off and disconnected

By an estrangement of creation

Other existences only serve

To magnify its sense of isolation

Its blank uncaring non-geometric

Dimensions of observable

Unquantifiable location is obscure

And unrealised

Producing an immediate

Initiated sensory experience

Of unreleased silent appraisal

But why does it wait?

What for

Does it anticipate or foresee

Some expected prediction

Of apocalyptic presentiment

Is it recalling color?

Or is it experiencing

The present like floating in a dream

Alas there is no clue

To its tilted yet frozen expectancy

A stone terrain waits
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
Single years roll down my face,
I send smoke signals to teenagers
Lost in the sound of their personal midnight,
Changing their names to ‘lost’ and ‘gained’
and remain unquantifiable
in the loose streets of halogen New York,
or the loose streets of halogen anywhere,

Some places you don’t imagine, only experience,
Some places you don’t  visit but get sent,
Some places demand sacrifice of years you don’t have,
Some places are just prayers and graffiti,

And here, here
The railway bridge adorned,
with tags and padlocks
and ****** fluids with different stories,
I see all the streets and city embodied,
She has a face like blunt force trauma,
Her legs are seductive and her hands
are covered in blood,
Her lover’s smile is an open wound.

In these places there is a fire in every tower,
In these places there is something sharp in every pocket,
In these places there is a sad drawing in your child’s notebook,
In these places there is always a ticking growing louder.

A foetus in handcuffs beneath a middle aged man
hanging from a traffic light;
Incidents unrelated,
Become dead words in piles of boxes,
That don’t realise they tell us how
this city or satellite town
is gathering the dirt for its own burial mound.
Justin Michael May 2013
Experience is the artisan of wisdom

Time is the costliest therapist.

Adaptability is the highest virtue of evolution.

Truth abides in the seeker.

Greatness is the purposeful accumulation of the mundane.

Wisdom is a basket woven from the inane.

Discomfort is the seed of growth.

Science is the art of quantification.
Art is the science of unquantifiable expression.

Time is the rations of life.

Marry fear; courage and achievement are her offspring.

Misfortune is a chain to the fool, but a **** to the wise.
Random thoughts. Feel free to dispute or disagree as these are not any sort of absolute truth...but my hope is that some people find them resourceful.
The Seventh Floor
By Otuogbodor, Okeibunor

He just saw her downstairs seated
She saw him pass by but noticed him
He went up to the seventh floor
She breathes the air of freshness
Freshness from home, freshness to school
His mounts of the stairs mounts hope
She sat solitary savouring that air of hope
The university,the hope shaper
The dream comber, ivory tower,
A monumental hope to mount.
One hour past, from that height
He looked down he saw her
She looked up she saw him
Eyes  locked in seconds
Hearts lost to hope
He held his heart lost
She looks her hope not sure
He dare called she dare answered?
Clutching her bags she mounts the stairs
The university stairs to mount in years to come
He stood there on trembling feet waiting
She climbs on and up,on n up
Up the height their  hope clingy
He is up there she mounts up to him
At the seventh floor to  meet  him
As she makes it up all eyes on her trail;
Noticeably slim model of freshness
Admirably everyone to behold
She climbed up to him
Before him she stood
His call she dare answered.
Transfixed! He took her bag
Willingly  she gave him
The floor quakes! The feelings of not just two
The feelings of an age quakes
The hope of many quakes too
The seventh floor quakes!
The waiting room quakes
She enters with of all but him!
He Leads  her to a chair
Her tired Legs grateful.
A sachet of water he gave her
Her thirsty soul appreciative.
He loved her immediately!
She sips the water genuinely thirsty
And She saw the eyes!
His eyes  beholding her.
Her nerve quakes the water pours
Pouring on her chest her white shirt dampen
The chest thumping reveals her Breast
A beautifully moulded set of young Breast
Breast shaped by only the Almighty!
Breast only can be possessed by a Goddess.
Adorable set of gem like diamond points at him.
He looks on. All in the room looks on.
He breathes hard like he just climbed the stairs.
In shock he brought  out a brownish white handkerchief
Dampen  the  chest staining the wet area
She felt his hand. He touched her soul.
The seventh floor quakes the more
Quaking the very foundation of hearts in the room.
He looked her in the eyes , kissed her forehead
She quakes inside of her
His very soul sincerely stared
Her very innocence quakes.
He mutters this lines;
    ‘Be mine sweet Angel’
Her soul heard the lines from a distance
Transporting further the very quake
Whose after shock will last for years.
He was in his third year fed for himself
She was in her first year in daddy’s shadow.
Tortious was the climb
Broadlynarrow was the road
Choice was  a task
Trust…! a life bet
Two hearts-dice juggled
The quake was seconds still
Single mindedness was the decision
The mindful was n is the after shock.
Her friends bemoaned her
His friends fearful cheered him
Her mother cautiously careful
His mother hands off n up in prayer
Her father tearing n threatening.
Thundering his nerve to the brims
She remained obstinate n focused
He remained supportive n sacrificial
Sacrifices of an umbrella in the rain
She appreciated him. He protected her.
He provided the hanger for her  grip
She stretched her arms like the pumpkin tongue grips
The vow of  protections as a service  after graduation.
A service not to a fatherland but for truth
Truth of two souls in opposite divide.
The protection from unspoken facts
Facts only known to one n whispered to the other.
The bet on Trust not Love?
And four year stroll  past
For time crept in to birth a newness.
A new birth n a new day of destiny berthed
As fortune of two set sail
And another two stuck on the hyacinth.
She mounts the podium
He watched from afar in tears of joy
She was the best in the pac
He made it happened
Her mother esthetic n jubilant
Egoistic  father puffy with pride
The pac applauds success n true work
She worked for it. He saw to it.
A synergy of trust for result seem unattainable
Impossibility made possible
Success he desired but archived in her.
She is rewarded for excellence
He is rewarded for steadfastness
Her mother is rewarded for unspoken fear from shame
His mother is rewarded for daily travails in prayer
Her father is rewarded for money spent on trivialities.
The reward of one pervades a whole lot
Avalanches of rewards open n secrets.
UnOpen secret between father n daughter
Shared secret between him n her.
She collects her award admits ululations inside of her
He feels n knows her pain admits the atmosphere
Her mother is carried away like the gele she is wearing
Her father boastful in an atmospheric  blindness for his money's efforts
Her hearts inner workings is detached from the day's euphoria
He standing at the distance transmutes her experiences
Experiences of a father who knew only his desires
Desires bought n explored from every available mode.
The university was a safe heaven for her
He provided the guard and guidance she lacked at home
Her encounter of him n the journey to the seventh floor
Shaped her to today n assured her of tomorrow
True  love stands like strong pilar  
He longed n gave love he wanted n  never had
She believe n trust for him save the climb
She is a daughter her father only knew  in the dark
He is a friend who is a true father n never had one.
Drives n ponderings of the hearts
The podium is for gallery elicit joyousness
Joyous celebrations into the night.
The night comes with  it's sounds
Darkness comes with it's secretes
Tides n storms in dark hearts alleyway
Lighten flashes schemes it's way in the dark tides of time
The heart thunders in ‘tick ****’ motion of time
Tale  trail to time
Quest of two in timescape alley
Time: a healer n a judge?
Time n space bridged reward
A collusion of hatred n love rewarded.
The reward of time is unquantifiable  
And timeless is its weight.
The weight of love prompted a search
A search for his father
A search for her true father
A father who constantly seek n desires  daughter’s nakedness?
A mother whose silence at the face of such shame?
Truth bound by time  rebounds in space
Complicit of two self lying marriage between man n woman
Rebounds in  two young honest lovers
The happiness of youthful individual being sacrificed?
The weight of a DNA is  love for him and her
And hate for father n mother .
Her mother was shameless n still is
His father was irresponsible n still is.
The early light dispels darkness
Darkness of the heart under a fretsaw
Patterning  in style  actions of the dark
Every secret did have open reward
She was n is her mother from a man she refused her knowing
He was his father Who absconded 33 years ago
Hiding in the arms of another woman bewitched?
Likes begets  likes in a mate of two deluded snakes
Living in the dark holes of there night
Orchestrating symphonies of lies n lies
And now likes dogs leak their  poisonous venom.
At dawn light gains its penetrations
Penetrating the very marrow of truth….!
As Morning dawns with it's dews
A climb to the seventh floor was the dew.
And light melts away this dew
Shining in the life of two young fellows
Who loved from their souls.
The poem is still a work in progress, will like to make it better.
a flashing neon cocktail of colour
shines a peculiar light
like a fossil washed in my jeans
it allows me to speak to Panzas donkey
in a place where black winged angels wait
providing a backdrop to unconscious geography
that can never be reclaimed
movements are that of a stage contortionist
slow and deliberate
they recollect colliding tangents
that preclude all manner of inquiry
there is an articulated confrontation
that corresponds to a drawn curtain
an ash grey partition
painted with a particularised creation
projecting in a self generated universe
an estrangement to the world of aligning
past and present
A windmill tilts and magnifies
the sense of isolation generated
by my conversation with Panzas donkey
in a realisation of the unquantifiable location
of the non-geometric dimensions of Quixotic thought
yet allows for an initiation of sensory experience
as a world that exists independently of
physical space is explored
and I realise the expansion of consciousness
is the emitted light of relative thought
that flashes in colour before me
it is my dreams, they are violet
like the sky
Warren Erasmus Sep 2012
The Man showed me a rainbow
Then He told of a barking dog
That could be silenced
Silenced in my thoughts at last
I believed Him and wept
The rays warmed me
For as long as it took
For Him to stop talking.

The Boy began to believe
The Son could at last be kissed
The King looked on with a smile
The Mother? Her ***** bright like a rose

I ran toward the banded colours
Where the promise of tenderness lay
Where the gold glint of relief shone
Splashed up against an eternal cosmos
Dripping with the honey of the womb
And the sweet down of heavenly soft
Under the melt of a fathers gaze
Holding mine in gentle play.

The sky was made of cardboard!
The rainbow was bands of steel!
The hint of gold reflected off a fools pan!
The honey? Archaic resin hardened!

I turned for an exit in a losers pathetic pose
Searching my steps backward for where I took the wrong turn
To this land of un-Edenic strange
To this place of oxymoronic weird
Where the promise so freely offered
Extended moments before so open
Now little more than dust relayed
From the very same palms of hope.

The words of kind turned to ice
The angels stood with swords barred
The Book of Love remained tight lipped 
The Barking Dog? Louder than ever into the ever darkening night.

I stood in bewilderment on this centre stage
Wondering if this was the right universe
Hoping for the end to this cosmic joke
That had found its way to my unfortunate mind
But relentless it was
And a sentence had been passed
It would be a noose of time, precious time
Regardless of my presence or absence

The noose firmed its rasp on my voice to quiet
The descent into silence engaged a metallic gear
The receding of those ones I loved into shade began
The future? Unquantifiable, heartless, maybe

It's been a world of dark for some time now
A land of tumbleweed strewn without wind
I've been rubbing sleep wanting eyes awhile
Too afraid to close them lest I miss what's hoped for
For fear I pass over unmistakable clues
Marking the return of the Captain of my soul
The Master of destiny bound to show
In this otherworldly time frame undefined to now

The cracks of light seem poised to appear
The oval dome sky now less unreachable
The hints of smile seen through frosted glass
The way back? Longer than the way toward, appears.

My hope is that you never tread my path
My dream is that you never need that rainbows allure
When you hear the dog barking, feed it with nurture
A savior is not all its cracked up to be
We are, after all, just human
Bound by the same defects
Slaves to the same weariness of time
And given to the same journey.

The light will always shine on the hopeful
The fortune will always favor courage
The past is always a slave to bad memory
The end? Always be healing anew.
Travis Green Aug 2022
Your love is a boundless and new-found delight
Ecstatic ****** delectableness
Crisp, earthy sweetness
Utter, passionate lover prodigy
I tremble in the presence
Of your rich and dreamy allure
Immense divine delightfulness

Such enthralling and heart-stopping erotica
In your magically ecstatic and thugtastic palace
Superlative and wondrous art
Profoundly sensual and ultra-muscled ****
I feel so vindicated when you take me in your nakedness
When you flex and spit killer superheated ****

Make me rapt and flabbergasted
Take down my gayness
Shake up my cells
Cause me to crave your saucy, salty taste
Your titillating hotness and rawness
In your thrilling, towering tidal waves
Of roaring sparkling machoness

Dangerously mountainous and unquantifiable excitingness
Blanket me with red-hot flaming spice
Wrap me in fierce impassioned magic
In impeccable majestic lechery
Let me kiss your rich misty rose lips
Lick your delicious chiseled face
Piercing nut brown ale eyes
You engross me in your wildness
In your bright, inviting fieriness
Make me vulnerable to your artful carnal gaudiness
Jon Shierling Feb 2015
They found themselves in that part of the city by accident. Arguments and resentment can cause that sort of aimless wandering, but it's always strange when the two are too stubborn to pull away and wander as individuals. The smells and the sounds shook them out of their thoughts, nutmeg and incense, rhythm and laughter of an unfamiliar hue. In front of them was the source of the music and motion, dimly lit in a recess of the street, but with the unmistakable scent of life pouring out of it. Drawn forward, as if by some invisible force, they entered that bar we resident ex-pats call L'Serpent Rougue.

Cushions and carpets and hookah smoke, dim lamps and cinnamon and coffee, above all the beat of the drums. Drums of all shapes and sizes, Darbouka's most numerous, played by toothless old men and bare chested youths, pounding out sound that got into the blood and burned the heart. They had no words for it, this throbbing in the chest. Barely through the door and already they felt the urge to loosen clothes, remove shoes, partake of unknown sensations. They were seated in a corner towards the back by a middle-aged man who gave them that appraising look purveyors of delights save for those they recognize as novices. Hossam didn't ask their order, immediately brought strong Turkish coffee and a double hosed brass hookah. He also guessed, correctly, that both of them drank whiskey. They sat back in their cushions, closer than they had been for weeks, and drank of that place as they would have of a complex wine or the work of a master painter.

Faces gazed unclothed out of lamplight, shorn of the daytime business-as-usual mask, bidding the couple to do likewise and share in this freedom. This sheer, abject celebration of humanity was something they had never seen or truly comprehended, something more in the way of an abstract idea like physics or the Trinity. But to have it here, now, ****** upon them in such a place was such a shock that perhaps they may yet have shied from it and fled, but it was at that moment that the music changed to a new tempo. Hossam excused himself from the bar and, picking up the Oud propped in a corner, took his place among the musicians.

Simoom was said to be the most beautiful woman in the city, and to have seen her that night, anyone would have believed it. Eyes not quite midnight, but the kind of dark blue that comes just before the sun hints at it's rise. Skin that rich olive color which moves all people deep inside, reminding them in a round about way of the days when the abundant harvest was a reason for rejoicing. The very ideal of grace as she took her own sacred place within the circle of the drummers.

Hossam began a melody, so worn with time and use that one could see the years fall from his body, could see through time to the passion that had always driven his music. And the drummers, young and old alike, followed slowly, almost hesitantly in his wake, as if unsure that they should try and accompany the wellspring flowing from his fingertips. But Simoom, she knew this song, this timeless outflowing, and matched every undulation, every direction Hossam poured out of his instrument and his heart. He played like some Sufi dervish caught up in ecstasy, flames of music which she danced through as a Jinn of the Hejaz.

All of this, the two almost estranged lovers became a part of. In one of those mysterious and unquantifiable facets of human experience, their finite lives became something else. This warmth they had never known suddenly reached out its arms and embraced them. In the midst of that dark place they had found their love descending into, by some chance or will or what have you, they arrived at what some might call a...what's the term...oh yes, "Den of Iniquity". This is the miracle: the differences and petty quarrels, resentments hidden for months, the weight of mundane life, all of the pinpricks upon the heart that lovers unknowingly bestow upon each other fell away, just as the passion of the Oud shed years from Hossam.

They left L'Serpent Rougue with his arm around her waist and her hand in his back pocket, smiling and open to the world. The walk home was itself a new adventure. They danced arm in arm in the middle of the street to a homeless man who played the fiddle, sang the words to their favorite '90s songs as they climbed up the apartment stairs.

Who cares what the landlord says anyway?

She had one of those Chinese calligraphy sets, and she had practiced with it in the years since it was given to her. Practiced that art almost as if it was the only thing that truly belonged to her. As if her entire identity was composed of beliefs ****** upon her by some outside force save for this. Little did she know that this conviction about being an almost carbon copy of ideas not truly his own was a feeling also held by her lover.

That night at the bar and in the street, he saw something in her that he had never witnessed before. The moment when after they got home he took off his shirt and asked her to get the brush and ink was close to forcing him to recede back into a shell. The memories of a person he used to be, fallen far away. But then she smiled and pushed him back upon that rickety bed. She took that brush and ink, painted her soul onto his secret places, and he did the same in turn to her.
defective, with every ancient deceit
a terbaulant calm within me rages
and I leap from a great hight
into a shallow abyss
where lurk the stains you cannot see
that creep in this petty place
where the speech of those who speak
lays open like a drawer of stained knives
and a stone terrain of thought
recollects the gestures made
where a confrontation with
a corresponding fictionalization
places one in an unquantifiable location
Z Gulliver May 2010
the theme is green
and there are stars in your eyes
as you vindictively plot restlessness

there are eyes in your stars
as you contemplate
the heavenly spread of deceased dust

hey small thing, you’re shedding
and all these dropped DNA samples
will clutter a multiverse
that has already forgotten
what toothpaste you use
where you slept
or that you slept
when you slept
if you slept

the theme is a clock
in your grandmother’s house
ticking like a bomb in the desert

and all the sun from all the days
of chlorine-drenched reminiscences
is wiped away by a single stroke of time

a moment slides home stretched
like the cover over an over-fluffed pillow
and this is unquantifiable reverie
an array of star-soaked ideals
things you will never grow up to be
knowing you will never grow up
even once you grow up
and even after

double-spaced reports on
summer vacation and tax returns
are geologically arranged

the theme is maybe
and it is cumbersome to think
that the stars in your eyes
are made of something much older
than purple
copyright. copy/share with permission.
David FauntLeRoy Aug 2015
I'm good.

I’m in a good place.
Friends the next room over,
a few streets down.
Living a life with
those I love all around.

Listening to their grace,
imagining you in this space.
I could almost burn.

I know you didn’t choose your face,
though it makes this a difficult race.
Your kisses I can’t unlearn.

Bring the flood.
The hours, days, months, years,
the unquantifiable tears.
Squeezing in self-discourse when I can,
logic and hope crammed between fears.

Another dud.
A grand plan disguised
as a firecracker, prized,
one promising an explosion,
lightning bolts etched on the sides.

Though there was never a detonation.
You cut the fuse short
or maybe I never lit it.
Maybe I’m like Rogue,
absorbed that firework’s nature
and can’t quit it

My veins are gunpowder.
My heart the wick.
Thoughts of you the flame
and I’m praying they don’t stick.

My mind is racing with water
in an old fashioned wood bucket,
assembly line style carrying reason.
Though my worst fears I can hardly stomach.

I’m working my synapses as fast as they’ll churn,
but like every western movie ever filmed

the water gets here too late.

I stand watching myself burn.
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
Dear God:

Re Eva Cassidy

Been waiting/wanting to write you for a long time
About Eva Cassidy.

Had to let the anger settle,
Had to find the write words.

Many months have past, perhaps years,
Since I stumbled across the voice of this angel,
Memorial Day, it seems like the write time to
Try once more.

But my anger has not settled, it has trebled,
It has risen and is unquantifiable, irrevocable,
a line crossed, a feud, that can never now be amicably settled.

I have a retinue of good curses, experienced friends,
Looking to meet up with you, who understand that
Blessings and curses, for full effect, should be rarely used,
Especially inside a funereal poem honoring the truly great.

But for Eva, there's no question, you dude,
Got a fleet of F bombs coming your way,
When the children have gone to bed.

When Eva sings "Imagine,"
The purity of voice, miraculous,
I know you were afraid
And so took her young,
Lest her voice raise a generation of questioners.

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to **** or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...


You got the power,
You make mistakes,
We all gotta die sometime,
But you better not take the special ones too early,
Or I may stop writing to you, and then,
What ya gonna do? Who will comfort me?
Eva will, that's who,
When we walk together in Fields of Gold...

Shelter Island 5:00pm
May 26
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eva_Cassidy


► 4:51► 4:51
www.youtube.com/watch?v=DTVsp_q8mxE
Martin Narrod Oct 2016
You know me better than I, better than I know myself; you know me like I want to, like I was my own world's father. A famous goddess, parishioners won't say her name, I wrote letters to her personally, but was never brave enough to greet face to face. There's a type of prose, only intimate partners dare to go, where adjectives take verbs in rounds, and lovers sing each other songs. I've you and you have me, I'm captured by you so lovely, there's nothing I wouldn't do, good or bad, I'd ****** for you- a great vegan harvest, all of everything for my love the goddess.

In a world worshiped by false idols,
Where musicians and actors are modern day deities and neon signs flourese divine promises in magazines and the televangelist newscasters inject the masses with fear and false promises.
Opiated zombies take to the streets and go about their lives sleeping with eyes wide open at screens that have more meaning than their banal lives. But I woke-up long ago looking at the photo of your limitless azure eyes through a photograph. Long before I met you, I knew that one day our paths would cross and we would drive through the desert, deserted towns listening to Townes van Zandt and other musicians that most have only heard of through top 40 covers of their soulful songs.

The cacophony of coyotes, pumas, rattlesnakes and rabbits darting to and fro, in front of our headlights as quartz crystals reflect the full moon light, and Joshua Trees dance beneath the stars while we talk about Morrison, Harrison, Hendrix and the impact they have had on our lives. While most are drunk or dreaming, we are living the ultimate dream. I cannot wake-up to a world without you there-

Beside me and a space pig curled up asleep on the backseat as we trek across the Milky Way.

I smell the fires, their noisome stench fills my nose with the harsh turpentine and piceous smoke, but in the night we cannot see the trees. This fire could be right off our balcony. It could just be a neighbor's barbecue. How can people enjoy eating burnt and coal-battered meat? Your Uncle's neighbor apparently enjoys street meat. He killed a tick-covered deer, while he rode his scooter over the pass at night, and lied, he said he hunted it with his bare hands. Why must men and women and people lie, as if their stories capture more attention if they don't share what actually happened.

Dear you, I love you so. More and more with each passing day, I just hope one day we'll both leave this place, and share our final breaths in the same Earthen place. I promise you I'll share my final resting place so long as it's in a grave. I worry you'll want someone to spread your ashes, on a ski run in Aspen. Can we pretend small creatures live inside our walls, and rule a kingdom somewhere on our second floor, where Fraggles scramble to complete construction, on a network of tunnels.

I told you I would re-propose to you every day, I love you more than words can say. It's unquantifiable, just look beneath my eyelids. There's a man who used to share the hash he smoked, in a cove, somewhere in Venice, where the locals met us.

I'd drink and quaff your humanness, the pulchritude I cannot resist. The splendor you exude in all the passions you choose to do.

Hey you, if you find me here. Let me know if I'm still alive. I've made a wish to live, and be the father of your kids. We sing and laugh and sway, we eat apples and honey and pray, to an invisible god that could disperse all our flaws. And this moon, the one that has shone itself on empty roads, ignites the stars and stares at us shattering this cold. You were made in the image of life, I've been incommunicado but connected your dots. I wish I could color you by numbers, and count the hours we've slumbered.

There's cold-weather dripping from my nose. Where howling wolves and coyotes go. Where elk canter and mule deer pass, and a small boy moose named Bullwinkle waits for his mother to come back. Here is where the spotted marten eats from a rotting corpse, maybe it's a small naked shrew, it's map lines strewn across this town, where tourists think they know us, but they don't know my goddess.

Hey love, I'll never leave you alone. I'll never go to bed before you arrive home. I try and try not to yell, or even raise my voice above the evenings sounds. Do you hear the moose stepping on the frost-laden grass? It must have been starving for it to come this far. I'm learning now I know more about nothing, which I prefer to knowing something.

My hands won't put on the show, I told you I thought I knew. I prefer to be going down, so long as you'll always be around. I could count ten seconds until I realize my sentence. Poor birds fall out of the trees, there wings must have been freezing. I wait for you and I wait for your words. Your heart is made from all the things, I've only recently realized I've seen. Together, forever more. I take my hat off and hold open the door, I kiss your neck and eyelids and enjoy our shared silence. Keep me and never go away, you're worth more than the sky may lead, or the oceans breathe. I won't step, I won't speak, or breathe. Dear goddess, you're the only one I need. I need no one but you. I only need to know that you need me too. And one hour our shadows will meld together, while we wait outside freezing as we wait for summer.

But each season holds its own magic,
A seasonal  zeitgeist where we create our own traditions that supersede the Hallmark holidays that our oligarchies have created to lead people astray from the cohesive love and communal celebrations that our predecessors revered.
Yet each moment is a cause for celebration for you are a part of my life. I cannot wait to call you my wife.

From the moment I awake and feel your warm morning breath on my chest,
I breathe in the perfume of you and kiss you gently on the forehead as you hug me closer and face nuzzle me more deeply.
Each day, more perfect than the last.
I fight sleep because life with you is more splendorous than the culmination of all of my dreams. A symphony and an endless sonnet, fairy tales cannot come close to telling the story of our love.

You show my fingers where to go on the electric guitar strings of the mahogany fretboard of the guitar you gave me for my birthday.
My hands are slowly learning how to the play the notes and lyrics that I conjure in my mind. I cannot wait to play the songs that you inspire my soul to play. We shall sing together - a melodic harmony of a quixotic ambrosia that accompanies the vibrations of my guitar strings filtered through guitar pedals and amplified in warm undertones by the Fender tube amp.
Your bass line keeps pace with the heartbeat of the song as our voices go on
Singing the songs of our adventures
As leather wearing vegans and expedition smokers.

We smoke Marlboro Red Labels to pay homage to our Americana heritage,
As we drive the Prince of Darkness to foreign lands in search of crystalline moments to write, paint, create and sing about the dream we live everyday.
The dream I live with you my dear
,is the one I never want to awake from.
Written between myself and my love Sarah Gray.
manicsurvival Jan 2014
There are untouched moments
Of porcelain faces and priceless youth
Moments that reflect our faces as children--

Faces that sing nothing but clarity
Clarity that is unimaginable,

Because our minds have been tarnished by the generation that we've become
The sadness of that perfect moment

The moment that cannot be replicated until we watch our own children

Shuffling through these boxes of memories
Makes me wonder who I've become
Because I was happy and happy was all there was

Yet today, happiness does not seem possible
Not the happiness that our infant faces reflected

There are moments
Moments that have been captured
Moments that make me remember that one day, I will smile again
And when I smile, I will be genuinely happy
Because I want to be

In the past year,
I've taken an unquantifiable amount of photographs
Yet none of them capture the moment that I speak of

This unexplainable moment
The pain and joy that fills my chest when I look at myself as a child and wonder,

What happened to me?
When did this happen to me?
And then I ask myself--
Why can't I remember the long days of fairy tales and lemonade stands?
Lukas Jan 2013
You are not water to me, and I do not feel parched without you.

Yet something hurts with you gone.

You are not sunlight to me, and I do not wither away without you.

Yet something hurts when you’re gone.

You are not the only joy in my life, and I can still feel happiness without you.

Yet I feel less of it now you are gone.

You did not soothe my pain away.

But when you left, you left more.

I cannot tell what you have hurt. When I try to focus on its location, it rises like an enormous wave to engulf me, and I must abandon academic inquires in favor of fighting for survival, to keep breathing, not to drown.

The pain you gave me in place of yourself is unquantifiable and all the worse for that.

I cannot identify it, sort it away in a cold clinical category and leave it.

It is untamed, and nothing I do will train it. It does as it wants and drags me in its wake.

You took yourself away and, knowingly and purposefully, put in your place an unpredictable and frightening beast.

And if you offered to come back, I would not hesitate a moment in accepting.
Martin Narrod Jun 2018
How were they introduced to themselves within a flash of light? Enormous shots of humanness flying across the universe- only still inside the shapes of two blue eyes staring back at this vessel. Just molecules of flesh colliding into one another in a heap of colors and sounds we’d sometimes prefer to force ourselves not to hear. How do you keep yourself from exploding? Into a masterpiece of delightfulness pushed forward into the mouth, and sometimes only to be a breath, or a story dressed as a pink pillowcase on a childhood bedroom.

Sometimes it’s just as if there was never ending cold and never ending warmth, and between each other there we were with our noses pressed up against the glass.

People are only sometimes not shaped like beasts, are sometimes only chiseled into neatly marble statuesque ephemeral deities, and then into the tombs the book keepers go, into the ruins the shapes and sounds and colors disappear. Shattered into the vast expanse of vitrifying light, bouncing against your head my head, landing on the bedside table, the corner of your knee, into the knapsack with the broken zipper, far off into the jungle, or into the pantry next to the agave syrup, adjacent the espresso maker.

There I am loving you more and more, quietly raking my hooves against the dirt, reigning midnight shining orders of dusty moonlight plashed on the time of winter lake, courtiers in your centrifuge of melancholy, balancing the toes just inches below the surface of the water, where the skin shuffled into the brief sentimentality of being thrusted into the infinite transdimensionality of the human escape-

hands feet legs being ****** and pressed upon the glass. Infinite planes of man hurdling with fastidious dreamscape prejudice into the quakes and trembling, the  indivisible and unquantifiable desires of yore crushed as the envelopes bars break against the seams, then come the staples and the body’s tries at reattaching itself to this the trying table of familiar names, this the tepid jocular playing field. While the undulates are thrown into the academies. While the infrastructures topple over, and the sunlight froths upon the celestial satellites nearing and nearing to us, folded over until we wake up from our necks and into our heads and inside of our brains, until we pull the thread from our gems and count back through the catalog pages trying to find letters of words in other languages piecing together the wanton madness of yearning for you and sharing the sounds of a voice that’s forgotten its own triumph of revealing or speaking its name.

There is the room with the panels and the drawers. These are the wildernesses humming with the poison and quaffing the spit and drugs at the heady realm of human-like lightness, pals or even matter gives pause to answering you with what no understanding beeps or carries on forward, but rather bleeds, tormented, reaches forcefully, it has been nearly a quarter-millennia. Here is the start, the finish, here are the minutes, the hours, here are the streets, the beach, the bench, and all of life is ours, from the dawn to the crepuscular night. Here in a stone room where in black and white photographs spin their *** drives like mercurial thermoses bouncing of each other, dancing into the next world, or just fishing for alphabet soup with a wooden spoon.

Here it is. The short-sheeted bedroom linen collection, folded comforter in the closet. The bath water is still and hot. The sky is clouding up soon, but not quite yet. In a ball of light rounding bloom, comes the silent fans that’ve carried you. While of a breath the trembles sway, and take us far away from here.
Ady Mar 2014
I skim through beauties on a page,
things I wish and will never be.
I starve to fit the media's measure;
a finger down a throat,
beauty slipping from cracked lips.
I sew my mouth shut to the combustion
of words that consume, that speak of the
truth
only to keep the fallacy of what is deemed as
honesty.
I glance at the distorted mirror of what is
perceived as I
and wish, hope and pray that somehow
I was a child again.
A child, yes, a child.
Innocent and blind to the world of mass production,
of copies of a clone
of beauty in a syringe
of love expressed in a text
of segregated batches
of disintegrated aspirations.
I am vexed and complex and I
wish that you would stop looking at the depiction
that my skin might pose
and start analyzing my prose.
Because behind the metaphors of what you suppose
that I expose is the real voice.
And so for the sake of these words that need
articulation,
I'll wear this mask nevermore,
I'll break the glass and although I might
wound myself on the shards of derogatory apprehension
I won't subject to your humiliation.
Because I will not stand to simply capitulate much longer
for you to continue with the scaling of what you
reckon I am worth.
Know that I am unquantifiable, I am priceless
and you can't afford what I have lost.
Yes, I do not fit in the scale of your measure.
Beauty is not about comparison and resentment
but appreciation of the variations.
I am not a number
and I am certainly not another puppet.
And I will stand for this no longer.
Razbliuto Oct 2014
Tears
Colorless, odorless
Unquantifiable
With no definite form

They're silent reminders
Of things left unsaid
Of feelings kept inside
A seemingly happy soul

Tears
Can really do nothing at all
Yet they're the most powerful thing
A helpless man can bring
Gods1son Jan 2019
Self discovery is the best discovery
Self-will drive is the best automobile
Willpower is unquantifiable in horsepower
Peace of mind, the best place to be
The best resource is self
CeilingStar Apr 2017
Always might be all of time
It might be the entirety of space

Perhaps just a lifetime
Who can say wether it is to be the lifetime of a tulip or the lifetime of a turtle
Of a towering mountain or a winding river
As long as the sun sets and as long as it rises

Time cannot justify always
Always might be a construct, a net
Gifting us the ability to believe our matters matter amongst all of matter

How can we possibly promise always,
Not even knowing how long that'll be
It has the potential to be a broken promise or a faithful gift
Probably both

It's fact- something that has been and cannot be altered
Longer than the shadow cast by the sun setting beyond the looming mountain yet shorter than the flicker of a weak flame

It is everything in between
An unquantifiable infinity
Anywhere between the earth on which you sit and the unforeseeable universe

All this doubt yet 'always' sounds so solidly sure and concrete
We will always wonder how long always is
Not a statement but a question because: how long is that?
Because who really knows anything
Tori Mar 2019
Imagine, for a moment, that which you have only seen
In reflections, distortion, words disproportionately
Silting, spilt into the slits of your eyes
Reflections, collections, of hazarded half-truths
They capture your form, but they can’t capture you
Perhaps, that is why
You don’t understand.
Perhaps…it is because
You have never seen your soul.
I have.
You are shattered in sharp little pieces,
Stained with blood from the hands which try to claim them.
It’s ****** and grand, do you now understand?
It is enough
for you to be.
It is mindless isn’t it?
Sickening.
That someone could love you for just being.
That this soma, this shell, this imperfect display
Can so effortlessly express an unquantifiable goodness.
You didn't choose to exist
to be
to be loved
Does it hurt to be loved?
Onoma Oct 2016
Envision a trembling
hand within, holding
a mirror to inner life...
this goes everywhere
with us.
Yet you are everywhere,
consider the paradox...
inner life proves its
transcience as it passes
through us...we're
unquantifiable.
We're both larger,
and smaller than life.
SoupHands Mar 2016
I wish I could shoot lasers from my mouth
A righteous, indomitable blast of human force
Directly from my most powerful weapon

The blast would be undeniable, and impossible to miss
A man made super nova, siphoned into a concentrated blast
Powered entirely by my lungs and my heart

The earth would be covered in scars, miles long
Masked with ocean, or forest
In mother earths nature, concealing what has hurt her

My voice would be a siren of dirge and doom
A beacon through which the pain of many could flow
Bringing physical form to the unquantifiable

I wish you could see how loud I'd scream
In defiance of time, trickster god, and cruel cruel fate
Air would melt, and rock would simply burn

As the giant incinerating laser of revenge burst forth from me
Green and bright as lightning
The laser would send a signal

Hundreds of miles high, letting the entire world know we've lost you
So that all eyes could turn skyward and everyone could tell
That a voice cries out against what hes witnessed

I wish I had that laser, and I wish my fury could be made manifest that way
I could speak my rage into the very crust of the earth
So that no blasphemy of man, or amalgam of the void

Could ever compare to how very much I will miss you

If you have to go, then go. Get out and never come back.
Return yourself to the curse of time, I get it, believe me, I get it
But Ill never let you be forgotten

Any chance I get I'll speak your name
So who and what you...were
Will reverberate infinitely


And the wealth you granted us by knowing you
Can never be ill spent
2015
A friend of mine killed himself. Very unexpectedly. My first reaction was being angry. And for a couple hours I just yelled. And after my episode of processing a sudden, very tragic moment in my life, I wanted to be able to shoot a giant laser out of my mouth.
Ghxstcxt Aug 3
I miss you every day
Your personality and your face
The way you'd greet me after being away
only momentarily
How you made me feel just after I wake
The weird ways you would lay
Your cheeky smile and how we would play
You changed my life in unquantifiable ways
Gave me a reason to make effort
and build on myself to be better
I hate how we parted in haste
Filled with hostility, upset, lacking grace
I replay it, and wish it was different
But I know it's something I can't change
And that's okay
Because I know you're doing well
Looking after yourself
Bringing joy to the world
Still being who you are with no filter
I keep your photos up to remember
I'll love you forever Dexter
Arlene Corwin Sep 2017
The Night Is Almost Over

The night is almost over,
During which I’ve been awake
Unquantifiable wee hours.
It’s been a challenge to placate
Unrest in ***’ and soul,
Think things to do without a wrestle with my all,
Discover parts to focus on,
Breathe out and in,
Shepherding bad thought away from sin.

A challenge to make time rewarding,
Night un-worrying with means
Intuitively gleaned.
By three or four,
Night nearly over,
One is sure
There have been dreams -
A second’s worth of night-worked themes.
(Perhaps two minutes, maybe three.
I’ve patently no memory
Unawake, unaware,
All simple cognizance not there)

I’ll be ok when morning comes,
Stomach craving nutriments.
There will be toast, cheese, milky coffee
Brought in by hubby
With me glad the light took over.

The Night Is Almost Over 9.2.2017
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
It will happen to you too.
The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum from Horcondising, after the parapsychological regression in its conclusive auction and purgation. It loomed at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs desk, and in the other hand she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purgation in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum from Horcondising. His mother is seen crooked over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth since the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his arms, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras for the Matacanes, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, pouring water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacanes wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent gaze must be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servers of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before the amplified step, calling us all to try to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of its architecture defined by pen, ink and white sheet to mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united with her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with spirit, because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of things, life and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and cold indifferent to solitude, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink , fellowshipping in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the morning free of the sins of not greeting, even when the least space is left to think of him as a joint heir. Because the laments sob, and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly when suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from a glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we are blind to put hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves losing value by having it. Our will is of holy value when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, That strips me of all spirit, still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I was gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the keep, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, who support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that go increasingly so far more than close to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on the despotic brilliance and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum from Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined her with sallow light amber mistletoe. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ends, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing to him that she can already be without Him! Near the Necropolis of Hallenika in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the place where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between bilges now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with the sacred amber robes aleonade, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “Jews like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition; we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites scattered in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create furniture that will live in laborious houses, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensitized by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of unity of dispersed Judaism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic period, there were Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia and Italy. Now I am in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true image of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Hallenikka Necropolis, where some Davidian Psalm, it will be in more regions right here documented in my precession as a parallel religion to Hellenic situationism. Their religiosity is felt, and even remains open in a proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as support of a people with not a little original conscience”

Etréstles with Vernarth go to Eurydice, before descending into the bilges, they begin to found the ventral conceived from the word of Judas Tadeo “Yehuda; Praise be to God”. Judaizing verb in Veronica, or true image of the Via Dolorosa, among some apocryphal documents another historical and definitive truthful current is mentioned.   Detailing the aforementioned image in the shroud of the woman who seconded Jesus in the Sixth Station. The apostle Judas Thaddeus, is warned along with the auric image, providing confidence and praise of stands that walked in the murgas of Rhodes, before the iconographic variety was present with the image of Joshua overflowing by the Auric Avas, levitating among the circular margins, transforming into his banner with maces, which represented his martyrdom escorted by a sword or Shamsir, in the shape of an Arab cutlass; This being attributed to his beheading, but close to a hagiographic fatality.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Saint Jude Thaddeus the Apostle; He brought the Mandylion (Canvas of Edessa) to the court of King Abgar V of Edessa, to heal him. Being actually Thaddeus of Edessa, but the iconography was rectified by mistake. With a flame on his head at Pentecost he symbolizes us embroidered with a Chrysoprase, the green gem of his praise. Right here in these damp platinum chrysoprase bilges, it is that they emerge by themselves as an integument stamped in the peripheral curves of the Vas Áurica, they are attached to the Mandylion, frisked to my clothes to take them to the Hallenikka necropolis. Ulterior Vernarth and Etréstles pilgrimage carrying the mass of Vas Áurico of solid gold, groping him before taking them with decisive worthy praise to be brought before the sight of others who prospect to be before dark in the necropolis "

Saint John the Apostle continues: “Before dividing as Hexagonal Birthright, we went to Tsambika and others to Hallenikka. We head to Tsambika which is located on top of a hill on the east coast of Rhodes.   Bowing down to the praise of the iconographic and religious corridor of Mary. Here is the golden legend of Rhodes in Crete, of Rhéa and Cronos, for their ******* and mythological manias. We insist here we pass first to walk towards the heights of Tsambika, bordering the nature. Earthly possession of magnificent iconographic blessings”

Right here Demetrio Poliorcetes, acceded to the island, completely failing, resolving everything with high peace, with the mediation of some Greek polis. The military of Demetrio Poliorcetes left a large amount of armaments, for this reason the Rhodians sold the solid material and turned it into treasure to build the Colossus of Rhodes. In this same way the Primogeniture, thus began to gather the estates to summarize the hagiographic heights of the Vas Auric and the Mandylion together on both sides, for the final departure to Patmos. Being the necessary time that allowed them to be in this open, those who accompanied him in silence discovered new silences that amended the rotations that the Vas Auric medallion gave, exhibiting the half circumferences of a new world, with the organic body community of San Judas Tadeo, doing praises of a tender being to the Hexagonal Birthright who escorted them to save the world.

Eurydice parapsychological channeling:

Eurydice says: “Tsambika was left by the route located on the east coast of Rhodes before reaching the town of Archangelos, we passed through a cypress forest. It is said to be the origin of the name that is due to the word "Tsaba" (Spark) and refers to the history that involves the discovery of the icon of the Blessed ****** of the Nativity at the top of the hill. This icon turned out to belong to the island of Cyprus and was immediately returned to its place of origin. But the icon would reappear over and over again at the top of the hill, so they decided to build a chapel in honor of Panagia Tsambika. The miracles that the ****** worked were many, among them blessing with a child the women who prayed her and could not conceive. Since then there is a tradition of calling the child born by the ******'s work, Tsambikos if it is a boy and Tsambika if it is a girl. Right here our Hex Birthright will procure the votes for Rodinense culture. We went to the town of Archangelos to a delicious gastronomic with Barley breads and Pure Wine, Akratismós the locals told us, taking small pieces of the basket with figs and olives, decorating them with tagenites cakes, continuing later with more Wine and Steamed Ariston with stews and fish for lunch, which were arranged on small tables with zoomorphic legs. Women ate after men according to tradition, but now it was all of Aristotelian virtue, for immanent actions and passions of the soul; being able this time to dispose ourselves to perform the best acts and do well and always better, according to the right reason that is chosen from an intellectual disposition called prudence here in Archangelos; in charge of uniting us in knowledge and action”
Vernarth says: “Aristotle was the teacher of Alexander the Great and me too; in his virtuosity we learned the exercise of forgiving habits, with training, with experience and time to exercise it in them. Furthermore, with the tasks in accordance with virtue, being by themselves agreeable and as virtuous men judging righteously; this is how happiness shines for the Stagirite Aristotle; where our teacher was born. Herein lays his inspiration in living and acting well, the activity of man being good in it: beneficial, pleasant and happy, so it is directly related to virtue and the actions of the chaste man. In this reflection, virtue as a way to prosperity, the efforts to achieve them, will be analyzed, and some of the intellectual and moral virtues established in the moral philosophy of our master thinker will be described. Especially with your Eurídice delicacies, thank you for putting them in our hands in this kitchen here in Archangelos "


Euridice continues: “Hesperisma, slipped through our hands when my father Pelias, at night, brought us closer to his dialogue with the myth of Jason.  In metal or terracotta containers that entertained us. We could use bread cakes as plates, but earthenware or metal bowls were more common. The cutlery we use at the table: the use of the fork as an unknown, it was eaten with the fingers. They helped each other with a meat knife and a simile spoon. Pieces of apomagdalia bread we could use to take food as napkins, to clean our fingers. We felt grace in our ears from Aulos, like bells calling us from Panigia Tsambika. We stretched our fingers towards some chestnuts, beans, toasted wheat grains or honey cakes, responsible for absorbing alcohol and prolonging the drink ingested. Some locals, who accompanied us from Archangelos, inaugurated one or more libations towards a pean as a simple prayer to Apollo, generally in honor of worshiping Dionysus as well. The libations obeyed certain rules: the number of libations per person was not limited, but the invocation was not done without libation, after the meal and before drinking, the participants' heads were covered with ribbons or garlands of ribbons. A Greedy inhabitant saying: “In Archangelos he mentioned in his ancestors; where they had poured egg yolks, oysters and scallops, as soon as we were rid of this world, we sat down to drink, dancing by the powers of the ferments of the distilled ingested with some bakery delicacies: Like the Daraton, without yeast, which was flat as a cake.   The almogee, coarse country bread, which was made on the farms.  The phaios brown and unrefined bread. Syncomiste, black bread for being made with non-sifted rye flour, was known for facilitating intestinal transit and dietary wheat bran bread. Thus ends the address the greedy Archangelos "

Saint John the Apostle adds: “It reminds me of how Yeshua healed the woman who suffered from Hemorrhoid. Thinking just like Jairo; prominent as one of the chiefs of the synagogue of Gerasa, in the ancient Decapolis, at the beginning of the first century of our era. He met Jesus of Nazareth when he was speaking in what is now Gilead, northeast Jordan. Jairo thought it would help him to heal his daughter, still believing she was dead. While Jesus is still in dialogue with the woman he has cured from Hemorroisa, some men from Jairo's house arrive and say to Jairo: “Your daughter has already died. Why bother the Master more? “Having told him, Jesus, who has heard what he has been told, looks at him and encourages him with these words: "Do not fear, only manifest your faith." He asks him to show him where his house was. While there everything was with great regret and consternation, Yeshua tells them that the girl has not died, that she is only asleep, the incredulous people scoffed knowing that she was dead. My teacher Yeshua, makes everyone leave Jairo's house, except Pedro, Santiago, the girl's parents and me, also allowing me to stay here. In this place we hear from the Aramaic-Syrian expression "" Talithakumi ". Where we could observe how the girl began to walk, seeing the extravagant joy in the girl's parents and other people. This episode makes me warn that we walk between situations of sociability that only admit to committing ourselves with equanimity that the facts of a plausible authenticity strike attesting to those who meet those who love in an unquantifiable way for the religious social feeling. We committed ourselves to being born to see the logic of being witnesses to oneself, but not to what we do not witness more distant from those who do not see them after their death, not being ourselves. Creation today here in Archangelos makes us witness to being in the midst of families that sigh for a Talithakumi for all those that one day the prodigy of existing will carry them beyond a resurrection, are pre-classified for a biological phylogeny, being externalized and extended further afield. Of our own taxatives, In this way they will have tiny beings and courage that speak for them, because when a person is resurrected with this energy, Creation is resurrected with all the creatures that are inborn " The Hexagonal Primogeniture rushing down a beehive, after having dined with the Tragones of Archangelos, they go back to the voids of history that appear before them on some cliffs, saying:

“At the beginning of the 4th century BC, all the Greek poleis, regardless of whether they were bigger or smaller, began to mint their own coins, sometimes pictorially represented by the name of their communities: Ástaco for a lobster, Melitea for a bee, Selinunte, for a celery leaf. It is from this same conception of Aristotelian Virtue, that this regression has the motive to humanize and integrate Creation and its little creatures, from a chaos of death like the daughter of Jairus, being able to reborn a new cosmogony with a sub-cosmogony between myth and myth. Relative concept of reality, resurrection occurs and does not occur, because the divine primordiality of being resurrected will also exist delegatedly, as a being again reborn, perhaps with the same essence component re-obtained,but within an order that admits creation of Creation in a world that does not recognize Chaos as deep and empty, rather generous to grant the magic of the irrigation of the energies of Yeshua, already constituted as an ambivalent chaos computer. Titanic continues phenomenology, taking us to dimensions that share recapitulations of their nature among themselves, to once again contain compendiated and resurrected beings, who socially walk the face of the earth resurrected and fragile subtle in an ordered but sensitive land, and with voids of integrity and chaos that could restrain it. Zeus and Tartarus, almost like poetic prototypes, would appear in storms of evasion of credibility towards creation and its genesis, subtracting the secondary intention that consolidates the grateful world of restructuring, saved by an unknown superior deity, to whom the springs are prominently unleashed. And the blades of the Hellenic time mill”
Chapter *** II
Vas Auric / Rhodes
Hex Birthright in Hallenika
rcmpencil Feb 2016
the word has been hackneyed
it has been for decades, centuries, millenia, lifetimes
you, I, they, we all sought its taste
we craved for the unquantifiable
difficult to understand
generates expectation
invites all the pain there is
common sense becomes uncommon

what is it, anyway?
why do you need it?
why do I or they or we all want it?
its host would not be fed because of it
most do not become any smarter because of it

just like your preferred matters
it is best when brand new
like most edible favorites
poisonous when aged
strikes us when least expected
diminished judgment then becomes vogue
sooner or later you become ugly - inside and out

think before you want it
think before you crave it
think before you look for it
think again before you think you need it
think hardest - before you take **it
-rcmpencil-
e Jul 2014
Sometimes you don’t know why you gravitate towards certain people. It’s unquantifiable, something intangible. Like the way they smile and what was once gloomy suddenly seems light and airy. Or maybe when you see their name on your phone, you can’t seem to answer it fast enough. Perhaps they just fill your heart with colours that don’t exist. And when they leave all you can do is trace the outline of the human figure that used to fill that void within your soul. So don’t let them leave. Be the reason they wake up every morning…even if they don’t know it yet.

— The End —