1
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

                              2
The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

                          3
To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

                    4
The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

                        5
Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

                          6
Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

                 7
The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

                  8
Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…

They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen

peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack

folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy

The Butterfly Wallows

Black petals of goodbyes embellished the ground
The pinkness goes away as the sun is setting
light begins to disappear as it is drowned
The tides show no chance of forgetting
When you flew away beyond where I can be
The heat of the cold  appeared  
As the darkness washes over the blue sea
Every speck of existence has been cleared
Longing for the light to be spared
But the Fates have cut the thread
The flowing streams show who cared
Now there is a heavy heart of lead

Nostalgia for the past settles in
When reality begins to show
The sun burnt out before all could begin
And now my precious gem doesn’t glow
A symbol of love hides in the trees
Bringing the longing for the drums beat
But what still exists are the memories
Back when the bitter world was sweet
In the two blue seas it is easy to get lost
And the warmth steals all five senses
The music melted all the frost
Never anything ever tenses

Frolicing in the vibrantly colored meadows
All alone surrounded in undying love
Where benign words of eternity echoes
As a gentle touch is all that was thought of
The butterflies dance with the sun shining down
With fading light a  passionate rendezvous takes place
Bringing the wistfulness where  she is to drown
Getting lost in the stars of the alluring face  
Together the symbol of love is embedded in the tree
The symbol of infinity following
Unknowing of what the ending would be
The butterfly wouldn’t be saved from wallowing

It feeds and grows within the host;
It stretches the skin and swells the belly;
It dwells as warm as buttered toast,—
This toothless pulp of genes and jelly.
It soils the lair in which it lives
And wallows there within the waste;
And not a single **** it gives
That *** is an ever-present taste.
It sickens her and spends her strength
And causes her, the host, dismay,
Till it outgrows its den at length
And exits in a dreadful way.
And where the creature takes its leave
Is almost too terrible to believe.

O.O

For what event shall lead
And what event will follow
That the mockingbird song consist
Of only its own joy and wallows?

Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Shall it disappear for its false ownership?
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Shall it grow louder in the ears of those who trained it?

If the mirror no longer had light or we no vision
Would it become of life? Grow a soul to show?
And if the mockingbird had no ears or we no sound
Would it learn its own voice? Gain an identity other than our own?

For what event shall lead
And what event will follow
That the mockingbird song consist
Of only its own joy and wallows?

Show him his blood born to imitate
Show him his colors false to himself

Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Deathly that it see itself
Will it disappear?
If existence is to plagiarize words
And existence was of one alone
Vanish- will existence?
Or become a spirit of its own?

the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in  his dripping shoes
and peel back skin

wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill

pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts

cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan

easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Tho’ fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail,
Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!”
Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
“To arms!” cried Mortimer, and couched his quiv’ring lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o’er cold Conway’s foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe
With haggard eyes the Poet stood;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air)
And with a master’s hand, and prophet’s fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
“Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave
Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath!
O’er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day,
To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.

“Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue,
That hushed the stormy main;
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail;
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries—
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with ****** hands the tissue of thy line.

“Weave, the warp! and weave, the woof!
The winding sheet of Edward’s race:
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year and mark the night
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkley’s roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

“Mighty victor, mighty lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o’er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
That, hushed in grim repose, expects his ev’ning prey.

“Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight ****** fed,
Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame,
And spare the meek usurper’s holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o’er the accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

“Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track that fires the western skies
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia’s issue, hail!

“Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line:
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attempered sweet to ****** grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heav’n her many-coloured wings.

“The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskined measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud,
Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?
Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see
The diff’rent doom our fates assign.
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care;
To triumph and to die are mine.”
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward’s race.
  Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkley’s roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
  She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
  From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heav’n. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

  Mighty Victor, mighty Lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
  No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o’er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
  Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

  Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare;
  Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
  Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
  A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
  Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
  Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way.
  Ye Towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight ****** fed,
  Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame,
And spare the meek usurper’s holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
  Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled boar in infant-gore
  Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o’er th’ accursèd loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

  Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)
  Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)

Mind - tripping eyes subconsciously getting lost in grandfather clock.
Thoughts frolicking through fields that time could never stop.
From a lotus flower shinning bright from rejuvenation.
Born to all things new, putting the past in stagnation.
No matter the hardship, there's never a need to let petals start wilting over time elapsed.
Grandfather clock never stops, there's only so much vitamin d the day allows to grasp.
From this it's learned we must water our own apple blossom, one commonly missed,
As we search for the perfect bouquet of eternal bliss.
Yet it projects good fortune and releases hopeful vibes.
Grandfather clock couldn't let memory forget it, even if it were tried.
Apple blossom in hand, into daisy fields memory wallows about.
Holding tightly to what’s left of innocence, youth cannot run out.
What a gentle smell carried through the breeze, the sun with warmth to share.
When grandfather clock strikes a certain time, reflections will take me there.
When time is due, a valley is to be embraced.
Within which lay a single lily, in which happiness is grace.
Grace can be given all around, especially to those closest.
Even when you’re the only bud bloomed, the only lily floating on the surface.
In fact, the lily of the valley is grandfather clock’s key.
The only one to break through the surface; the code to set time free.
With not much else around, we work with what we’ve got.
But happiness doesn’t exist so give it another shot.
Happiness is something we must create; our own bouquet of eternal bliss.
So as grandfather clock tics & tocks…. tic…. tock…
I toss a single black rose at twelve on the dot…time stops.
Farewell may be forthcoming, but rebirth has already been assumed.
Thanks to you my bouquet has been created, my blissful soul has bloomed.

These Great Reviver’s wild reforms
Now sound like all Hot Air,
Narendra Modi’s new India
Still bogged down in despair.
Shinzo Abe’s revised Japan
Still wallows to stagnate
And China’s Xi Jinping’s grand scheme
Continues to deflate.
Collectively they stumble
In their plans to stimulate
Asia’s great economies…..
But have failed to shut the gate
On the Shadow Banking industry,
Their vague structural reform
And the fossilized grey politics
Which resemble, now, the norm.
Rhetoric is their keynote here
Real action’s in decline
With their mandate clearly squandered
There’s A BIG CRASH DOWN THE LINE!

M.
Auckland
23 August 2014

Creaking and cracking,
shaking and rattling,
the skeleton follows.

Hanging like a shadow,
or like a dead man in the gallows,
the skeleton follows.

With a blank expression,
that's quite frankly depressing,
the skeleton follows.

Just a memory,
of what I use to be,
the skeleton follows.

It aimlessly wallows,
with a body that's hollow,
the skeleton follows.

Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
            Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
            He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
            To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
            And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
            Filled with red wallows of
            Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.

He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…

No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.

He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody.  He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.

Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.

You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.

He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
  throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.

“Perfect,” Karmen replied to herself as if she never laid eyes on such a cowardly man.

But what else was she to feel while the Ethanol streamed down towards her liver as the dusk struck the perfect night. The bench sat perfectly empty with beat up metal and delicate yet fearful drops of God created sorrow. Perfect hazel eyes frantically reached across nameless disasters. Searching to find herself, a young girl. What makes a young girl? Stripped innocence gazes at the stars dead along the disappeared past childhood.

"Bees don't cling to their hives anymore, why? Why aren't the bees scared of losing their survival? Should I not care about dying? I don't. I never will. The strength of infatuation was too strong for me, too strong for me to break away from. He killed me perfectly. Why am I shivering? I feel his perfect arms. I feel his touch, but he is gone. Long gone. The bowling ball missed the pins, it turned the wrong direction and now he's gone. His assuring hands ripped away from my reminisce as the hurricane of my tears wallows from the fear of never being able to be held again," she slurs to herself thinking maybe someone will listen to what she has to say. But no one does, no one’s there.

Sip. Sipping. She poured the empty flask down her throat holding back the burning sensations of love. Love doesn't exist. It's the thought of love that rushes in between her sight. Her blurred sight, that is never quite truthful. Every anger was perfectly misplaced and hazel eyes knew waking up had become overrated. Broken eggshells consistently crack and the ice was now too thin to walk upon. Lust. What was the feeling of peace?

“Perfect,” Karmen repeats the flowing expression over and over hoping it means something more.

Drawn between the next bottle and last bottle shattered, Karmen rests somewhat patiently for her uneasiness to pass. February was coming to its clutches and composure was in the wind.

“My mother, I am not her. I can’t be. I won’t be. Pathetic, perfect pathetic pity. I pity the part of myself that carries her such demeaning qualities. The apple dropped from the aged tree and leaped, but it fell back, fell back with enmity and defeat,” contemplating reasoning to her calamities, Karmen won’t take the blame for herself.

It has now been two years since her mother had passed. Two years since she drank herself to death. A perfect death for an alcoholic. A perfect moment for Karmen to be selfish and make the death about herself. Her mother always needed a miserable man to perfect her endless time. Karmen has recently felt the same need for perfection. It fades. Fades perfectly out of conscious.  

“One more is forever one more, and two more is too many. When is enough, enough? Does being satisfied actually even exist?” the questions drained like a pipeless sink and Karmen was left to sympathize her own decisions.

The suffocating night seemed ceaseless. Where was the closure? Where was the desire to move on? Where was the perfectly naive girl that expected more in happiness? Everything was transformed in that instance. Her witty smile and her hazel eyes, they turned to dust. Dust that held her sense of relevance.  It was all perfectly unsound and no one was there to recognize such defeat. Karmen took her final sip as her veins filled up with cheap fulfilling ***** and she was gone. Long gone. Gone with the bowling ball that steered the wrong direction. She wasn’t going to let the miserable men control her existence, she wasn’t going to be her mother. But oh how the tables have turned and it seems as if the irony killed Karmen herself. With her final perfect sip, she blinked her hazel eyes one last time.

“Cold, cold is the source of all pain and loyalty. It reaches its peak and then it dies along with the soul,” Karmen’s voice whispered as it faded out with her blurred eyesight.

She was her mother. Karmen was the perfect image of her mother. Karmen lived the perfect death of an alcoholic and held the perfect selfishness of one too many sips. She lived the resentment she carried and tore at the seams. Birds only chirp as loud as their highest pitch, and Karmen had simply dealt the only deck of cards she knew how to. The perfect ace that finalized the straight flush of her own savaged childhood.

Where you see weeds,
I see blooming trees.
Old flowers,
new leaves.

Buried by drifts of snow,
yet something beckons them to grow.

The transforming seed
stretches
with a desire to breathe.

What do you see?
Grave of the dead?
or tomorrow’s flower bed?

Death comes
and death goes,
yet the crazy daisy’s
wild roots never froze.

Somewhere, within her,
the plan was already seeded.
The simple truth?
The light was all she really needed.

This law paralyzed her with desire,
to see nothing but nature’s unseen fire.

She laid and she wait
as the bitter winds blew.
But in all of the darkness,
nothing from her grew.

Do you believe in time and in fate?
She pondered as she lay and wait.

In her shell, she is saved.
What lays beyond, may leave her graved.

Is there such a thing as better tomorrows?
She wallows,
wading,
in the mud of her endless sorrows.

She did not,
could not,
fully understand:
the price that must be paid
in order to be grand.

As a seed,
she thought she knew.
She had something left,
yet to do.

It required her break to her very core,
in the hopes of be coming some thing far more.

She emerged from her old,
cold,
worn shell,
seeking the warmth and comfort
of a new place to dwell.

She must give one last, epic fight.
Squaring off,
this time, on the side of sunlight.

"Make like a bandit
and run from your cell!
Never look back
and you’ll never fail."

She solely set sight
on its’ captivating rays.
Gleaming and unfolding
to enjoy the beautiful days.

In this attempt,
her core begin to extend.
Allowing her to appreciate,
and bask in all the sun had to send.

Standing tall and growing crazed,
she basks in the fragrance of the cold, passing days.

She heard all the stories
every leaf had to tell.
Even if it was true,
that to their grave
they eventually fell.

She tried with all her might.
The seed saw it through.
With diligence and perseverance,
so could you.

Although at times,
I know it’s difficult to see.
When going through a change,
the truth will eventually set you free.
{even if it feels a little strange}
When these changes do arise,
there’s always a brighter side.
Your time in darkness makes you wise,
if you choose to enjoy the ride.

You are the delicate flower.
Take your time,
to truly understand
your heart’s eternal fire,
buried deep under the sand.

Then set foot to build your tower,
to match your own deeply rooted desires.

Become the beautiful
delicate
flower.

*

But nonetheless,
The seasons will change,

Always remember, September,
and there must always be December,
along with many April’s rains.

And as the seed,
before it can bloom;
you as well,
will see many
hours of gloom.

mKp (3/24)

He's tiger eyed
He's lion hearted, he's wolf spirited - so mysterious
Serious Black couldn't be more devious

Genius as a genie in a bottle, their wish is to follow
No wallows in sorrow, not a bottle swallowed
The boy shined so bright, ever wonder where the stars go?
He shouted in San Diego, they heard him up in Chicago

He goes maps edge to chase what he's pursuing
Viewing his world that they ruined, he knew it could never be new again

Old is his soul but is fresh as the meat to these vultures
War in his peace is the key to his sculpture

Pulse no longer lasts, nothing left in his mass
Fast to the black, left only legacy to pass

Darkness wallows in the deep
It chains him to his empty keep.
And fighting, struggling to break free
The darkness comes to swallow he.

More he swallows, less he knows
A blizzard of sadness in his mind snows.
Bent and broken, defeated, sad
Stopped with cold, his mind goes mad.

Once upon a well worn tale
A hero ran a broken trail.
The road was long, no end in sight
And the hero succumbed to the night.

Darkness wallows deep inside
Where there is no place to hide.

Alone.
She eats alone,
She sleeps alone,
She breathes alone,
She sings along,
She draws alone,
She writes alone,
she thinks alone,
she worries alone,
she cries alone,
she screams alone,
she controls her frustration alone,
she fixes her own problems alone,
.
.
But she does not smile alone.
She does not smile at all, really.
She is alone in every way.
Crowded rooms pushing her
this way and that,
but all the same
she is still alone.
She hides,
alone,
from the friends who ask her to come out.
For the dreaded fear of being alone in a crowd
is far worse than simply being alone
in the safety of one's lonely abode.
.
She has always been alone.
She is alone.
She will alway she will always be alone.
She is used to being forgotten,
to not being noticed,
and she has adapted.
Now that she is older,
she simply doesn't know what to do with herself.
She knows she is alone
and sometimes that is why her heart aches.
That is why her body twists and turns
and tears begin to flow
even though she did not mean too.
She knows she is alone,
truly, she likes to be alone.
Alone she cannot bother anyone,
she cannot hurt anyone,
make mistakes,
or even have a chance to be forgotten.

But sometimes the knowing that she is alone,
sometimes it hurts.
Sometimes she curls in a ball
in a dark room
while the house is empty
and she wallows.
She does not cry,
she simply sits.
Curled up in the frightful misery
that she may not like to be alone.
She knows she likes to be alone,
that things are simple that way
and it frees her of worry,
but sometimes these horrid thoughts
slip in through the cracks of the walls
she has built up so sturdy.
Sometimes those thoughts pull her
and tell her that she should talk to someone.
Tell them that she is hurting,
that she is in pain,
that something it wrong but she doesn't know what.
But then she runs and plugs the holes
because she knows that being alone is how she MUST be.

She writes a poem,
now and then,
and though it is just a few words,
she will sit in the dark,
typing away
with the light from her laptop screen
twinkling into the tears streaming down her face.
Poems make it easy,
writing down words make it easy to remind her
that even if she didn't want to be alone,
no one would want her.
So it's better that she wants to be forgotten.
It saves her from all the chances she has to be hurt.

Hurt like she used to be hurt.
Physical,
Mental,
the little girl who would hop out her window
after blocking her door
as she runs from a man who wants to leave more bruises.

The little girl who would wake up with ****** hands
because she was not allowed to show how she really felt when she was awake,
so her body would scream for help in her sleep
and leave the walls by her bed ******.

The little girl who was loud and opinionated,
who was told that it wasn't okay
told that she shouldn't speak.

The little girl whose best-friend told a lie,
and left the little girl alone.

The little girl who stopped having birthdays
because she did not deserve the attention
or the presents.

The little girl who was left alone too often.
The little girl who played by herself...
She became an older girl who was much the same.
At night the walls are clean but Bruxism
leaves her head foggy
and throbbing
each morning.
An older girl who maintained friends
but would spend the weekends in her room,
alone.
The girl who wouldn't open presents
or have herself celebrated in anyway.

She became an older girl
whose only wish,
was to make others happy,
even if it meant that she wasn't.

short-sighted vision
complacency
a dangerous choice.
prototypes in my mind
fill the vacancy
fill the silence.
silence the needs
pretend like i die tomorrow
but live like i died today.
motivation for desire
stays and wallows
in it's comfortable rut.
change clings to
concentric circles.

Ghosts hide behind her eyes
Joyfully burning in violet flames
They make her chest quake
And her hips shimmy-shake
As she tosses and turns in her sleep

In the morning she bursts into the daylight
Fleeing the urgent shadows of the night
And spins into the wind
Which dances around her body
And wishes it weren’t invisible
As it glides across her skin

She wallows amidst the verdurous grass
Bathing in the eager warmth of the sun
That permeates her sheath of clothes
To the soft shimmer of flesh underneath
Her dark curtain of lashes flutters then closes
As she breathes deeply while her mind floats elsewhere

She dreams of lace around her wrists and
Rubies falling from her fingertips
She wears a mollifying grin
On her tender strawberry lips
Surrendering to the rapture within

The earth splits open
It craves to reclaim her
In all her ripe and resplendent glory
Her fingers curl themselves in the dirt

Violet eyes fly open
A fierce gnawing hunger
Has been ignited in the pit of her belly
There is a pomegranate tree in the distance
Its branches heavy and voluptuous with fruit
On lithe legs she dashes to the tree
Plucking one gently from its cradle

Once broken open
Its swollen vermilion seeds gush forth
To fall about her feet
With a sigh she bites into the milky white meat
Sticky sweet juice cascades past her lips
And along the curve of her throat to tinge the skin pink
She is filled to the brim
Inflamed and engorged

She blushes
And lets the ravished pomegranate tumble to the ground
There is laughter on the wind

Deconstructing a Kafkaesque
amphitheatre of the absurd,
Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy,
Son of a gun grabbed on
to the gold that fed his infant
self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever,
Dev breaks the bottle he hits,
scrounges, discards the last scrap,
the rat scurries in, devours, heads
back into the smoked corridor,
the auction goes on, so does he
showering petals and pity upon the
middle road more travelled, bumpy,
potholes full of acid and bile,
the stupidity of the tyrannical majority
and an underwater civilisation consumed
by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV,
undercurrents of power drowned under.
Uppercase Him, uppercase He,
they hoist a red flag, set it afire,
stomp out the flames, wave a black
rag till the ashes turn to naught,
the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed,
spew, *****, spew, repeat.
The voyeuristic rat has front row seats
gaze fixed, piercing centrestage
auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night,
the bids shall resume when
the morning bells toll, till then,
Dev's hungry for more,
the rat enjoys the show.

Life is not worth living without love.
We squander our lives, yet search for substance belligerently.
The world wallows in indulgence, hunting for some sweet ecstasy.
Desire situated in our hearts for a thing extravagant.
What’s in a name? Not known in full, not yet complete.
Abandoned innocents, love pledged ‘until death do part’ reveals not faithful.

Is there another dirt road? An alleyway? More faithful
than the sun to go west-bound, love?
Does such simplicity exist? Revived, whole, complete?
Cries lift and salt-stained drops fall belligerently.
What is assuredly, magnanimously extravagant?
What is the original ecstasy?

Was it walking in the garden with you, this ecstasy?
With you, who, to me, is perpetually faithful?
Is it from you that that bliss bubbles over, so extravagant?
Of you, is there an undeniable, unfathomable fountain of love?
We bawl out for reply, until the abdomen aches, so belligerently.
Scars mark this world from its pursuit of the complete.

Peering through the mist, our knowledge is six feet underneath complete.
Redemption, we learn by stumbling, is the finest ecstasy.
On our toes, the paroxysm. We press in belligerently.
To raze and desolate, the swing of the wrecking ball is faithful.
But countering this, a sloppy, passionate kiss of love,
grace so abundant, so extravagant.

Trust steady, hope unswerving, love extravagant,
will be my three until the steam is wiped from my lens in the hour of the complete.
Deeply grasp though, the best of these is love,
from which comes all and any ecstasy.
Know that from the ants to the mountains, He is faithful.
So seek and swallow with all your might, desperately, belligerently.

Therefore, “what do I live for?” ask yours belligerently.
Dwell not in leisure and comfort, but in the painfully extravagant.
Zoom out, turn the merry-go-round. You will find him faithful.
Shake your tree of knowledge, an apple might fall, find yourself not complete.
If you speak silence, you will find no utterance of ecstasy.
I call upon the name, let be known this love.

The sweet surrender, the blissful brokenness, the captivating complete.
Find your absolute identity in this encompassing ecstasy.
Know that what has been done for you, is what is indeed, love.

Forget the school children
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Or the 1,000,000 dead in Vietnam;
60,000 dead in Iraq;
30,000 and rising in Afghanistan.

How many by our proxies
in El Salvador, Nicaragua,
Guatemala, Chile?

Forget the millions dead
in nameless civil wars
or of preventable
poverty and disease
in various hell-holes
around the globe.

The rest of the world
may be sorry,
but not shocked:
they have come to know
the smiling murderers
we have become.

20 dead of madness
in Connecticut
and the US wallows
in drivel, kitsch,
hollow words,
self-pity, and
media frenzy.

A little arrogance here?

Oh, we love our kids,
(just no one else's),
so let's put black ribbons
on our cars
and call that enough.

Again, the culture
of selfishness, greed,
shallowness
and patriotic stupidity
rears its
predictable head.

No country that murders
the world's children
with a shrug
should be surprised
when that violence
turns inward.

"I am Vishnu
Destroyer of worlds
My name is Death"

You can't have it
both ways.

"We must love one another
or die."

   mce

Seems to me that the man who doesn't Shine his Shoes,    Might Not have remembered to change His Socks !    If you only half-way stop at the Stop sign,   Must you also wait for the light to turn Fully Green, Before you GO ?    Do Ants really like being in OUR company...OR..do they  Simply like the trails We leave?    If streets are paved to keep down the Dust,    Does that mean there's never any Dirt on our Vehicles!   Since cars have battery operated Starters,   Should Humans have to be Plugged in overnight ?    If Floss is used to clean between our teeth,   Would it be better to do it More Often,  So as to have a Better taste for things ?    Some folks sing out Loud with Joy,  Some folks show their Joy in their Face,  Some in their talk,   some in their habits,  some in their attitude.....WHAT is Seen in Their Mirrors ??     If a Road Hog wallows in Width,  does that mean we should dig Deeper to keep from falling into Pits ?    If Truth is seen in the Light,  How long of an extension cord should WE carry around ?     If DUST is something to come from,   It's sure nice to know,  that You've got something firm to stand  on!    Was that Wind blowing thru my hair,   OR was I just running to Fast ?       Aha,  there's a bench,  I'll sit down and wait for you.    Looking forward to that LONG Chat ,  Aren't YOU ??

Twenty strolls by the canal
out without followers
,pleasant by night
walk slow and  around
fast thoughts
changing fireflies with the mouth
while angst wallows out with the wind
by the shore sifting every other passer this way
who never wanted life beyond a couple years
,except
we all just have dreams
and mine
are all eyes to Moloch now
for he streams dark giants
and quiet interplay with water-lights
and I am brought to tears
If I could...for every ****-off,
misfit, and geek
chasing trains past bedtime
and seeing green in society’s streets
just tapping steps in the dirt
who cared none
about father’s scrutiny,
who worried less
confronted in the night
with all ceaseless
horror and inviting fear

It's here,
Across her gaze.
Under the flora,
The grey grim murk on the perch.
The swallow song no longer heard
Over rap-racket from the stereo,
Hardening ear lobes.

It's here,
In the shallow pits of the room,
Where one wallows in part-pity
And shameful surrender
To the mic’s mild embrace.

It's here,
Hiding in the hollow,
Glaring wistfully into nothingness,
Gliding in undulating vistas
Across light and dark
In the dark and light of head-space.

I hold the rim of the coffee cup,
Clasping tightly until it drops
On her clammy clad,
The iris eyes me dangerously.

My final resignation.

Now I am here.

he wallows in the slop,  
seemingly unable to stop  
alliteration is his biggest sin  
grimly gripping grand and grotesque lines alike
rhythm and rhyme are somewhere  
deep in the heap of crap
he cranks out  

similes are his favorites
but parsimonious as desert dew
when he hunts for one
that's new

metaphors bounce beyond
his reach, on harder ground  
than the pen he shares with hogs
doubtless the domain of dogs  
far bigger than he

Can't believe my eyes
But still nature can  surprise
I might be thinking like a fool
But honestly there is a whale in the pool
But how then can this be
We're more  than 30 metres from the sea
And there are no whales round Malta
So this ones compass is out of kilter
But now to my surprise
It's a man who wallows to the side
Stomach saving to his knees
It bounces when he has to sneeze

Honestly,  I really did think it was a whale

In a world of tree bark and sand stone
she was silk.
Where others croaked and barked
her voice caressed. Where they lumbered along
with pounding footsteps
her feet ghosted o’er the ground.
Their age is painted on their skin
in wrinkles, spots, and scars while
she reflected newborn innocence.
They grapple, she embraced.
They bellow, she chimed.

Around her the brown,
the grey,
the worn and weary,
the walking dead
swayed like crumbling monuments
lit only by her glow.

But in a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk cannot last.

Her voice, so soft and quiet
below their din grows hoarse
as she fights to be heard. She loses
her footing as the ground
shakes with their steps and learns
to keep their time
just so she might stay up
right. In their pain she wallows,
frown lines slowing eroding her as
the sorrow sets in.

She learns to match their strength.
Her laughter is drowned in their cries.

In a world of tree bark and sand stone,
silk gets caught, gets pulled.
Strands are ripped and unraveled,
the pieces are trampled,
covered.

The lingering rags falls to the ground,
forgotten but for the memory that once
their was something beautiful
where they lie.

monsters call to themselves
and breezes eat the stones
a blue moon
sheds the underworld
of thought and time
it wallows in a pink sea
where out of the depths
his words like blown
cherry blossoms come
and a little bird finds
his pool of dreams
the birthing pool of ideas
then she is gone
flying under a soft
Columbian sky
growing hope, after him
whose creations and distractions
are the processes
that are necessary to show
the true feelings
hidden beneath the surface of things
where there is an endless combat
a struggle between darkness and light
the emotional duality of life
between that which is
and that which
has already been
for this is a place of images
images built upon images
constructed upon layers
and layers of so much paint
and you ask yourself ( without much insistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a lifetime
In memory of Gabriel García Márquez

The relaunches of the feet begin. The twelve Gigas camels stand up, with their even fingers; they would begin to detach with their ungulate nails the fat deposits of the six remaining camels. They ripped the epidermis with their nails to pour out the oil and grease lamps that they would need to distribute the Full Moon on each palm of each component. The moon was festive, he walked everywhere and he imagined himself in the court of King David, lethargic in his cubicles at the first light of the second dream of the morning. Undivided walked in procession through the source of the change in the socio-religious paradigm that held them together, they were Raeder and Petrobus, Alikanto with a golden mount on his small back, the Lepidoptera, bumblebees, bees and wasps, they walked silently and on tiptoe over the first level of wet wind at dawn, many of them alighted on the backs of the immune camels, to advance with them to the starting point of restored Gethsemane.
In their phylogeny they collaterally impute the taxonomy that belongs to the camelid genus, which is a taxonomic category that is located between the Judah family and the Middle East in the buried ecclesiastical species; thus a genus of a group of organisms is favored that in turn can be divided into several species. They, being strictly herbivorous, the musculature differs from other ungulates, since the legs are attached to the body only in the upper part of the thigh, instead of being connected from the knee upwards by skin and muscle, therefore they will be made very easy to connect with the flying insects so you don't have to kneel. While the six that sectioned the deposits of the other six, they will remain stationed and operated, until their superficial wounds heal, before leaving for the port of Jaffa. On this long journey until dawn they must remain standing on their foot pads, to resist the final farewell rite of the twelve caverns, when they leave the placental sites that they had developed with the Primogeniture to empower the vestigial area of the rescued Aramaic word. This will be to grant and scale the prosperity of having the signs of vitality intertwined, with each reminiscence of the calls and responses of the messages for the "Propitius This Humanity" that is projected in the secular future. This will be generated by external stimulus each time the intention to communicate with the ceremonial of existence - life - deaths - fullness is presented, thus the voice of the greatest incisive devotional forces will resemble, grabbing or grasping the smallest voices that may even be overlooked or misunderstood when the Golden Gate of Jerusalem opens.

From the top very high you can see the Gigas species walking with six chandeliers, these species wade with their artiodactyl locomotion, towards a fluctuation on the flames of the chandeliers towards the rock of the Mashiach. While the other camels were recovering from their wounds, they looked with their serene and very alert eyes for the proselytizing nunciature that channeled the reactions of the Hexagonal Progeny, thus being absolved from the commitment of the prayers for the new set with the atmospheric ordering ceremony. in Gethsemane with the voices of the Messiah, with the frame, volume, and reverberation to flood with light and sounds in all geographic areas that have not had a subscription. While the Gigas trod the grounds with their ungulate nails, Vernarth and Alikanto, Saint John the Apostle, King David, Eurydice, Raeder, and Petrobus (The Hexagonal Primogeniture), took solemn vows before such an episode. It was just a short time before dawn and even the moon disputed with other stars to shine more for such a great event…., As is surprising, at the moment that everything would seem of stillness and the gestation of winged embryos, appearing from the top of the Olivos Berna , near the Cherubim. They came with the Mashiach, which brought them charitable news ..., he could be seen in a deep field, in two points of clarity of his white robe, full of golden and blue lace ... with Lepidoptera around the ..., and by the contour flowing the celestial radiosities - crimson.

Meshuva White Mantle

Descending through the foliage of the lighted and previously illuminated olive trees on the northeast ***** of the orchard, the Cherubim and Archangel Michael and Gabriel came with the decided parallelism of sixfold the interpretation manifested by the lepidoptera, in order to consolidate the institution on the north side of Gethsemane. as a sanctified area of Aramaic prayer and devotion, of absolute naturalization of classification of the Cherubim and Lepidoptera as winged tetra and cultivators of the phylogenetic transmission of the pollen-garden on the opening of the gynoecium of the Olive Tree Bern, in the Valley of Olives, and the taxonomic choice in the hierarchical order of the species and the geo-referencing of the aerosismic corridor and the narrow passage between Bethhelem and Getsemaní.

On the tops of the olive trees were the Cherubim and the Lepidoptera, they fluttered through the flowery branches intertwined with the Messiah's tunic that had been descending with an accent of Torah grace, then light of pre-dawn fireflies re-blooms on his face ..., they brought a million beams of another thousand beam groups to be born among the first lights of the day. The Lepidoptera ascended by oval interval and in a spiral path through the petiole until the fifth generation of  Rapa or Eskimo of forty flowers, with four white petals in phylogenetic synchrony with the Cherubim and Lepidoptera with four elemental portions, to deliver the fundamental membrane that will generate the physiognomy of the Messiah between the transposed and rosy ruddy lights of the Messiah's face, with the cross-shaped texture of themselves, on his shoulders of Capernaum dew. The Esquimo, or the flowers would grow in clusters of between ten to forty flowers in perfect series, depending on the variety, each flower would also have four white petals, a bit pulpy, facing in a symmetrical cross, the flower will bring in the center a yellow-orange hue of an arboreal sphinx that would fill with clusters that will gradually transform the appearance of the oily tree, giving white brushstrokes to the olive grove before stinging looks of gallantry. Each flower will dine on its captive pollen for about a week so that the flowering phase of the olive trees will become before a short duration, but of a messianic period with the cyclical lives of its Syriac Aramaic poetics. The female and hermaphroditic caste will bring you the biblical universal pollen, with quivering stamens and overloaded pistils traveling more than nine and a half kilometers from Bethlemem of the “Kafersuseh” to the orchard. Before the majestic pollination, the archangels Michael and Gabriel will invade two percent of the gynoecium of the flowers, giving way to the Meshuva White Mantle, full of white apotheosis petals. Vernarth rushes to the ground and wallows between the petals, filling his entire body and face with thousands of them, many of them being transfigured into the oily fruit of the Universe palate between the ring finger and the index finger with an accent of Purification of the Mikveh, floating like a neutron orbit of Life and Micro Universe only to be ecstatic with the presence of the Messiah in his white robe of petals. Coming down with tassels of Petals of Berne on his robe alba, the Mashiach rushes to Vernarth, takes it and says to him secretly:

Mashiach: “Only you…, in each one of these white cells you are…, and in which you are not, in my memory is reborn as the fruit of the Bern Olive Tree. On the top of this species I heard your prayer, I know who you are and gratitude for resisting this lymphoma so nobly, I took it out of your soul when it was confused with the fresh breeze of the grass that the fungi of pain feed. Immerse yourself in this Mikveh of columns of white petals of Bern, here the voices and words of Aramaic, will run in a row to the right, to **** white in my thoughts of the Gospel, with your miraculous grace when returning to me John the Apostle being exiled by Domitian. Come to me walking on this unleavened bread with Bern olive elixir and let us drink Hanukka wine and its vital dawn that boils with every sip of the glandular thymus and of your aching chest. I am tired I come from far away, but I have taken this road from Emmaus to get you up. Get up and come to My Vernarth ”.

Vernarth erects his purified column with the petals emulating the Mikveh "Purification", he predisposes himself to the Holy path of the Meshuva "Return to God". Thus from today Vernarth is born and revives to continue his journey back to Patmos.

Mashiach says: “The reason for the naive wayward will **** them, and the complacency of fools will destroy them. Your own wickedness will correct you, and your apostasies will rebuke you; know, then, and see that it is bad and bitter so that you abandon the Lord your God, and the fear of me is not in you”

Vernarth says: “We will be loyal and under these lush trees Bern, I will proclaim to the north deciding; May we lead to merciful fidelity and we will all declare it together! We know that you, my Lord, will heal us of our infidelity that is why we have come here because you are our Lord God. "

Saint John the Apostle replies: “The lion, wolf, leopard, will **** us, destroy and tear us apart because transgressions and apostasies in great numbers have invaded…, my beloved Mashiach, we have already got rid of the deception and we want the Meshuva back to your ether of the desert accomplice, with the aromas of the flying insects that the Aramaic lexicons bring us from Kafersesuh, to re-graft them into the eternity of your word that crosses the entire universe. The world has sinned against you, the apostasies are innumerable, and we are here to lovingly honor your name. So my people were determined to turn me away, although they call them to the Highest, none at all exalt Him. I will heal their apostasy; I will love them freely because my anger has turned away from them”

The Garden was eclipsed by the cardinal points, it was delineated by a Cherub from South to North, for the main border that passed through the zenith where the Mashiach would order the promontory of the rock dependent on the placental rocks, which coexist with the twelve inhabitants that They had been erected with their eyes closed and open by the light of Faith. The border that Vernarth and the Apostle saw it nominally, was connected with the new division of the world of the stagnant word, and in the new route it revived in a perfect cross of west to east, towards the paleo trill of the Palestinian Eagles loaded with incense and sawdust from cut olive trees, for the furniture that they used as input in the lavish displays of the Romans. The magnetic needle will fissure the back of each of the members, engraving the northern magnetic needle and inscribing the Greek micro prose "O Kýrios that epistrépsei se mas, tis rízes tou Kósmou, ópou krémetai ta skoupídia tou" (The Lord will return the roots of the World, where their concrete waste hangs). Then this voice takes from the vague state, aligning the northern excellence of the Messiah, together with the iron of the blood plasma of Vernarth and the Apostle, to be magnetized northward in the cardinal sublime magnetized.

Shemesh-Sun King order of cardinal parallelism is thus established; North: northern or boreal ruled by Vernarth and Apostle San Juan, South: Meridion or Austral by Etréstles and Eurydice, East: East, rising or rising ruled by Raeder and King David West: West or West. In this way, the insects and animals declaimed the sunrise from the Sun to the Levant before each cup of Chalice synchronous with the intercession of the cross, at the tangential of the horizontal that extends to the west, when both phases of the solar cycle are aligned with the departure of the Bread and the departure of the Messiah from his cloister time. The Alikantus and Petrobus animals will rule with the Northeast and Northwest, while the flying insects will rule the Southeast and Southwest.

Etymological Ellipsis of Ancient Norse Civilizations:

The east-west perimeter is considered as the abscissa axis in a geographic coordinate system, the ordinate axis would be described by the north-south line, which corresponds to the axis of earth rotation. This composition generates four ninety-degree angles that are in turn divided by the bisectors, generating northwest, southwest, northeast, and southeast. Thus the Rose of the Winds is demarcated by the Esquimo Olive´s flower in perfect harmony with the circumference of the horizon. This will attract the lines that intersect verbal and non-verbal, by the abscissa that delineates the guideline of the rock of the Messiah, overflowing with total generosity to shine the caves at dawn, to sprinkle the rays that they lack due to supposed static latitude. In order to parody the line of the lethality of the Nordic Gods, being tangential to this new alignment of the earth's axis and laterality coordination, and that only through the Apples of Asynjur can they hope to revive until the final destination of the Gods? This Norse parallelism goes back to us in the Vernarth Chapter II - War Animal in Tel Gomel, where Asgard is mentioned, which in Norse mythology is the one that is conceived on earth, and is a rainbow bridge, Bifrost, that connect with paradise. This etymology will cross the genesis of the plotline of the entire Hellenic epic in the first chapters until it is reiterated here in this Messianic epic, with the demarcation of the limits in Gethsemane, which marks the guideline that intersects the exact point of the Rock of Prayer Aramaic, for the diction of words and cosmogonic interrelationships of cultures and the sparkling use of atavistic language before the year 332 BC and even later, to be projected with the timeline of the regressive line of parapsychology after 1820, in the Spanish Revolution of this same work. This demarcation has intertextuality in the coordinates of time-history, to make this neo Gethsemane map the timelessness of the archaeo civilizations, which have cheered and prostrated all the cycles of life and death under the same cardinal laterality precept, acclaiming a God who flowed and created the North, even if he lives or dies, but if he wants to revive he will have to come to his threshold of quantum departure "The Garden of Gethsemane"