Marielle indicates: “Your luminosity, Copernicus vibrating in Giordano Bruno, expresses hypotheses that they revive to Quentinnais from the third hour, from here now I am hospitalized and without light to line the end where I will put my feet evasive. Raymond Bragasse is here where I met him, and I saw him with his holy rosary on his necklace, and on Andrés Panguiette's claw. That you grumble, they excommunicate my sentences, which are that of the rooster that becomes gentle in a Corso, Sardinian or Roman Praetorian, in the leap I relegate to San Gabriel, with its magical art that excites the retentiveness of Saint George. Under what science do they moderate me by joining you, or what century will intuit us with its own splendor, whose obscurantism under his revolution mutes anyone in the darkness of the cave of Dionysius. The divinity postpones itself, to leave its daily chores where souls fly daily ..., they do not stop leaving with their spoils after the fairies that fly to purgatory. But many have passed over me, and I was wondering where to find you, I never thought that I should fly over a swarm of wasps to reach your divine lair, full of regulatory darkness for those who live against the light, and of an Elizabethan garment that dismisses my ring, where Its natural original magic is isolated from our semi-alive body, with brittle Egyptian suns that redoubled where I had to wait for you at the Pentecost bench. What retarding essence dries up who does not show any vital or symbolic avital sign, where the rough cyclicality does not allow me to chastise my hair in any vanity for you. Oh that Moral spellings referring to my commendation, if it is not apostasy! What else would I dare to speak, through the sky flying away from the lunar books of Vivencia, where it is sent from its orbit towards the cosmos free of all and of all with Wonthelimar free of me, confined of Marielle. I know that I am analogous **** of the Libri Dei Viventi, perhaps sackcloths or coats have to be spun in Parnassus, to gird myself to myself, and not Marielle cloistered in her solitude, who does not receive the Vivendi torpor of her paradisiac sacrilege when seducing a supposed daughter of Hecate, fortunately, I have to guess with a swarm, and stay in the nets of your cave. With the stanza that is invested in rhetorical values, I go crazy for love to which I am conjured, but from Marielle now or in hundreds of years that pester on my sackcloth, which will never be used for the liturgy with you, if I revive in the crisis of resurrection in the arms of Saint George in the stained glass window in Avignon, and in his forearm that passes through the worst emotional crypts of my author.

As I have to contest hostile votes that are netted in the puritanism of those who only wear sackcloth in the unstitched Mausoleums of Quentinnais, and in the strident leaves that move elected in his advent, where the subclavian of Luzbel stands. Unanimous I have to dare by asininity ...! Moderating threads of horror and silver light, which revives us in the beasts and in their perches, ad libitum in the lattices where it emerges from the conspiracy of our tragedy. Oh, what an impetuous incarnation of the anti-Christian verb has to express itself in your incarnations of light and restless shadow, in the apse of the discanted in Avignon, and in the acroteria shadow, suffering from cowardice by not wanting to see me angelic, universal predisposition, just to know fit and what to say with your soul lineage and twin life, who only knows how to love you. Our reincarnations are rescued, now that we go to Patmos intimidated, in the sound of shining the veiled Vernarth, reprimanded in his acquiescent morality under his own law and his glasses, born from his rib that ends in the exception of a foul dialogue. It is premature for me to say what I do not have to write, but the particles slowly fall through the beam of their adjective essences, reshaping exterminated historiographies that want to make green, in colloquia that draw the eyes of whoever wants to blind the profane cult, absorbed in sallow particles in four sciences and elements… What unresolved probe and mass can strike your heart poured into you Wonthelimar? You know when we get to Profitis I will go holding your hand in the morning, to adore you and kneel down, we will deal with why we lost ourselves, and why the sun has not stained me with so much fury, carrying me burned in tongues of its consumptive and guttural infinity. After taking the hand of dawn, I will sue the impossible quagmire and its Áullos Kósmos, weakened by theoretical openness, lacking unity, but not far from my vanistory, nor from the sessile fluff of my hair, waiting for you with your stormy return to hold me. Ayia Lavra will declare war on the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, with solidity and sanctity that frees my chains in a single trident, paling in the rust of it, methodological treatise, and where the determination of veracity is annihilated.

Because I have to go to heaven when I want to offer myself to you, without any century that has received me with fewer wounds than those I had yesterday in its indolent septicemia, with miracles and incense burners that burn in imprecate, and provide a pagan theology of human filth. , not portraying biblical when your plurality dressed as a secular thirteenth, by referrals or Greco-Gallic that arise from the love that has no end or beginning in the autonomy of an incorruptible being, and even less when you wear sweets in its lavender lex. Genius Loci, or amplified reality, rather your idea of sticking with me when I have not been, and of attracting me when the future in the portal is made in the perfect symmetry of him, or whoever looms excited in his cabal. The body is no longer inscrutable, overworking with poetry to constrict my torn voice, running at great speed to seize the cosmetic that paints our faces, Selene and her luster aggravate punctuality and the status of science in creation. I have read volume VIII, and I saw that tears flowed by where I never thought ... !, for exchanges that marginalize an established authority, nor with more childish will I undone the garments of his self-description. Mime or jester in front of me in my catalog of the tragic actress with the anemic volume of her, pointing out uprisings in new waves, on seas that did not have them ..., loaded in new skeptical allegorical clouds, on truths that were already understood in the jealous name. It is incumbent on us to navigate with lamps that have to guide us through dark Ptolemaic hexahedra or henbane crusts, which do not manage to go over the sentry boxes of a divine gesture. How to dare to a final gesture of inflaming with you in factions and premises beyond an apocalypse, or of a Penelope that is gestated in a god, or becomes unknowable of a prevailing divine plan.

Charged with our dissidence, we will go far from the unknown burdens, that scripts are annexed in the new birth of our fiefdom and in their great expectation. Now four elytra have been born on my back, who hope to reveal to you the categories of the deleterious vanquished, reduced to only two Ptolemic emetics ..., you and I in a final judgment, which we already know well about, about the seventh eras that await us in the Southern Sporades, and in his final judgment in the eighth. O Jerusalem, I deprive my oldest sin by conceiving, but rather by confessing it with you. What insurgent dualism will make me get rid of myself and be reborn indestructible in its dizzying relish where the multi-chained temptation of redemption runs towards you? Wonthelimar…, I'm here, in this thunder slip writing for you. I have distanced my head united to yours so that it is not destroyed, for all thoughts, where although you are my diluted kingdom, I will beg You to leave me in the growing vertical anticipated flight from my body, but later in my consciousness which is what which will pre-exist with his Roman staff intertwining with his lusters, and in the syntagmas of Vernarth, which come from the Sporades of Patmos. As I honor and glorify Him in the southern part of him, my dear sackcloth has warmed away from my myopic eyes, already feeling your face breath on me, I will be able to vindicate narrated stories after we part before God!

don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)

am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024

mine own psalm musings

living between two broad, sea-emptying rivers,
a Majesty’s sentries to mark the differentiation~
division tween divine and a moderate human’s
moderating steps, as his stride shortens as the y/tears
lengthen, and it is accepted as an inevitable musky must,
no matter how the sweet spring day refreshes, the newly
planted trumpeting shards of bright yellows daffodils
pinch his yellowing eyes, few notice the tiny tears of
discrepancies of an annualized emboldening, a grand
heavenly rebirth and a slow man’s body self~editing,
shedding of a life’s~ending~of~story psalm musings

the man looks for the terrible swift sword, but its
failure to grace us with an appearance, is but a
modest disappointment, for a deferred delay is but
a causation to eke out a few mordant, pungent, caustic
reminders of all that is yet to be, to be accomplished,
though the smirking lips of the necessity of yet, one
more unloved poem extant, tilting the Earth’s axis
benevolently toward the open palms of his beneficiaries who,

you,

are among them numbered, is but, a green shoot in a city’s
hopeful earth planted, by summer, will shed seeds to come
thy way, as an evocation, a good consternation, a joyous
provocation, an asking kingly~gentle, a royal polite inquiry,
would you care to add a a verse to this eternal verse?
before time shreds it too into a yellowed crumpling,
and to the earth it is returned, for the mine of this
psalms is only generic, genetic,  and what is mine is well,

and truly yours too.


nml
<>
March 31, 2024
NYC
9:16am
Sunday Mourning Service

severed , fish on the block
head I sit
ripe as a two year old egg
shelled
bitter as vinegar mixed with jack
Black stirred into a margarita and two shots of
house bourbon a beeker  of *** two
fingers of peepermint schnapps
and a handi-wipe
for a napkin
moderating an argument between this big woman
and a bear of a man  
about the rules of pool
whether  ***** are big small which
both of them dripping ice from their nostrils wild *** eyed
trying to slip off the far edge of the stool and at least go ****
they have me surrounded
one in my left ear big girl in my right
any closer their teeth would take a bite
sneered she does good and he all 6 4 350 lbs of him
reeks of hard work and the drout
I see clouds overhead

clouds everywhere
a lot of spit
little rain

Designated *****
Tastes and wasted time
Waking up bored enough
To jump off a building
Listening to forty
Years of life and love
I share mine of nil
I've had my fill
Of nonsense for today
Iced-over managing me
Lied obscene moderating
Miniscule matters
Multiplied by how much I dread
The amplification
Arduous impotency
Marked on inadequately
Silence as the fall completes

They passed on the outskirts of Archangelos to go to Tsambikas. They were going to the Hellenika Necropolis, where he was waiting for them more than 400 kilometers to the west in the Cyclades. Precisely in Kímolos,  where they would have a conversation with Tsambikas to make the channeling with the Hellenika Necropolis. Etréstles had traveled with Kanti the steed to Kímolos, on his back they saw the distance, before they arrived at Mandraki in Rhodes. They all made their way up the coast into Archangelos, but Etréstles went to Hellenika. The Vas Auric was landed in Mandraki, for the purposes of the Creation of Vernarth with the Apostle Saint John.

Kímolo, on this island was the famous beginning of the procession to the outskirts of the cities, to deposit their sacred remains, on the way to a better one. Here were the martyrs who were accustomed to Etréstles, since he cohabits in procrastination with Drestnia for the new millennium (His female) with the one who resides in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, in the ninth vertical cemetery. Having chapels and altars, this place was conducive to doing between Kímolos and Tsambikas, what was so many kilometers away, so the performance of the meeting between villages would be seen intact, to be resurrected and would be worshiped between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese, with the pious exercises between both latitudes, precisely in the Theoskepasti chapel, while in Tsambika it would be in the Panagia Tsambika monastery. Etréstles carried in both hands a few candles of some population gifts, with laws of civility and of generations lived there without knowing each other between both islands and tabernacles, arguing canons of burial and exhumation. In this case of performance, refer to the Vas Auric of Limassol that brought the construction of a world of right angles, for perfect reconstruction of multi-polygonal souls, adopted for the first time in Kímolos, to be transferred to a logical philosophical-architectural division seeking to enclose the perfect plans where the new Christians will reside, between Rhodes and western Kímolos, re-settling among more than a third of the souls that rested in Hellenika, in neat syncretism with the dissimilar populations and their creeds.

Saint John the Apostle with Vertnarth, Raeder and Petrobus, plus Eurydice, would bring from the rubies of Alexandria, the incorporeal honor of Alexander the Great, converting both insular sites, into palaces of Muses of Hellenika, for the scholars who would be in the canonization of Vas Auric . Being a precursor to the chapel of Theoskepasti, endowing this erudition performance in the new status for Philo of Alexandria present here, and now being a socio-demiurge entity, which will turn this Hellenika necropolis city into duality with Tsambika, for liturgical distinctions and homilies to lessen the basic ceremonial supplies in Hellenika. Philo of Alexandria says that only God protects the Jews, adding to what Philo wrote to them in La Legatio ad Gaium. The Jewish delegation had trouble meeting Caligula and when they finally met him, the emperor declared that he wanted a statue of him as Jupiter built in the Temple in Jerusalem, which caused desolation among the members of the delegation. Finally, this project was not carried out thanks to the intervention of Agrippa I and the death of Caligula. Philo attributed the happy ending of both cases to Providence. This divine letter of these translators with Saint John the Apostle and Philo of Alexandria will make this homily in Hellenika, the spirit sentinel that will be preserved in these two cities and then towards the world of Vernarth of the Duoverse, so that invisible winds blow from the chapel of Kímolos to the Panagia of Tsambika, on the pillars that feed the Hebraic and Hellenic boundary "translating Greek into Hebrew, but in two universal places of creation, in the Theoskepasti chapel and Panagia de Tsambika, on the magic of the meeting of scholarship and the grace.

Vernarth says: “with Philo of Alexandria's interpretation and its exegesis, I will rub the tract of the successions of infinity legitimately stored in the thought of creation of the Zig Zag Universe, and with the Regressive Parapsychological authority, now circulating in a sniffing universe with a Verthian genealogy, moderating with my Falangist disciples, but being biblical when it becomes the occasional emaciated mob, of a world that falls depressed, with the last pieces and challenges of the world associated with an allegorical spirit, with altitudes of ethics and doctrinal rectitude. I have two candles in each hand, similar to Etréstles in Kímolos and Hellenika, making delights of the pleasures in these ceremonials, to create worlds ignored in the office of super compassionate language, in more than seven days, which are the ones that are added between the Sun and Earth, in a sub-mythological world, being ourselves our own executioner established on the *****, which falls from the match of the wick of my candle in its own mood. I still have memory of who and each one who will always be in my supplications, reopened in a sacredness less than my own end, here I will not continue to be stored, rather I will continue to fall exhumed from the very storehouse and from the brothel, than from myself he bows down emphatically, to be competent to explain himself biblically, as if he had never been read before, ad limit of the doctoral and sacred work of Philo of Alexandria, here with us in Tsambika, and leading there in the Necropolis of Hellenika on another briar ; as a perennial creeping species growing here as a summer cyclical plant in colder climates, it will usually be prostrated on the Hellenika slab, with its radial stems and branches, extending to the fractal distance between Kímolos and Tsambika in ceremonials from Abrojo. The hirsute lamas will come from the genesis of their spiritual temporal, being the same wool from the whirlpool of all the weeds attached and adpressed to the gargoyle lamp that are tuned together with the Archangelos Tragones in happy dietetics, following the patterns of the pairs and odd spring thistles in the Cyclades and the Dodecanese.

I've found my voice again
It's cracked through my throat
like a butterfly
that was transmuting in it's cocoon
For five years

It's like the impenetrable dam
I had constructed
to hold back my truth
Has been utterly demolished
By the power of my truth
like surging waters
Overcoming my fears

Right now my words are like tsunamis
I closed my eyes yesterday
And I witnessed a tornado rising up inside from my belly
Someone prayed for me yesterday and said
She saw me at the throne of God,
God laid his hands on my head
And gave me an anointing of power and courage

I am a warrior
Borne of love

There are no buts or ifs or excuses anymore that I can lean on
The truth is spilling through me and for once I'm
not moderating it
It's wild and terrifying
People are scared
I'm scared
Because I realize now
That I can no longer live this lie
that I've been living for so long
The truth is making sure of it
The truth is pouring through me,
And this time,
I'm willing to speak it.

It all starts with a thought that follows a pop
So vivid and appealing like a curious onslaught
Then the person starts grooving out of the block
Views change, make shift, foundations are formed
Weak flame, pledged words, a moth to a bulb
Big talks, fake blogs, witfully involved

Visually lost, embraced the chaos, but that’s not enough
Growth-fully stunned, what’s wish to a cause, gracefully lost
Blinded by love, falling down a slump, to fulfill the duty to the loved ones
Amidst the carnage, the survivor can’t protest
Ravages of wars again and again, without a break
Leaves the person with nothing intact, no sense of sobriety
No realizations, No hope, just pitch black dent
And nothing’s new just plain ol’ Lament

While everything seems to make them upset
Moderating the pain to soothe the backlash
Fell in depravity, now can’t even sleep for a sec
No notion or moderation yet they try to fulfill their conquest
Their whole world is falling apart yet they can’t seem to stop themselves
For all they know is to work and work and work, so inhumane-like self
A glimpse of countless fallen souls, heroes bound for hell,
Enduring storms so cruel, even therapy lost its spell.
What you talk to isn’t even a human anymore but a charred combusted shell
Whose silence screamed for help
For years they endured so much, a salute to their resilient self

Wish someone would have noticed their stutter
Some kind words, a simple compliment, a flutter
Maybe a graceful guide, bucket-full of hopes and a house of surprise for shelter
Maybe a good friend, and a great teacher, for them to not pretend either
To mend the vice of the bitter, cries of the Aether, heart that is cluttered
Before it falls back to the nether

Their cries went in vain yet the voices still refrain
Afraid of losses and faces scorned with disdain
Forcefully smiling throughout the pain
Imminently violent and without restraint
Engulfed in the darkness for the darkness smothers their brain

Vengeful and perplexed without a rest
Their hatred is genuine, perfectly jest
For the cries that went unseen and the angst of mesh
A turmoiled life, A fractured mess

Hope is but a blundered sail
Plethora of monologues, a crumbling rail
Exhausted sighs, eerie gales
A Note Not Worth The Bother
A Ghastly tale
                                                                  -Asher Graves

rubber ducky billows
bobbing in a blue sky bathtub
floating on a morning breeze

clouds moderating
liquid vitamin d sun
seeping deeply into pores

sundial shadows
belie still feet
connecting patio cracks

sweet daffodil vanilla air
narcissisticly teasing nostrils
spring swirling deliciously

a morning with no agenda

Why did roads get tired?
Why do they always keep moving?

Unbothered and indifferent—
About the weather's play...
Why are they oblivious to this relay?

Everybody watches...
But nobody feels.
Maybe they do!
Yet hide it - to heal.

Rain is moderating
his story and his cry.
A visibly audible outcry.

Jumbled droplets
on crumpled leaves

We missed the alchemy—
Turning soil into clay.
Are marshlands meant
just for toddlers to play?

My soul stays alone.
Lost in time.
Will somebody ever notice me?
or would I only live
in traces that faded.

Like it always happens,
in memory of time.