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Soap.
Apologies.

Roll over and take pictures of me.

Roll over and feel a fork in my neck.

Oh so this is morning.

I'll eat you raw.

I love you too.

Basking within the sticks and stones.

Salon.

After the saline.
Now how does that sound?

I want you to follow.
Blindly.

Watch the moth's escape.
A twist of a doorknob.

But we watch.

I grit my teeth. Explain to you these are burns and wound marks.

One or the other and I discover.

Explain to you it needn't be thy way

Ate quickly and explained quicker.

Setting things on the ground is a tricky dive.

One sees the water. And the water sees it again.

So break it. And destroy your poise.

Waiting waiting and laying under the stars with two eyes.

My one and my other.

See now?

See I've grown.

Sleeping in safes. Becoming responsible to avoid the count of clicks and the flicks of wrists.

Speaking of...

Speaking out loud.

Speaking alone I guess.

I'll watch my cigarette disappear and hope a clone is born.

Now. Now now now.

Everyone's dead.

He said he watched the stars watch over you.

Stammering but now pointing.

Stars fall. And even that became an example of me doing wrong.

Is this silence?

Don't hold your breath baby. Use it because there is that chemical I'm lacking from you.

Is this silence?

No it is me just being alone.

We don't do this or that and when we do, it becomes that it wasn't this or that.
Tragedy Written on my birthday this year. Oct 20th for those who don't know.
The Fresh blood still warm on my hands
        My mind is swimming in a sweltering sea of sordid sensations
I find myself (or shall I say I search?)
        [I] search for this self [I] naively presuppose amidst quite a convoluted calamity
This assuefaction will not do!
        I must **** myself, and start anew!
I must violently press forward!
        I will hurl myself into the chaotic clasps of Erebus to avoid this cold, dead sediment
                                        This cold, dead past.
Your cold, dead eyes
                                      Your tantalizingly tepid tone
*****, you wish to take me from myself
           You would strip me of my subjectivity
                    You would **** me, but I'm not for you
                               I must **** myself and start anew
Build. 
And once destroyed, remember to learn nothing. 

Walk. 
And when arriving, forget to rest. 

Speak. 
Think of what to say, taste the silver tongue's bitter ring.  

In a fit of rage I exclaim-
I have nothing to say. 


Anywhere but here. 

Anyone but me. 


Until then, destroy a child's heart. 

Play under rusted girders. 

Photograph and frame. 

Box and and store far away. 

All memories, all truths. 

And lies. 


All moments of you. 


Remove those. 
Explain yourself. 


And rise. 

Higher toward the sun. 

Your wings draping over the sweet gaze. 

All heavenly light. 

Weep in silence. 

Curse all those before. 

And search for those to come. 


Anyone but me. 


Try again. 

With tongues from different skulls. 

One bleeds. 

And one waits. 


And now there is a no. 

And now there is no now. 


Only your hazy future. 


Or only a brilliant past. 


The first littered with gold. 

And the last rot and decay. 


So remember. 

Anyone but me. 


And your stare. 
Into me for what seems eternal. 


Waking to see you sleeping. 
Covering your sight. 


And walking far off. 
Into wilderness. 

Finding love buried. 
There's nothing after sleeping. 


A year. 

And there are now six. 

Sending off for answers. 


Love the automatic. 
I passed it off. 
Planned for the son. 


Choirs great in their grey woven spells. 
I am a shape in the wood. 


From the vocal thought, my age becomes my choice. 


To return strife. 
In cold silent gaze. 


Pressed into you. 


Ten feet from now I will forget. 

From you into some place obvious. 

A Corvette in a forest. 

With smoke in hand. 

Sewing the ends of this letter loose. 


Fall down new barriers. 

Fall to the sun and fade. 


Walk with moans and smile with rhythm. 

The Baptist arpeggio of a life forced meaningful. 

These cliffs speak of charm and integrity. 

I see him made. 
And I hear his end in the bottle. 

Synthesized in fermented preservation. 

My hands won't move and my face numbs again. 

Against the wind in name of life. 

Wake before ghosts. 
 
Racing home. 

And the horns cry so low. 

With your eyes I find shame. 

Replaced with some word soiled. 

Work found for the haste. 

So I am told to breathe and forgive. 


And I end. 
To begin something I could not finish. 


In leaving I presuppose I will return. 

In gold worth more. 

On wings of purity. 

Lifted to fall and stay humble. 


And the yes I gave should now be a no.
Tragedies.
Colm Nov 2016
They don't believe me when I say,
My foresight stretches a long way.
Down the winding road of time,
Into the valley of decline,
I see my age, in the faces of those who have traveled this way.

I see my future in their shoes,
I see the certain way their memories fade like the morning dew.
And yet I have arrive at the early hour,
Before the dew has time to flee.
Before the earth has time to turn,
The dawn itself calls out to me.

For it's here I see what it simply means to simply be,
A present in the presence of the bitter sweet.
The better notion of pursuing passions which never seemed to be,
A suitable means of living without ease.

And yet such fear of fear itself is what I need,
To motivates a man such as me.
To presuppose and catch a glimpse beyond the horizon,
Into the distance where I decree,
That the next life will be a more suitable life for me.
I perceive, but I don't really know.
Eoin J Griffin Oct 2014
She may think its silver-tongued
Or truths been spun;
Such traits have vexed me.
No nose to grow,
Deceit once shown,
Upon no Book can she confess me.

These lips of snake
and cunning ways
out foxed the truth
that's all to plain.
All eyes can see,
Alas 'sept she,
The majesty
of my ******.

The seeds of doubt
I must route out,
No weeds can grow
amongst the rose.
Can't make her know
or presuppose,
Blind faith
leads down uncharted roads.

I know that as she lays with me,
She feels my heart beat,
Stutter; Frenzy.
A stomach knot I cannot shake,
butterflies contrive to wake.
Poetic T Feb 2016
She closed her eyes to the diminished shimmer
That floats in the empty murkiness of an expanding
Emptiness, filled with so much yet deserted.

When she ascended her looks to the light it faded
O so slightly, another of her sisters now faded into
The evermore of oblivions fated grasp.

On the presuppose, then collided with obliteration
Of what was birthed by the heavens tears. As all fell
And ushered in her breath now silenced in nothingness.

She looked into herself and felt a yearning to be bright
To not fade. A beacon of life, but where life dwelled
So did the turmoil that rode upon its gifts.

Little things that I gave all too, let us be as one and
Not extinguish that plentiful existence. Yearn to be
Better as a single be joined and as one shine on.
wordvango Sep 2014
In defiance of deducting, presuppose
an assumption arising,
proving an inference of a theory
described in peacock terms, we
decided already is a popular conclusion.

What will be discovered? Of this theory,
of magical thinking justified by grouped phenomena
that proves, what?
The particles perpetually persist where they are rejected or attracted, but from any atmosphere that is alien to pure physics, which is from his studies where everything exists and nobody knows what it is? Where Heles anticipated the macroscopic world. Vernarth was on his way to the sources written for the reversal of his military years, already in their wielded silhouettes from so much shaking them in his shadow that he was fading away. Granicus and Iso with Alexander the Great were one of them ..., this is how he exalts himself by having the ascending mission of saving the lineage of Mythological beings and not, under the expedition of his Anabasis or "Expedition for the rescue of Greek Mythological Beings who they are vilified for their own ethnography ”; it is the case of Heles. The brushstrokes were cloistered in the last events where the strong muscle follows, and the brain that escaped from a crypt of Tuthmosis, that perhaps would go for a new archaeologist to advance in the boots that Vernarth used in the Site of Arbela, being in Gaugamela reality, such as in Betania María de Betania in Magdala; being Mary Magdalene in Bethany. Here are the raids that were being carried out with the crews of Alexander the Great freeing themselves from their Larnax, to presuppose the actions that were being debated in the questions as he was always a military man who was on guard in front of his own larnax, but with the excursions to free himself of the same to witness the rebirth of Heles, daughter of Nepheles in the clouds, who consulted herself by the oracles that were already dimensioned in the game of beneficial actions, by double action of the body and mind of the Anabasis that Vernarth contracted by the possession of Alexander the Great in his own body. Much light was thrown when it was pointed out that the oracles would dress them in the greatest of all contests, where the same oracles mark the conspiracies of mythological beings by wanting to take conspiracies to take the world of Vernarth with the Submitology, which allowed life to beings that would no longer have any respite in any episode of interest, nor in a literary empire that ascribes the reality of a set that was mostly on the high seas, as far as the chariots of the navy of Thepis, or of Etréstles that took them to the memory that would speak much more than a faithfully conformed hybrid story, where every species born of a Titan, God or Demi-God would have the solicitous tragediography initialed by the ****** hands of Vernarth, by retaining the garrulous that were greater than the Aegean over the Ionian , where the brute and salty waves would fall abridged on the grievances of a mythological being that is torn by having to know that it can revive, and I saw vir eternally incarnated for centuries and centuries in the dating of those who were willing to revive Prometheus, Heles, Persephone, Orpheus, Stratonice and so many others in the ink that would become blood that writes the life of the beings that revive in the source of the Anabasis of Vernarth. But rather than the harsh air carry the marble dust of Heles over the high masses of warm air to the Valleys of the Kings where Tuthmosis IV, will bury the rest of the ashes that have not revealed their lineage as a sub mythological being, in the average of books and millennia that rested on the magnesium threads formed in the extreme wings of the Helenikká Necropolis, rather in the shady fifth, from where you will breathe the first zephyr cycle from Syracuse to the Kimonos itself, in the rested bay by Dekas.

Vernarth's Anabasis has as a corollary going back with all his entourage from Hellespont, to Patmos. The rhetorical offices would be golden bread and golden wine that tasted like heaven with incense, with orders that Darius or part of his immortal army could revive him to take the sourly baked Patmos. Alexander the Great appears before Vernarth warning him of this ultimatum, and that the armies should be enlisted before this decisive crusade, as compensation for the siege of Gaugamela, with the difference that a large part of the Greek mercenary soldiers would go to confirm the part from the flank or Keras of Vernarth. The banner on this occasion would carry Heles revived with his marble eyes on the two hydric colonnades, to represent the orders of Saint John the Apostle, before a supposed Hellenic rumor became an unexpected assault on the parapsychology of Diodorus of Sicily. , when he woke up in Sicily, as if he had been here witnessing to write the macro uprising of Heles, to revive Prometheus as well, and that they were already becoming illustrious heirs of an island that had great heirs in its lands, under the conduit of the Speleothemes, in which Wonthelimar had brought them.
Anabasis
Francie Lynch Nov 2019
They appear,
They seem,
They presuppose
With their ink to emphasize
My dreams
With the task of following lines,
Connecting routes,
Filling in blanks.
I add sighs to words,
Words to screams
That come from someplace deep and quiet.
They seem,
They appear to assume
You will understand me.
Francie Lynch Jun 2020
For the sake of argument
Let's presuppose POTUS
Actually read the Bible.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the O.T.
POTUS:    That David guy; when he grabs Bathsheba's *****.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the N.T.
POTUS:    Pilate, when he washes his hands.
The sunshine‘s lost behind the clouds
It can’t seem to break through
Hindered by the gloom and doom
On a dreary afternoon
Specks of light now shines past
In little rays of hope
Like strings of yarn from high above
Twisted like a rope
Pulled closer to it’s orifice
Peeking out some more
Finding different avenues
For it to explore
Standing on the presuppose
Of Gods golden shore
Waiting for the blistering sun
To open the sky door
Let itself get noticed
It’s presence felt and warm
Fighting off the rain clouds
Brewing up a storm
With hopes to see a nicer day
In what some may call “the norm”
I presuppose you had forgotten me
the time has been passing
word had been made tears are fading
but my love for you is true.
It's almost three years now that we had ended
I still hold on to the promises we made  
but that is our little secret that
no one can ever take away.
We had made so many memories
I have to smile every time I think of you
The moon that we use to watch as we
where given our hearts,
I presume if one was to know what is
in another's heart, we would be in trouble
this is a topic unexplained,
But the evidence is in every campaign
you pour it will be the color of my
birthstone.
It would be the color of my butterfly necklace
You had made for me on my birthday    
But I had to give it away it hurt too bad
to keep it.
I know its time for me to let you go
but my heart keeps telling me no
We made a promise to never give up on what
we had no matter what.
To believe in the love we made
What a crazy thing for me to be so loyal
to a man that hurt me.

- Judy Emery © 1981
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS POETIC JUDY EMERY

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