Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies:

Two glasses where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost wherein they late excelled,
And every beauty robbed of his effect.
“Wonder of time,” quoth she “this is my spite,
That thou being dead, the day should yet be light.

“Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend.
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning but unsavoury end;
Ne’er settled equally, but high or low,
That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe.

“It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud;
Bud and be blasted in a breathing while,
The bottom poison, and the top o’erstrawed
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile.
The strongest body shall it make most weak;
Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.

“It shall be sparing, and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures.
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet;
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures.
It shall be raging mad, and silly-mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.

“It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust.
It shall be merciful, and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just.
Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

“It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension ‘twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire.
Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.”

By this, the boy that by her side lay killed
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled
A purple flower sprung up, chequered with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath;
And says within her ***** it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death.
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

“Poor flower,” quoth she “this was thy father’s guise,
—Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire—
For every little grief to wet his eyes.
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.

“Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right.
Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest;
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night.
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.”

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid
Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is conveyed,
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself, and not be seen.

William Shakespeare

Can you laugh at jokes about ***?
Good, you pass the test.
Can you sit and not grow sore?
Good, you're perfect.

Can you be pumped full of *******
And not choke?
Excellent,
You're our kind of superhuman.

Don't look outside.
You're with me now,
And with me
You never have to think.

We're behind the box
Putting no effort in
And leading your lives
With jokes and yokes.

All respect to Immortal Technique for the original "Dance with the Devil"(from whence the inspiration came)

Idea by Mr.Sandman ,Lyrics,-Tormented Soul("Mr.Sandman")The Devil(Jay Byrne)
Heavily influenced by and sampled from Immortal Technique(and Richard Kadrey's Sandman Slim novels,but that's another story...)

sample Immortal tech

"Now the Devil follows me every where that I go,
in fact I'm sure he's standing among one of you at my shows"

"The devil follows me,since an early age
was the recipient and donor of a murderous rage,
spit it down on page,burns like Alien acid,
my demeanor?the opposite of placid,
acid tabs and bags of yokes,coke and ket,
I'll eat,sniff and swallow,then smoke over your death,
been an agent of terror,since I turned 13,
and met the vicious demon who was dwelling within"

Vicious ? Me ? No- you got it all wrong.
I've been lookin' out for you all along.
Come on. Come help me sing my song.

"who the hell is this voice inside,I've heard all along?
the sniggering,conniving,font of my wrongs,
666 tattoo is a dubious crown,
for I know what awaits me underground"

sample
"Now the Devil follows me every where that I go,
in fact I'm sure he's standing among one of you at my shows"

Chorus(Skitz),so no matter what your sins,deeds,torments,sorrows,
you're ****** lucky that the devil chose me to follow...

Jay- But your tomorrow is borrowed from me, the keeper of sorrows..
..hallowed be the shadows.
So no matter what your sins,deeds,torments,sorrows,
praise your god that the devil chose me to follow...

But your tomorrow is borrowed from me, the keeper of sorrows..
..your soul soon to follow.

Sample
"so if the devil wants to dance with you you better say never,
cause a dance with the devil might last you for ever"

you **** trickster I loved her,you made me ****,
my own wife to add grist to your evil mill

I'm contrite. Never my intention.
You seemed to succumb to your own aggression.
But I can ease your pain...

"power,money,*****,drugs,material gain,
seem to pale when the devil's caught the glimmering flame,
of your soul in a trap like a rabbit in a snare..."

So who's to blame ? You knew my name.
Yet you choose to play the game all the same.
You were my goal.
Earthly pleasures,measured against your soul.

"Earthly pleasures? don't make me laugh,
last night I saw a helpless girl torn in half,
at my request,but your behest,I'm a puppet on a string,
screaming at the voice of doom that comes from within."

Chorus(Mr Sandman),so no matter what your sins,deeds,torments,sorrows,
you're ****** lucky that the devil chose me to follow...

(Jay) But your tomorrow is borrowed from me, the keeper of sorrows..
..hallowed be the shadows.

So no matter what your sins,deeds,torments,sorrows,
praise your god that the devil chose me to follow...

But your tomorrow is borrowed from me, the keeper of sorrows..
..your soul soon to follow.

I've tried every way to rid myself of your stain,
priests,exorcists,witches,all driven insane,

but a deal was struck,  "I was too young to know!,
that for a brief life of pleasure I was trading my SOUL,

Poor little bird. Sing a sorrowful song.
Use the word of your God but now your God's gone.
You try to hold on. It won't be long. You are a pawn.
Dwellin' in Hell and with demon spawn.

"AHHHHH,STOP...-your incessant gloating,
devil,demon in my hearts core floating,
if I had the subtlest knife I'd slice you out of my life,
instead of acting like a monster in a mockery,a half life,
please,I'm on my knees,but god's not listening,
as I look at more innocent blood glistening"

(Your new christening).A last act of contrition.
Baptism of fire. My ire still whispering

"he cried out to the sky cause he was lonely and scared,
but only the devil responded,Cause God wasn't there"-

And Now the Devil follows me every where that I go,
in fact I'm sure he's standing among one of you at my shows"

Chorus(Mr Sandman),so no matter what your sins,deeds,torments,sorrows,
you're ****** lucky that the devil chose me to follow...

But your tomorrow is borrowed from me, the keeper of sorrows..
..hallowed be the shadows

So no matter what your sins,deeds,torments,sorrows,
praise your God that the devil chose me to follow...

*But your tomorrow is borrowed from me, the keeper of sorrows..
..your soul soon to follow

it’s morning
groggy-eyed, zombie-like,
stubbled, disheveled,
he rises.

Outside is the gleam of dew,
the scent of fresh bloom,
the chatter of birds and squirrels.
Not for him, though,
the brilliant hues of early dawn,
the bustle and cheer of the day just born.

Tarry he cant, mustn’t
shouldn’t, oughtn’t
for he has work to do.

And so he scurries about,
not much unlike a rat-at-night.
scratching the stubble out,
shocking the slumber out,
with a splash of rusty water
and scented alcohol

glassy-eyed on the clammy-cold seat,
with the daily in hand,
he lets in garbage as he lets it out.
(let’s see: “six killed, talks fail,
girl *****, man robbed,
chain snatched, stocks down, jobs lost…)

but no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t.
for he has work to do.

Not for him
to reminisce and wonder
at bright-eyed kids straining at their yokes
to remember that kind teacher
who patted his cheek
and held him to her smock
smelling strangely of
freshly ironed starch.

Nor must he think
of  progress cards and golden stars
and hobbies learnt at leisure,
of cycling in the rain,
and endless hours spent
under the mango trees
waiting for heaven’s manna,
of books devoured, adventures vicariously lived
in strange English lands
where they breakfasted on
bread and poached eggs and bacon.

Nay, tarry he cant, mustnt,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t..
for hasn’t he got work to do?

‘ Tis his lot to weave
his own web of chaos
as the road turns a
tangled mess of trails
darting here and braking there
in feverish, frenetic fits
of stopping and going
and spewing
clouds of carbon and venom
and especial epithets

no, no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t,
for he has work to do.

So what if he didn’t see
--just ahead of him on the bike,
the baby’s pink,delicate,
fingers as she clutched
her mamma tight?
--the shriveled, outstretched,
hand that cried for a morsel of mercy
since even the cataracted eye
was drained of hope?
--the strange aromas of
fresh coffee, incense, cigarettes
and some open sewer?
--the signals that said “relax,
you’ve 68,67,66” seconds to go?

Not for him to tarry—he cant,
he mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t, god forbid!
He has work to do!

Quotations to send
calls to attend, meetings to sit in,
sipping soulless coffee,
nitpicking.
accounts to tally,
targets to meet;
better still, exceed,
‘in’ trays to empty,
‘out’ trays to fill,
reports to make,
power points to present,
all before lunch
and, strangely, until after
until, outside the prison,
life has , once again, ebbed away.
one more sun has died,
or so cries the muezzin,
some distant bells pealing
in doleful agreement.
oh where has the day gone?

Stray thoughts appear
like lights switched on-
thoughts of children, wife,
neighbour
thoughts that convince
that here, indeed, is a person
with kith and kin and others to love.
But no, they must perish—the thoughts—
he must instead focus on the task at hand.

of  first weaving through
the now dark chaos
of blinding headlights
and urgent horns, darting bikes,
neon fireflies
and reaching ‘home’ where
the ***** is busy cooking
and the cubs scampering…
“hi dad ”says the kid
as he mindlessly waves
his soul numbed by
the monotony of the day just gone
and the tv that’s ever on—
and already on the report for the morrow

can he afford to tarry awhile?
to hug, hold, talk?
to share with him
a childhood anecdote?
horrors! he cant, he mustn’t,
absolutely shouldn’t oughtn’t!
for he has work to do!

And so the bedroom light’s on
until long after she’s embraced
by slumber, deep slumber—
her eyes closed
in childlike innocence.
can he watch the slow rhythm of her *****?
the languid curves?
the cozy bed
with its promise of warmth?
on the screen , scowling,
is the clutter of data
that must be processed
into bite-sized bits of
decipherable hieroglyphics—
now, not later!

Its so dark, so  still,
even the stray dog has stopped
howling its pitiful howl
one more cigarette
burnt at the altar of work
one more hour burnt at the stake
he simply cant tarry,
mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t…
he has work to do.

It’s morning.

I hate the dreadful hedge behind the little wood;
And its roaming souls are blotted by a red-blood heath.
I hath treaded it, my imaginary path, since my years of childhood;
But still consolation hath come not to where I'th waited.

I'th painted it with my talent, my tears, and my solemn grief;
But even a light cometh not to such moments too brief;
Prayers are done; and even months and deserts and nights of supplications;
But still heaven is nowhere to me, heaven t'at is mute-and feedest only on our admiration.

Ah, Almighty, why is Thy image the one I so wanted to ****;
And why hath thou emerged within me no goodwill?
I am unable still, to locate my peace;
But though negligent-I think I am worthy of finding my bliss.

And Thy love of me is infamous like these frail petals;
And in my miseries Thou wert never around when I called;
Ah, where is this mysterious heaven, then, as Thou oft' boastest;
Whenst lightning is the one who destructs, and bedevils, and recomposes?

And Thy forgiveness is small and even absurd;
For salvations are seas-in which sins are bathed off and cured;
Making 'eir villainous souls are pure-and never impure;
Purified by the eternal corporeal blueness; so that t'eir weights merciful and sure.
And as sure as a gentle, understanding blood,
Where wouldst then be-a real punishment so hard?
And so where is this pompous hell embodied, thereof, as Thou often mirrorest;
If forests are dark enough-and at night canst be a terror deadliest?

Ah, and whenst my soul fallest ill,
Why art Thou not within me still?
I am weary; just like t'ese dark storms about me,
But still Thou art nowhere, so t'at my poems cannot find Thee.
Even as I starest at Thy plain rainbow;
Why is it of falsehood-instead of a sane tomorrow?
I searched and journeyed for Thy fair promise;
I am exhausted now, for I hath found not-one faint stretch o' Thy kiss.
I tired myself with Thy sour learning;
But Thou wert never there; Thou sat never, by my everything!

My blood and soul Thou hath grimly toughened;
And my flowery eyes Thou tested with tears.
Still I am febrile not-unlike my brethren;
And whenever I looketh up-Thou art never here.
Even of Thee my poems hath nothing more to say;
Though I hath fought true hard; 'gainst those who're 'stray.
Are true then-Thy bitter fires of hell,
Or is it just be a misguiding spell?
And wouldst there be fountains of water in heaven-
Or wouldst they be mere pools of poison?
For I s'pose it'd be but of one fake;
Bubbling and choking to everyone who takest;
And as my lust, and pain-Thy words consoled;
Still my misery was heroic; and I was the one scolded.
Even whenst flamed quarrels boiled;
I was the one ashamed, I was the one Thou harshly soiled!
Thou remained stiff, and in any way Thou couldst not behold;
I was oft' left stranded, collapsing and shudd'ring cold.
I was ignored, I was condemned to my suffering;
Thou soothed me never, Thou stood still to my pure straining!
I was left scarred, I was left scratched;
I was an orphan that the devil wouldst not accept;
I was like my unwholesome faith today;
And still Thou stayed mute; 's'though existed not-
'Till my tears died, and gave me nothing else to pray.

And so Eden is all abuse; and its roars are lies;
And didst I perish; wouldst only be glad its perilous eyes.
Perhaps to Thee t'is all be a tantalising story;
But as Thou needst now to know-I'd never be in thy territory;
Even though t'is earth wouldst perish, all of a sudden;
Never wouldst I kneel, nor supplicate to thy cursed ******;
Nor wouldst I cross thy damp riverside bridge;
For all is stained by dirt, and dry threefold filth.
And even nature shuffled away from my soul;
Still I stand firmly-away from Thee, o fishy and foul;
For I hath my own deployment, and honest authority;
I am honest and loyally even-to the swears of my beauty!
Ah, as Thou wouldst be pleased not, thus cast me now-away once more;
And neglect me stern' like ever before;
And admit me not-into Thy boastful superiority;
Caress me not, by Thy hands of menace-and regular hypocrisy.
I am tired of thy severable security;
As Thou owneth never-such sincerity!

And see Thy book-overborne by jokes;
Over which throats canst fall out their own yokes!
Leave me, leave me, but leave me now-just all alone;
As without Thee-I am used to being everything on my own!

Almighty, Almighty, Almighty-please now just kindly Thou leaveth me,
Strike away, if Thou couldst-my violin's barren chords-
So t'at all is silent to Thee;
And Thy dissatisfied other lords.
I am not Servant to Thy pleasures;
Though I'th strived to spell my prayers;
Thou made all feeble and obscure;
Thou turned all sickly and uglier.
Thou art hideous, hideous enough;
Thou art the devil-even the hidden devil on its own!
And thy book is not one plain verse of love;
But one naked pile of sworn lies-of plain vain scorn!
Ah, and as nothing is in Thy world, and Thy feverish harmony;
So listen, when Thou art to blame me;
I'd never still be thy bride-nor Thy wife;
I'd still fairly, but proudly turn-and leave Thee,
Though I's promised, immortality;
And though I's lent, another thousand lives.

I can smell the talking cloud's tongue bright bright yellow light's blank bride medium blonde Italian Shadow, a ghost alerted to the base of conscious events one morning while standing with a gun which she fires and the bullet flies; face flushed with color, she dropped the gun and went into therapy on the side; :: separator :: revolutionary ***** mother police this warm stand of life of life, we ​​speak loves **** bad as long as the horrible monster lying in the tiny germ of the United States General Fingerprint Girl listening to good sunburn lets poets among the colors to make it easier for Norizontal children to cool; The features of Paul, Fuchsian and fleshly skin new to the new nation as well as to the magnificent laws of the Great Hall of the Church in the depression of foreign aliens. Yeh, support the family, yes, the trees are walking on the opposite side, sitting and staying in darkness. Here, except all the toys, but Russia drew swords and fish, and all the special features of the leaves are green and the shoots of a Hunter's Spatula ... In our areas the king of China is mighty over Corsica and Croatia. Gray with many lawyers, states in the United States and Europe, Albert offers new men and women. Happy, blessed with good names, women, women, children, Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul, joy, holy tradition, Paul's Apostle, the first month of this year, the happiness, and the TV of Russia and Santa Clara Santa Claus. Clara, Eugene's army, the chaos of the United States and Italy and the United States.
____________________­____________________­_________________

Sandra­ and two dogs, dogs, canine casting, dogs,
in Africa, again, I want you better, Sinah, in Austin,
an SSH outdoor way, also think that the British hope
"deer, drawing of he did not have the mind,
the issues coming in the storm by fire,
I thought I was ready for a wise fool to overcome
the pain of his dark car, the pure spirit of spirit,
light and black Italians had fallen in his closet
with a room talked about above the knee,
the living room where the police are talking to you,
was warm for you, which was in vain, the fire
was growing up to be a witness for the damage
and to restore the body's strength, such as the short hair
of hairy Ivan, Usa, all wind, wind, rain and clouds
on the ground, the last songs, now you have to go crazy
with the colors of criminals. Just s FUE in conjunction,
cold flies, home meat and Paul kept his skin clean,
and his guilt was like the words of a young man
in the days before Well, it's like a big dance I'm looking for:
I have enough to remember YCHA's little yokes, pain:
I want to talk to my hands.
__________________­____________________­____________________

­dystopia; plural noun: dystopias: an imagined place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad, typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one. Utopia; plural noun: Utopias; noun: utopia; plural noun: utopias an imagined place or state of things in which everything is perfect. The word was first used in the book Utopia (1516) by Sir Thomas More.
synonyms: paradise, heaven (on earth), Eden, Garden of Eden,
Shangri-La, Elysium; idyll, nirvana, God's country, *****, ***, snooch; literary: _Arcadia           "it may be your idea of Utopia, but it's not mine."

\ n \ n \ n \ n \ n \ n \ n \ n \ n \ n \ n it is possible to be? bright, deep with three cheeses have a night of music and acid developers. But the soul of the child is the most green with its buds, the mouths of the feet of all those youthful years, the voice of it appeared in a generous and die of gold, queen of the cool colors abolished death, and was very angry with the cold, was a great change I desire to justify to you in the azure, blue, and gold, and the gold, Khan in October, many people had got out, and the song, as in a mirror, floor faced the most difficult man, but a rich, sweet drink patty the 2, George's carrots are ***, just made into wine, and the wine is to be given to the Christians, with his will he wrote this in Africa, the Christian name of Guy Wisdom, Christianity, George, history, the rich brown rye of FM, a young man, Kisukeya was concealed by the girl, it was degrading.                      

Top ink bottle modern jellyfish Ranpuhiru of contemporary Asian dream Anticinema Yamashoo robot picture image at Jack's Socks Center. At five the average social value which come in chains is sitting in the woods with a cotton Core, 2 from hockey to see Bob relay life to the Sodomi Yudaya football field and a Core 2 boar; Bob's devotion is to your heart station, 100th on the seventh smoking football, he thinks Stein Stein must understand the children on the toilet and in the corners of the corner UG Twig Ug to the Twig; the thick black pink beach Museum of clothing where the city sleeps with a witch in music paradise Chu, or 2 EMS Mary flies and marries a windy boy and pretty woman in January about the rainy season, ****** abuse by a woman with a pistol made of bread and Bee fingers; Warming up the rhyme to help poor Italy, monsoon. Permanent Glory Available as Typically A ribbon, and soon, a new color's new heat "colors uneasy King 'wins the boy' Robert White, Robert's noise, Homuesabi 100 Opera House, Silicon / 2000" bad example of the comparative example, the 2000 391 RB (600 100), the "Biogen FLATIC 100 2000 2000" into a large family company formed: "America's house of Excellence ", then the lives of Kabgokki.

Truth (2000) (a) "enough" Journal of Technology "by Jamie Winchester won the Nobel Prize for peace in the world." Of that war was in the dungeon.

What are our millennium fables?
Women keep giving each other labels,
No harmony for our ecology,
An alliance should be our synergy,
No accountability for the economy,
No wise leaders to steer us to unity,
Century's getting older, folks!
Any teamwork to cast off these yokes?
Symbiosis should aim at harmony,
Let's pray for millennium synergy!

Monet, Manet, Morisot, and the tortured Vincent
a long century or more ago,
filled their palates with color,
their canvases with impressions of life, love and loss.
And we, the great masters of civilization,
have treasured these like newborn babes.

I wandered through the polished halls
of antiquities to see them—
some hidden even from the harsh light of day
to protect their precious prinking from decay.
I strained my eyes to see their soulful strokes
and wondered why artists carried such painful yokes

McMurtry’s ranch has no paintings
but sculptures from a vanished sea.
A quarter billion years it’s been,
and yet they’re here for all to see

Rocks carved by patient scratching time
and stock tanks covered with putrid slime.
No lilies float on pools of blue
and no guard carefully watches you

Their sentries are the desert rattlers
and the sun scorched prairie lands,
but these ancient masterpieces
are safe from filching hands.

When I kneel on hard rock soil,
I forget my daily useless toil
and dig in clean eternal dirt
with no canvases to belie the hurt
of gentle men who felt the call
to let their heart be seen by all

Monet, Manet, and Morisot
are now laid to rest, with their burdens set aside,
but their colors are a reminder
that beauty and suffering abide

McMurtry’s rocks no longer feel,
but who could say they are less real
than colors fading from the light
and lonely artists’ painful plight.

I don't know what wood
this table is made from
as I bought it from a yard sale,
but to be brash
it seemed the people's home
had been foreclosed.

Knocking on the table's surface
imagine the beating sounds
of drums, a native tribe
secluded from the river of reality
and yokes the essence
of their seclusion to be culture.

Now imagine the opposite
and you'll understand the quality
of the table I just bought--
who has no history
and most likely
rested on IKEA's factory floor,
it's welcoming to the world.

There is no grain to this creature
as the metallic hands that crafted this beast
lacked a soul and its creations lack one too--
fittingly, it's perfection is a symptom  
to the disease that lies in it's faux-wood.

Placing the poor table frame
inside some high rise studio in Manhattan
I can't help, but imagine--
the hands that will enviably gloss over this shell
and preach to their acquaintances
of a life the table never had.

I said I was going home
but unpredictable got in my way.
I wandered into the park, curious, for I saw
a crowd milling about, and curiosity did demand
my time. By pure chance, randomness, I acquired
a bounty of yokes in the likeness of blue ghosts.
Such is the way of Millennium on a Friday.
As quickly I found my mates to show them
the treasure.
We decided
to get dosed.
Bitte.

Suspense coming up, then, forty-five minutes in
excitement hit
as our brains leak serotonin. On love buzz again,
Young demon.
Some gang tried to mug mine, I laughed at them
as we walked by.
Howdy-** *****?
Nobody could touch
us, I was on fire. Then
drum 'n bass brought everyone higher.

She'll receive a reception of disdain
In a month her freezing winds shall arrive
The thermometer taking a big dive
We'll be captive to her very cold refrain
Winter's unwelcome vetch o'er our land mass
The countryside touched by her iciness
For she is a very bitter gelid lass
We'll stay inside to shelter from her lash
No warming sunlight rays within our sight  
Many hours of her severe frigid morass
Everything yokes in a nasty sash
The season of winter shall not delight

I don’t recognize you, but you’ve returned, oh it
must be you. No one else comes here but you.

Do you remember this music?

Kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, perhaps too
delicately—a quiet, tinkling knell, fishtailing through the
glimmering rain—mauve—soft-soaping the soil to darker clumps
beneath—soppy—slowly sinking so pretty, yet
terrifying now you’ve stepped into and through each
silted deepness, holding time.

This music begs you still—it has not stopped begging since—
to step further inside the wet loam (You clutch time now.)
To press down on it, in it, and listen tender the key you touched in
life between moments. It’s the reason you’ve returned.

You won’t, it’s not music, this feels like a baby’s head you’re on, you
cringe. About to cry.

Again, I’m sorry, but you have to—you have to feel it
scarily give a little. Feel it sink, infolding inside-out through its
thin pleura overflowing, always overflowing with the visceral
sap of everything on it—(I mean really everything.)—this
glistening ick, this frog-soil—moist, sickly cloying, susceptible
almost to light. And breathing.

It’s about to give out under your feet.

And kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, can you hear it?

Yes, you could be stepping on all their naked lungs, but there’s
nothing to fear, it’s an eternal field of their lungs—pink and gasping—
and that’s all there is here.  

Feel with your foot, like me. Is it alive? Or is it life? Listen, it
bleats a note. Why so sweet if, by touching it, we’ve made it drip
first truth from its tongue, look!—the blood of its eyes’ red
rivulets. Of its heart. The slightest breach it was. Barely an
opening

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to force you. If I was only me, I’d
leave it be, so it could spare us the look at the inner red that yokes
flesh to spirit. But you arrived here, and—listen, now it’s been
done, do not close your eyes.

You didn’t want to see this, I know—the sticky gum or muck that
licks over the fibrous bridges. Keeps them glued down and
invisible in the other world. It is all much better when the mucilage
does not ooze out. When the form is skin-tight, because that’s how
it works best. Without you probing its pores.

But now do you see, probing its pores, what you may find?
Look. Now do you see why the music has begged you?

What rests underneath there—what you may find in that dark
indigo clay which the shamans dug and pressed over their
blackened eyes in the night-trances—glows transparent somehow.
In pulses. Like Aurelia, the silver moon jelly.

Now it is just within your reach.

Light would pour to the other side, and their mouths would stiffen
with several infinite unintelligible syllables remaining stuck there
under their tongues. As it poured, they felt their blood replaced
in a surge with veinless essence, which sustained in its flow
through them something of precarious beauty—ascending, swirling
itself in air, then back into again, again returning to the home of homes
within them.  

The silver-moon-jelly-clay is continuously poised on the tip
(of not being clay).
About to break into splendor, into finally birth-giving of real breath.
Of meaning to breath, and to breathing.

This is what feeds, unknowing to them in that world, their field of lungs.
But you will know instantly when you feel it, that by feeling
(in feeling)
you have really always known.

Did you reach for it? Did you feel it in that second? You did not, I see
(you were so close!)
for now we’ve passed the origin symmetry and are sinking up! Going
deeply back up through the sticky goop with red glue in our hair,
through the moist-frog-ick-soil, choking dirt again, squishing loam
with our heads, shooting upward like falling, hearing lungs, and now
out, atop the surface again, in this bare garden that grows only under.

The skies above, still mauve, and the rain lips quietly the same
melody which, kaleidoscopically gemmed, repeats. It was all as quick as
nothing.

And, as I look at you, I see you’ve already forgotten
everything.

And now you’re leaving me! Fading back through the spectral
break in the clouds, whoever you were. Whoever it is you became.

I did honestly believe this was to be that one moment when, together,
we’d finally get to touch it. Press it like real sun to our blackened
eyes. I cannot tell you, it has felt like the one each time.

But I know to wait. I can wait. In this world I keep fluttering hope
in my hand. And you, whoever you’ll be, will return here.
You always do.
Do you ever remember why?
It’s because, when you leave through the clouds to go back to
that world, you are still. Always.
Clutching time.

Exalted eggs
sell lent egg salad
to eggshells.
Egg beaters
beat her
for the better
of the better
eggs.
Yokes of the yokel
yolks
choke the yolks
they’re meant to yoke.
Though runny and broken,
run he and broke in.
****** he,
dumped he,
leaving all the eggs
in eggshells.
These saddest fractions,
in shattered
silence, sigh “Let’s
decompose.
Let’s be compost.
Let’s become a flower.”
But on the wind
they twist,
they wind,
they rose.

poetry is more than me
it's more than words
& more than rhyme
it's vaster than space
& faster than rhythm surfing
the waves of time
amplifying its
frequency with
each &
every
line
pointed by symbols (signs?)
clung to limestone precipices
like vines within concrete crevices
whispering screams of defiance
against ignorance's yokes,
again our arrogance jokes
about the insignificance of other folks
of the other ones
of them, those people, the absentminders
relentlessly fettered in golden
coats profaning their shine thusly true
so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface
as the caustics of thought refract through
the waters of spirit & soul
churned out of each & every mind
a field of poetics
lurking behind the edifice of structure
deified as functional perfection manifested
but utterly infested with ***** sheets
& replete with redundant repugnance
filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down
to the basement level deep underground
where much is mumbled but little is said
aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.

Sins aren’t inherited
Sins die with the sinners
My father was, as is I
I pray my kids
See how sad it is
That mortal men
Tie my ancestors yokes
To my neck to bare
I have no chance now
I’m just a heathan
Ask the high and mighty
The ones on the hill
The ones in their high walled
Cathedral. Branding me all
Kinds of unspeakables
But I am here to say
That’s not my yoke
I have my own but
Thanks anyway

I Hear All The Outlawed World

                        I

I hear all the outlawed world in harmony,
The marshling stalks the green and gaunt
Destroyers who heed not sparkling deserts
Charged to the gill, nor candles pitching down
Like doom.  I note the scale of fossils
In cloud covered peaks, record
The seemly count of bodies by square root
And irrational number, I am witness
Bound to bounty to all who blaze in gray
And shallow grooves seeding their ends
In strikes on the ripe and smoldering fields.

                        II

I see all the outlawed world in harmony,
Barking wood bracing by the bud,
Where runs of blue, bury in vain
Down slash of mountain forest, cascading
Into august, rising after the fall,
As do kind-killers blasting from shells
To die as snails creeping under flower,
Who saw the past wasting away
In filed futures, slipping by blades in neck
Of wood, sightless as gallows of trees
Try ****** each time they make their leaves.


                        III

I know all the outlawed world in harmony,
By seamless song of stuttering gulls,
As in conches, waves of providence,
Cell from the center, beating musseled shoals,
Where wailing ghosts and wing-tips point
Printed nails to the silent capes,
And bumble hairs comb round the broken yokes
Stirring streams of babble baited
By flowering psalms, engaging arms to prey
On tales told by the rood and drown
In eyes turning like sands on the sea.

Geese are
Not gifted
Spellers.

They write
Poems
In their eggs.

The letters
Cannot
Be separated
From their yokes.

In the court
Of the Blue King
Atrocious spelling
Is called “Goose-spelling.”

Turn of phrases
That cannot
Be separated
From its image.

Conversely Wicked spelling
Is known as Dragon-spelling.
Where quatrains
May spontaneously combust
Burning the finger
Of luckless scribes.

DIARY ENTRY, EIGHT
By darcy prince

Today I bought some protein powder, which is the first time doing so. I’m a vegetarian, for a while I was eating chicken, as long as it was well-cooked. But I can’t remember the last I had any. I take fish oil, most of the time, twice a day. My other ways of getting protein now, mainly boiled eggs, always around six of them. If I forget to boil some, it’s fried eggs. I don’t eat yokes. I normally boil them early in the afternoon, then go off for the rest of my day, leaving them in the fridge until evening. Because of the heat & my apparent time constrict, is why I cooked them & left them to cool, by the time it’s time for dinner, the eggs have cooled down. I am actually looking over videos to it, how to make them, ways to take them, etc. Which I should have done prior. But since I don’t eat meat, it is worth a try. Expensive. But you get a lot for what you pay for. But it is a part of my weight loss journey. Which has been a back & forth this year. Even though I’ve been told so many times that I’m not fat. I just think I wasn’t healthy, that's all. Yes, for aesthetic reasons I am searching for, maybe a Greek ecstasy. Maybe some attention to. Since my last entry, I have talked about dating again. More so asking a crush out. I still think it won’t go well. In about 90 mins, I am going for a walk. If it’s not for health, do it for attention, but it’s worth giving it a go. It’s a little of my NoFap journey or in other words, getting to know myself again.

See what happens, I’m actually more curious to see if I’ll stick to the protein powder things. I am worried about the sugar content & learning another way besides mixing it with milk. Which has both high levels or sugar & fat. My landlord asked me why I never took any. Asking when coming home with a new container of fish oil. Which I had never thought of. I mean, I saw them around the shops selling, etc. Walking around the shops, I saw a container on sale, for why not. On the way, I realize how I'm supposed to take it? When to take it? Etc. With all that fun stuff.

Oh to the experiences I’ve missed out on, by not being tall, thin & attractive.

I don’t think people are interested in my idiots, food things & body image problems. Which is always an issue, sometimes any underlying shame that's trauma prone comes in when one is an adult, you’re more aware & have the skill to correct but those emotions in feeling the issues hits all at once, leaving one cripplyong.

My smoking hasn't been the best. I’m still in the habit of every two or three days, I’ll smoke an entire pack & go out to buy another one, by the end of it, the second pack, at least half of it’s gone. The virtue of humanity is on such a slow rise to the top, it’s so hard to do, yet such a struggle to do so, as vice seems so normal & effortless to do. Being into moral philosophy, I could spend that money, time, whatever on so many other things. I seem to never be able to swing into the mood to do anything about it. This is where some of my personal shame comes from, realizing for the first time how much youth is wasted on the young. I’m sure I’m looking forward to having a rock bottom in this area, I wonder what will actually trigger it? Maybe the actual habit of having it or my lack of financial skill is the cause why I’m single. I know there is dignity in the effort.

My thinking will be the death of me. I know better, or at least the awareness I could do better. My actions do not follow that.

Though if you’re asking me, sweets, chocolates, whatever would be taken out of school, a legal age for fast food, higher taxes for such companies that produce such food items, so-on. It does seem hard to get healthier, to lose weight, to be somewhat aesthetically pleasing once you age. Not all of it is the result of not being able to, just a biological part of life. Those self-help gurus who fail to throw out either of anything negative are maladjusted people, failing to connect the knowledge of a healthy lifestyle to someone’s emotions & economic access. We're in a culture where it’s cheaper to buy chocolate than it is to buy fruit. Chocolate for comfort rather than a one off pleasurable treat. Fruit for the body to fuel the mind but displayed for health nuts. Is the show ‘The Biggest Loser’ still a thing? It's an entire societal thing. My weight gain in my adult year is really up to me. At least I know the difference between McDonals to a fruit shop. For what alone is a part of my own doing. If I adopt that sort of all-time positive thinking as those self-proclaimed guru’s, I indirectly flee from reality, to elicit a community where nothing could ever possibly go wrong. It’s not solely a matter of being sexually attractive in the eyes of other people, but by simply supporting local fruit shops, I’ve provided a small contribution to the running of their shop & a slight chance of never having their prices go up & the healthy my body is, the more freedom the medical & scientific community is to focus on much harsher realities of life, such as mental illness & the cure to cancer. I know that seems dramatic but a large amount of truth is in it.

A land Egg Yokes and Cracken Town assortments
Duracell Bunny being full of energy
But today the Duracell Bunny narrating the surprises
It is the time and place
The Town of Easter land is where our story is the trace
It’s the citizens being Rabbits and eggs
Then we encounter Mr. Egghead
He is the Governor of Easter Land
Now every year the citizen folks of Cracken Town and Egg yokes have a challenge every year
You may want to step back and not be near
You could have egg on your face
Over in Cracken Town is where one crack deserves another
Each competitor is different than the other
Cracken Town Gang are determined to remain the reigning champion’s
But are they ready for a possible defeat?
I don’t want to make this story over easy
Perhaps even cheesy
So everything is set, and the atmosphere is in the air, the fragrance of spring
Yes including the Bee sting
So Cracken Town and the Egg Yokes are now in battle
Now hold on to your saddle
Oh no, the Egg Yokes is going to hit that too late, the horse rider
But the horse rider is ok
Wait a minute the horse rider is now in the battle as well
Do tell
Another fight indeed, but let me continue to narrate in proceed
I am only trying to do a good deed
I don’t know why I feel like I am in the town of OZ
Eggs thrown and cracks made
This is definitely an egg war
The Egg Yokes are playing, but Cracken Town folks are no joke
The score is Egg Yokes 8 and Cracken Town 10
So Cracken Town has an edge
Well Cracken Town scored another point
So Cracken Town remains the reigning champion once again
So Easter as they say, it’s Easter Land saying hooray
Happy Easter I say to you, let happiness continue to shine all through

There are those
They'll tell you it's always going to be this way!
Twenty to life
One way or another you're going into your cage...
Try to fight, try to resist
Boy, they'll whip you in shape...

Are you one of those that say, “Well, that's the way it goes...”?
If we listen to you then things will never change

The hatred sown, by the Master's own
Now do you understand the recent decay?

A family of Three. A people free!
They thought they were safe, so they fell asleep...
The Fascists won!
They got us on the run with their tricks of the trade!
So, you wanna fight?
Clean the slate for a brand new day!

We'll just put a stick in the spokes
Grab life by the throat
Then we'll drop our yokes and we can walk away...

To better days

Don't be one of those that say, “Well that's the way it goes.”
We can't listen to you because it's time to change...

If our souls can't change
If we can't learn to love
Then we'll remain the slaves...

There are those that say, “Well, that's the way it goes.”
Now do you understand the recent decay?

We get drunk, there's coke,
there's yokes,
there's drugs in abundance,
emotions pour out through
the broken dam, exploded
temporarily by big eyes,
slurred words, and a general,
overwhelming sense of well-being.

Euphoria brings euphoria,
I lie in your arms "just be with me."
You agree, it's easy,
almost beautiful.
We talk about how we've hurt eachother,
your brother, your ex, your roommate
we blame these people for our losses,
for our inability to just love eachother.

But then
sobriety
crippling and loud, the day is crisp,
lights are bright and suddenly
I am on an operating table.
You are brandishing an instrument —
a scalpel? Or a needle.
Are you stitching or cutting?
Your hand poised above my heart
we stare at eachother in silence.

You turn, your white coat swirls,
you leave.
But wait? Where are you going?
Is this love? Is it love? Is it?