jobjagtenerste gaa ik met de fiets,en dan gaa ik met de trein,en dan gaa ik met de bus,en dan? om te voet."en warrom?" vraag je?alles zo mag ik werkenmaar een beetje dichterbijonze gezellige thuis.
haar stoutelingsshe asks me how much i love her;i answer, "i love you lots!"she asks me how much i like her,and i answer, "some."
prep-doitsuwith knife in hand,i face the onslaught;woe be unto you,veg'tables!
collabapollooza 3.0as i look back on my life i see the patterns i've created. most, but by no means all,of them have been detrimental to myself and others. the inconsistency of of my consistencies,the consistency of my inconsistencies; my short-sightedness, my abscent-mindedness,the apathy of my empathy...but now and then i catch a glimpse of the changes time, work and prayer are making.in the windowreflection of a catstartles the cat~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Sharp silver bristles...An owl, on her down-swoop,Glares at the the close pines...the mouse, sped by her fear,finds refuge 'neath those boughs.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~when there is no moon above, no light unto my life's path:I am beside myself as a stranger in the crowd -my center has gone and i am pulled into the void.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~we, once again, are living in those proverbial 'interesting times'.not that there is e
if it's sincere, it isn't flattery...the eloquence, the artistry,transcends the mere word 'poetry';i doubt, leonard, this poor bard could out do ya.i smile and cry, i nod and sigh,i lift beseeching hands on highand whisper in the darkness, 'hallelujah...'
not all destinations are final...by fate's appointment we are born as slavesto our perception of the flow of timethrough history's patterns of troughs and waves.if we can awaken from that dread sleep,shed feathers ans fleece (un-be geese and sheep),we shatter the shackles of foolish knavesand we can o'er come that most sublime lie:by death's anointment we're laid in our graves.the mercurial way matter behaves,when understood, is the essence of couthand may be the key that unlocks our cells(the clarion call, the sign that foretells);it just may un-tell that harshest untruth:by fate's appointment we're laid in our graves.
fetish 2.0so tell me, my pet:why do fear and ecstasysmell so much the same?
doors 2.0open(the key turns,unlocking transformation;find rebirth)the door.
sharadigm piftyes it grows colder, but it's not yet cold.not just the season, but the climate shiftsthrough cycles, decades and ages untold.most of time's hands move at scales we can't see,but great and small speak through corollary;my cycles, decades and stages unfold.i see my impairments, i see my gifts;yes i grow older, but i'm not yet old.the world's a mess, though our fortune's not sold;we may still outlive the death of our sun.our final telling needn't be tragic;the highest science seems like it's magic.our race is not over, it's just begun;yes it grows colder, but i'm not yet old.
the playwrightGod is a playwright.He sits in the back rowof velvet seats and claps160 bpm after every act.He closes his eyes whenthe audience laughs together,cries together.His play is very good,and He knows this.After the show,they always ask,“How did you makethe characters sovulnerable? Sohonest? So real?”He shrugs in his tweedjacket with elbow pads,frowns slightly, says,“The characters got away from me.I did not make them this way.”
In a Moment of ClarityUnder the two way mirror below each layer of the faded paint of a coffin, lied the liar laying alone and undead. Laughing in amnesia's grasp at his own reflection upon seeing himself through crazed eyes.I know the story that is told for the doomed soul, and how short it is will remind you of condemnations meaning. A guinea pig by his own curiosity laid flat in useless soils, his was a cliche tale of woe and an ending without twists.A turn for the worst will come with the lights switched on and the glass broken, and his first steps will be into a world without law or regulation, yet a prison all the same where the guards are inmates and the Warden was once near flawless.A hooded figure had come sporting typical black for the cliche fool as told in countless fables, and delivered unto Hell an unrepentant sinner for whom God had wept just like the innumerable before him. The fool will weep from now on.Biographies for these characters are fables tattooed on the golden calf upon which t
IlluminatedLight from within and light from without,Mingling in a dancing prism,Reflecting gold, red, blue,Reuniting orange, purple, green,Again to become a single beam,Focused illumination.
Retrograde LullabyeA slow fallback into the primordial oozehappiness and sadness are equally elusiveThe human condition does not allow onewithout the otherAfter a time, we cannot but helpturn tragedy into comfortand angst into homecomingfor nature does not decree thisonly we, as we heed the call of the oozeRestless are we who sense the slide of timeThought cannot save usEmotion betraysWe must embrace eternity in the briefest of momentsand ride scarecely coffined into the ooze
Five nights in hell Night 1I wish not to say what I seenA child’s heaven has turnedto a living hell.night that your mind wonders,you have no idea whatyou got intobut as the night gose on,they will kill you.1 O’clock2 O’clock3 O’clockthey are going easy.but don’t let you geard down4 O’clock5 o’clock.almost there!don’t let them get you!you wont see the day again!6 o’clock.You made it.but there are still things to do.Until then…Good night…
Greater HalfThe bitter fight for the greater half,Rages in my spirit,The grudges I do not desire,Sink like stones in my heart.To not leave them in the dust,To be strong I must,To fight to forgive,To endure like a mountain against the howling winds.But I am not rock,I bend like seaweed in turbulent waters,The forces I can barely bear,Would I let them rip me apart?As I sink in this sea,Held down by my weak state,The pride of my past does not exist today,As I am.Hands tied behind my back,Tongue coated in poison,Swallow or spit?One choice is golden.Only with water I can be cleansed,To smooth my rough edges,To give me will and strength,So I can be the person I really am.
seeing signsthese sails are filledwith windsome wordsthe ship, though: stilled.i watch the birdswheel overhead;airborne ogham,meaning unread,is muse's locum.
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