Thrown are we, irresolute innocence through regurgitated realities…
Distortions of parallel paradigms-
excrements of encrypted rhymes,
Sacrificial sapient slaves marooned by masochistic mortalities’
+++
Prolific pondering of minds within spatial exponential existence...
Social intorsions of inauspicious illusions-
captive calamitous confusions,
Warring machines mandating annihilation with rigorous resistance
+++
Tempestuous tyrants dictating, Overlords ruling of magnetic masses...
Dormant dimensions descending-
seraphical souls forever defending,
Dreams diminishing spiraling, convoluting nebulous germinal gases
+++
Hordes of Habitual hunger, incarnating wells by blackened abysses...
Demons demanding distraction-
embryonic echoes of attraction,
Succumbing’s sensorial seductions of love by misguided misses.
Feb.08.2019
I died a little inside
Sponsored by: Silent One
...the muse is in recluse...only somewhat posting now...partial involvement...will be back to full duties soon...thanks to everyone who have commented...love & peace to all...
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
Seeking a Truth
The sewers under the abortion clinic
is where successful rats live and only
the strongest survives.
From the bland food of suburbia and
narrow minded excrements, unwilling
given back to the drains and nature.
These big rats have survived to sit by
the top table and be respected as those
who deserves a prize for endurance.
They live on sludge of fetuses, tiny fingers
small, beating hearts; also, clean livers;
and the rats grow and reason as humans
Rich rats now have an army of lesser
rats to defend them, nothing last always,
but for some it ended before it began.
I always come to my senses
When my family has gathered
Around my sick bed
They expect me to die
But I laugh at them every time
“I am still trying to get an inheritance for you”
Without it I know
You will tap me on the shoulder
And ask for my stock holdings
And hidden Swiss bank accounts
They know I have no money
To pay for my funeral
Therefore I cannot die
Living is cheaper
Than dying
My family is looking
In the wrong places
Look under my pillow
You will find my excrements
And wonder
Why I have lived this long
Without telling you
About my private life
High up in the Andes
Where the Yogis live
And prosper
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