The pain is mine, not else's
Somethings perceived you when you were little as a mice
Fact only reverberating in you so much later…
To see the young girls of Maria Monte
Why are you writing from or who for?
Xangô says it is an important matter.
Say, Much I would be eased to use poetics
Usage of style like metonimia,
sinedoques, In trotum pro parte
Maybe the losing part was my poetic supposed genius
As in William Blake's conceptuology
And engravures…
The pain is mine, not else's
Not else's, mine is that pain
My knees in pain,
I lying on the ground
Painfully.
Pain that I don't fear you,
Pain you are turning me into a willow
pounding my ability,
Turning tolerance
Into bellicose agility ,
Only leftwing views, if any, remains.
No human needs, not piety
When we follow thy in our cold slumber
Order's not important
The mausoleum where I slept,
Alive talking with my three kin of decay
In a long soliloquy, a one way converse
The most personally rewarding I had ever had.
Bless them by this spring of atheism.
Lament for not getting conseils
Their elderly wisdom lost in words of lust,
Mad as I was mad for pussy and ass
So, the kin, based on unfulfilled desired.
Wrath and lament for the lose fucking
Wrath and watercolor washing off,
Till my dear father, uncle and dear granny,
See, not to come in or on or twice or thrice was the matter out of my advice.
Next time I will dream and talk with my walking death kin,
I will come and see, Seek the absent thee,
All also let them come even without being, jerking with me.
As the sepulcher, in full, was flooded in hot come, ours,
Cross gender, without defender, mender, transgender,
All kin, as it should have been, united and no surrender.
The substance of the moment should be left untouched.
So, no editor, no political correction will be at consideration
ID and superego, or Lacanian categories, loss and encantantion...
Moments alwais passing, dispearing after dancing chick to chick,
Come on and dance, find some painless moments, let your heart beat.
Fact only reverberating in you so much later…
To see the young girls of Maria Monte
Why are you writing from or who for?
Xangô says it is an important matter.
Say, Much I would be eased to use poetics
Usage of style like metonimia,
sinedoques, In trotum pro parte
Maybe the losing part was my poetic supposed genius
As in William Blake's conceptuology
And engravures…
The pain is mine, not else's
Not else's, mine is that pain
My knees in pain,
I lying on the ground
Painfully.
Pain that I don't fear you,
Pain you are turning me into a willow
pounding my ability,
Turning tolerance
Into bellicose agility ,
Only leftwing views, if any, remains.
No human needs, not piety
When we follow thy in our cold slumber
Order's not important
The mausoleum where I slept,
Alive talking with my three kin of decay
In a long soliloquy, a one way converse
The most personally rewarding I had ever had.
Bless them by this spring of atheism.
Lament for not getting conseils
Their elderly wisdom lost in words of lust,
Mad as I was mad for pussy and ass
So, the kin, based on unfulfilled desired.
Wrath and lament for the lose fucking
Wrath and watercolor washing off,
Till my dear father, uncle and dear granny,
See, not to come in or on or twice or thrice was the matter out of my advice.
Next time I will dream and talk with my walking death kin,
I will come and see, Seek the absent thee,
All also let them come even without being, jerking with me.
As the sepulcher, in full, was flooded in hot come, ours,
Cross gender, without defender, mender, transgender,
All kin, as it should have been, united and no surrender.
The substance of the moment should be left untouched.
So, no editor, no political correction will be at consideration
ID and superego, or Lacanian categories, loss and encantantion...
Moments alwais passing, dispearing after dancing chick to chick,
Come on and dance, find some painless moments, let your heart beat.
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