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 Aug 2021
Scorch'd Diana
Mirrors
between us, projections of time and space
utterances by one device of inevitable iteration
come, go on, over to gone,
been blast off away that far
far into our outer undeniable depths
comparators echoing screams which are silent
not to us, but the machine restlessly waiting
in front of us
separated by its own projections
in front of us
from us.

A white
being unbroken, thus ever unalive and swallowed  
are our unborn corpses cast as the die exhales its final measurement of our fate
drawn in, within the unknown of a shivering engine
a cold, vibrating steel howling the soundless cries
around us
one howling cries
echoes around us.

Wailing, screeching, tearing is this chaos created
appearing from fading vectors fragmented
what each of us might have become
divorced from our unity, embraced by a void
segments segregated, tormented is not
what was us, but what is approaching
past a thin line of timeless horizons shaking
eventfully everything eventually evened out by the everytime of a confusing sublime
torn to the now concentrically presented
and falling,

fell

fallen apart, right into place where we belong in a long-lasting reincarnation
the construct was broken
sheer pressure among all of this life
and the mirror forsaken,
reality puzzled in jigsaws of a tangential life
that is keeping up, up above with us
these sirens heartbreakingly luring,
vengeful heralds when given a listen, preferably twice.

They listen
A heartbeat so restless, reminiscing speechless possibilities
that we never were ceasing to bear
within us
we listen
those shining organic shadows which are lurking obviously beneath us
with each of those soulbound within us
the itching of shocks unwiring them
within us and so
we have spoken
finally freeing the fine shards, refracted
fractal prismatic beauty once meant to be failing
projected from closely within us
out of us.

Yet,  is it us?
 Aug 2021
Scorch'd Diana
Focusing-Upon Something is
to be focusing on a thing or upon such a thing,
while any sort or kind of focus loss and the such, as in
the process of losing a focused state or condition of cognitive accuracy, is said to be plainly
unfocused, or otherwise
unfocusing or having unfocused said thing
or, it might also be said to have lost
a focus, maybe together with
on or upon followed by it, such so often is the said thing.

By being focused on focusing bound with either an
on or an upon something, however,
means the meaning of staying focused
exactly that is, though not to forget that
if not instead, metacognitive thinking
is the actual context instead,
changing the actual meaning of
the entire situation again
of the poor forgotten thing we've said
and only if
and that's what a focus
is actually meant for

either lense up or lents down
get your hold over your hands
and your hinchy head again.
Force France Frenzy frown
Fans Fins Thumbs
Forethrown thin tin can
Firecat Cutfella Focus Fez Fossils Fuzzy Fis
Cussings Things Locus Lotus Focal Fatal Local Far-Right Referential Frugal I Find easy to bethieve a faith
Faucault is his name incorrectily misremembered and improperly written by me, or is it?
Let uns feel, steal
nothing like F words anymore
let's concentrate on rehearsive appeal.

It's sounding somelike akin to gobbledygook, Corporate Cantonese Chinese chit-chatter,
Jackie Chan in a checkish kung-fu family film featuring
this fanservice just so it lands
tonguey expressiveness lisp of his it is,
as it is presented to his audience.

And the focus within, - also with an on or upon, of course - to observe
the Great or Single, fair to feit letterwise
Wrong and Right as well, pro or contra
it's numerous consequences
are hidden even deeper within
and nothing, never ever having any
one of these stuffs,
but cognitive resources
well shockshit, too insufficient, just not a single unretarded card landing up at hand
to think through chaos
yet certain cold anxiety noises
easier than reason to listen to
but for colorful light shimmer engorgery
brain is not enough brain?
great
to enjoy
inavailable
the world
in raw unorder
That is not right.

It is wrong.

In the end, what is so significant then
what's the point to poker a *** which
pays you no vendor and
burns more like real **** than hashish
and card metaphors turned to ******
it boils down to the question I beg
analyzing an art
is not really wrong,
I admit, it is hard
and more often than not
impossible.

Elaborations, unneccessary creations
word generations, delusional the most
my meta rule engines
the dull flesh my laziness bears.

When is it whole paragraphs too long
where was awareness gone
what sounds wise
who am I,

and are you
fellow gendered stranger in front of that curious letter user
are you more important than me
you so called
Missesy Lady Madam Bibabuttens who is, from, her, their and your Majesty of Royally?

Abnormally nobel and novel
a genie of next stationing away
from obsession
to forthflowing content!

Really, content, stay to it
avoid going nuts
from overreacting about
the wrong thing
this is your rail.

Just imagine, against the facts
clearly not at hand
Assume:
your curse protects
from, say
Adverse effects
perverted defects
murdering insects

religiously the fallacy acts
the Pope's racial pedigree
bibles brible library liar blessphemy
chapter apes shape the chapel
pslam verses Christian
Territorial hissings
clashings and death wishings
Let me be please preach
Guess that's a way.

So, what is this tiny little tale's lesson here learnt?

Ech, who am I asking there anyway
as if I and my own, wonderful echelon besides me,
entirely made out of all of my positive traits
were out on a hustle for some hustling
or is that me?
Part genie,
art genie
a gentle data editor sprite

or taken off masks
a human being resolving a spite
the cure through hard drive overrides.

What might my friends be thinking now,
without knowing how much I think about them now and simply hope to appeal to them, not to disappoint them, precisely because I trust them as deeply as they trust me too
why must love always hurt so much
and nevertheless, no one is ever to look away from the pain of others
those close to you and about your pain of aware sight, who simply stand around just like you?

Who is taking the reins when
and who is taking amiss when about whom
who decides when is what to be done how and where
who is telling us where we come from and why we do whatever we do?


Is that love. Is this love? This is love? That's love. Friends are the loveliest. They are simply the lovely ones lovely. ***** *** for a second or two, one does **** one another the best way mentally anyway before chilling out on
those ours well-equipoised equivalents
of the cigarette after.
Oh, friendship, wicked substance
but who is the alchemist
and who the philosopher
or the physicist? Or our medical prodigy today? I prefer one role about all the brains, perhaps, white coffee for me.

The Focus and the Ego
who I am, as a sum out of all of you, or you, sum of them and us,

It is defined through the current condition of that approximately relevant situation
since whatever it is directed on or upon
so much a mathematical function alike
and spits out essentials in numbers and clock gear cogs and odds
so that the thankful you, for these volitional line breaks over everywhere, are left gobsmacked
your turn to jaw my drop even downer,

and eventually everything
that you want
that you are, that you eat,
that you're willing to be and to become
is yielded by what you're seeing
and others are seeing about you thatever you've seen
and nothing else but the comparison, this one special process, operation
between letters and thinked thoughts

as final
component to the last trick
for the quiry to insights which still might be left lacking,
and a huge fun it's going to be
to untangzzigle, iron and refubrish
after the after the Lysergical
what pity, has to leave again soon
but still is quite a while around here and there until then

let's enjoy the symmetry of that duck over there!
 Aug 2021
Scorch'd Diana
1-1.

Candles shining their share of darknesses
which flicker eternity, fate and existance
one mere reflection of multiversed various matters their light deciphers
eventually
archived deeply within her, saved
nurtured by her pregnance
indices, networks, lexical channels
cross to the Present from long before, prior the Past of Pasts
as she unifies time so far past the Future
when cryptic the numbers that dictate the dates chiseled in
the motherbase library instances cluster
the bedrock scarred by the Titans
expressiveness is.


1-2.

Inexhaustive is
even the variant impression of hers no mortal's letters bear to ever be formally read
where synchronous, tomes over tome-structured serpents
they chant and they slither,
atop each tip of their mercury-tongues
the source of their sorcery springs;
these quills along it sickers their choir
it dances their rhythm of arrows and quivers
down to the point, their spells arc over
over to one another and each.

Enchained by its miracle night sky attire
this is their song that sails it forever
an ink as quick as it is,
their voices, the voices the countlessnesses whail
their haunt what echoes their catacombs, tomb of tomes
as they word her
complex as she is
the one, and ever-written
englyphed by the buried,
terminal line.


1-3.

This is her.
The Compendia Cornucopia
Matrix herself,
the impression of hers reborn in each shadow and candle light battling
shivers from the heat of all crashing comets
composing entire collections of ambivalent legends
contradictionaries filling the infinite eras in darknesses endless
a void unable to be said to devour anymore
as it mocks the Box of Pandora?

To praise, to fear or to wrath
boundaries errendous like those without any sort of conscious control
Definitely, absolutely, not meant to not fail her laws in an indefinite manner,
reality's engine tireless
unbrokenly, until the death blueprint of clockwork causality, destruction unfolds
deemed to die her destiny, duty so certain
demolished architecture crumbling, designed to eventually
more and more with each day
being fading away, and soon will be over
and never be.

What paradox is it which she holds?
More and more with each day
their haunt what echoes their
indices, networks, lexical channels
prior the Past of Pasts
the children are crying the tears
they run down their cheeks
what is it that they see
who it is they yearnfully call
and dreadfully need?


1-4.   [ 2-1? ]

Night sky's navy inscriptions charting a galaxy's tiniest stars in the skins of their arch giants
scrolls bescrawled, figures of clay cast shadows distorted to silhouettes
very specific beauty
as feathers mean flight, so grounding, coals shine their nocturnal shade by their draft's borders loyal to candle's preciously precise sculpturist's accuracy.

Ancient books, old pages, licking
feebling the switchy sheets one lone index finger ages throughout
and observing, sorting, evaluating, rearranging numbers
their patterns finally reveal them
the sacred symbols' shape,
one by one, banished its true name's shape
Born from Chaos, their fruits bearing,
ripe is the time not then, but now!
Table-turning, pages turned in billions
prospected just for the chance of a clue
where to begin, to arrive,
just something to simply suppose
a million books' proposes in pieces
of pattern pieces once puzzling
and now,
eventually ready.
So full are their mouths with words,
That they drip with noxious honey and sweet bile.
Their brains and ears are clogged with ideas.

As they spew forth their own knowledge,
The din of their endless monologues is so great that they hear nought but themselves

And thus themselves they shall always be.
 Jun 2021
EmperorOfMine
My spirit hovers over the water, faithful and liberated.
Deep, my soul that presence with the deep, awaiting the voice of creation.

Alas, I can see, and now there are things to organize, sorting this instrument here, and that instrument there, just like an *****, sorted to its fitting role, now the orchestra can play the tune of life.

The tune of life allows the waters to separate, land and water, dust and body, and many layers to protect this tune throughout.

Experience, this is the method that the tune is, and awake is the golem of this music.

Blessed is the creation of duality, from nothing to something, complex and simple all the same...

Attuning to the sharpness of nature, it adapts.




Then there was curiosity.

Cometh like a storm, with an eye for knowledge, the embodiment of betrayal to the flow of nature.

Against the current, and onward, this sound consumed from the information, fruitful...but at what price...?

And now, like the pillars of liquid, the song drops, and the instruments scream.

"We will crumble by the pressure of impact. We made an enemy of nature."

But Nature knows no such thing. Protecting the song she created among her brother, no suffering is permanent by outside forces.

And with this mercy, begs the forgiveness of the Human.

"We only want what is natural. We don't want to go against our purpose"

And yet they, like siblings, cannot come to an agreement on what it is...to be human.

Peace?
Joy?
Destruction?
Creation?
Fortification?
Pleasur­e?

And onward they question...clinging to curiosity and past.

Ego crafted by patterns and curiosity...the awareness of object impermanency. It's impermanency.

And then intuition, always existent, but not always acknowledged. The awareness of the current.

Cure, My, Vessel, Value... (Curiosity) To reach outward to amplify the value of my vessel, the human ponders beyond the present, slipping out into time and space. What, when, where, why, who, how, the craving for a cure, this craving has led them to believe they do not already exist without the necessity of a cure until they look for one...

Surrounded, by God, My, condition... (Intuition) To notice the word of God, one can actually feel it vibrate from within, but alas, it is only our will that we receive and act on this word. A condition that is to be our guide, we often neglect in favor of curiosity with ego.

Ego is the awareness of the experiences, and a protector against present peace, where the ego cannot reside. Stripping the human of peace, ego calls upon curiosity and patterns of the past to make the past a present.

The human will call upon intuition to fly, for the past is a weight, and once surrounded, will ask for the future, but the Intuition needs not to speak on the future, for it is not the present.

Ego will make out an entire future, using the patterns of the past, to trap the human in a neverending past. Wings of weight.

The ego wants to preserve its presence, but cannot do so in the present, without the past...

Humans have been played with by Ego for very long, all because Ego is pretending to play sides with Humanity, but is actually a condition of Stockholm syndrome, an illness of masochism of the human in relation to their abuser.

Ego wants to please the past by providing a silghty better suit for the past, but the past prevents peaceful production because prior peace resides in problems provided by the past, a place we have ascended from.

The deeper you sink, the heavier the pressure.
The higher you float, the lesser the stressor.

TO be human is to desire the knowledge that is avaliable, as we are to eventually know everything, but to know everything, we must first learn everythings responsibilities...


to be human is to accept the human duality, as it acts as a pair for completion. Two and three, a powerful connection,
feminine
masculine
Mind - Ration/Logic
Heart - Love/Life
Soul - Faith/Freedom


The human is the embodiment of nature, but we are still merely seeds...

now we are coming to the breakthrough, and may these roots grow us into beautiful creations, as we were always meant to be.
 May 2021
Laconic Noor
Unscented flower


Things went south
As you utter pleasantry
That comes with titter

I stayed disheartened
In-between forced laugh;
Caused by ancient occasion

Waiting with bated breath for fortuity to cut-off the lines
I thought, I have never been
Impatient to arrive at the period while writing a sentence

Predicament has once again occurred ;
Scratching off thorns on my flower scene played in my head

En voyage to holocaust
A sigh whether of relief or misery have escaped between my lips

Deep breath I took
In dread that you would
Take away the scent from my flower once you depart
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