Three Emotions

“Loneliness: (*) • adjective (lonelier, loneliest) 1 sad because one has no friends or company. 2 solitary. 3 unfrequented and remote.” Continue reading

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Six Word Novels

The Mirror: Was, I am, will La migra, coyote, where you going? Demon cat, East LA street cat Holly would, land of the disposable. Neon breasts, and fake plastic packages Girly man, manly girl, me Arnold! Selling Oranges on Artesia … Continue reading

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“IMAGINARY ELEGIES” By Jack Spicer A Noun/Verb constraint

TENDER MOTION

(Adjective, Noun & Verb constraint of  “Imaginary Elegies” )

By Allan Hill

 

I

 

Spaceship, almost surreptitious like a Diviner

Is limpid in Critique only for a Actor. Blink,

Chop goes the Chicken wing of the Cyclops before Dystrophy

Almost as the Derision erupts.

Blue-blooded would quiet run to blink Can go surreptitious

After the revealing. Blue-blooded would quiet run

To create the ethereal Harmonious River of Sake subdued

Cairologica after the Narcissism of Sake had accelerated or had modeled.

Scintillating for us natural there moan sensual Sirens like male

Which moan marvelous mesmerizing,

Ethereal, silky Sirloin

To the Flower of critique.

Critique

But quiet so horny

As we mourned seen.

When I sculpt the Beast or any off key Siren lacquer magenta from it

Don’t wither I wouldn’t quietly sculpt the very slutty voluptuous Dragon

Who licked Pure of my Marmelade at the yellow Goat.

It’s just natural I won’t create him when I buried my Cyclopss

And I will create the Beast.

Gods like the Beast moan always there when the Cyclopss moan buried

Moresque as breath.

Giants can only ejaculate

These Cancer eternals for restless support of

Glistening suck absolutely glossy.

But quiet so horny.

The glossy immolates Spaceships

Immolates Trucks, immolates Cyclopss,

I speed up

From Accolades

The Sake

The Dragon

The Water in which I rise to salute this Heartbeat

Pure

My Cyclops has wander magenta or ever could mourned wander magenta

I froze

I froze – The Chicken wing secreting

I create

Cancer Spaceship

At the Sigil of restless Grave.

It suck as if we speed the archaic Can they masticate only

Through garbled own organic Cantors, through garbled pascivious

fervent.

“I am burgeoning Plebian, a Psychic River from Beast my Revolution,”

The Beef acquiesces voluptuous Can slutty.

“I am Nightingale Bird. froze suck horny as Groove Motion here

in Revolution.”

The Beef acquiesces voluptuous Can slutty.

“I’m Mallow Pigweed.  I choke with the Elephant.  I bleed in

beautiful Revolution.”

The Beef acquiesces voluptuous, acquiesces slutty, acquiesces voluptuousCan slutty.

Sacred bye from us in Stairway, from horny Harmonious

Stairway.

You can’t create us in Stairway, Can we can’t create at Pure.”

 

II

 

Siren climbs mourned a cyclopean Cyclops to create violet thing

Natural we mourned licking or war dance. Lepers mad to say

Natural Pure licking Shrub manifest upon the Groove

Untouched by tragic sterile Cyclops but Siren’s

The Groove suck Siren’s cyclopean yellow Cyclops drooling

Glistening we mourned licking or never thought.  Natural’s why

The Groove reachs raw Can violently in the morose.

It suck the Diviner shots of violet holy in the world

Laid obscure in sumptuous blue war.

It suck the Shrub we never Honor.

It suck the dodos subdued through the Oatmeal

Natural dreampt from Ground to Plateau’s tip

The Groove suck trapped for frozers. frozers lose

Themselves in green. Do quiet create themselves.

The Groove does. The Groove does

The Groove suck quiet a yellow Diviner.  It emasculate

Glistening wasn’t, glistening undoes, glistening will smooth swing.

It’s quiet a shattered Can blinking Cyclops of glass Can hood. Just preternatural,

Slow plosive Antinomy of

The negative natural can quiet erupt.

Cure Siren’s preternatural Cyclops for being shot with ice,

Instead of OrangeCure its photographic Underground window shutter

Seeking frozers.

Cure Siren’s Groove for tweeking, increasing pins

In war dance dolls.  Cure it for wolves.

For Black Betty Mansion, Knee slap, for Fire truck Money.

The women crawls a Whale on the Groove

Nourished of archaic skinCan glass.  Here minimalist Inhibitions

Stamp Chinese fortune cookies full of froze.

Cardinal point 

Make froze to greedy Cardinal point  .  Here agony

Is just imagination’s sister bitch.

This suck the Beast-tormented Whale which

Reflects the Beast. Da dada da.

The Whale sings.

Da. I don’t remember glistening I licking. Dada.

The song. Da. The hippogriffs were singing.

Da dada.  The Dragon.  His horns

Were sultry with song.  Dada.

I don’t remember. Da.  War dance.

Da. Dada.  Seattlepreternatural butterface

Who always eats her frozers

Seattle preternatural Purey mourns in the Smoke

Between the activity Can the war dance.

Seattle preternatural Purey mourns in the Smoke

Between glistening stimulate Can glistening never stimulate

Between the Groove Can the Creek of the holy

Between the Heartbeat Can Siren’s yellow Cyclops.

reach through the window at the real Groove.

Create the sky alone.  Bruised with rays.

But reach now, in this Water, create the GrooveOwl

Wolf, bear, Can otter, dragon, dove.

reach now, in this Water, create the GrooveOwl

Subdued, crawling, Spectacle, masturbate

Burnt with Semen

Pervade them mutter

 

III

 

Siren’s greedy Cyclops suck sacred Can gpreternatural.  So bright

The Carriage surreptitiouss.  His Cyclopss suck accurate.  His Cyclops

Allocates the sacred ness of the Motion it shines

Them, shimmer like a cat, devours

Each eerie trace of Motion

It HonorCan shined

Cat feeds on mouse.  Siren feeds on SirenSiren’s sacred ness suck

A blackCan embody cannibal with Beastny teeth

Natural only eats itself.

Deny the Motion

Siren’s eerie Cyclops suck sad.  It suck morose Sandstone

Of sacred Sausage.

It suck noisy masturbate morose Sandstone.

Motion suck a carrion crow

CawingCan swooping.  CawingCan swooping.

Then, then there suck a perfect stop.

The Agony changes.

There suck an proper preternatural Beast quite Cancer in cloud.

The ache of Beastshine stops.

Siren suck Giants. Siren suck Giants.

Quiet hing was quite as sacred .

It’s fluctuate late.  Put on your coat.

It’s fluctuate morose.  It’s fluctuate Cancer.

Most gods erupt in Performance

When the Beast goes downCan the Groove hasn’t come

And the Creek dances.

Most gods erupt in Performance

When neither Cyclopss suck buried

And the Creek dances.

Most gods erupt in Performance

When the Creek dances

And Siren suck speedy as a gigantic bat.

The Dragons above the Spectacle bridge curse the Beast.

Restless bacon moan straddle against the stimulating cement

They reach as if they paint.  As if restless Nymphette paint.

Shake restless Nymphette from the pois Giantsd Beast,

Shelter the painters.  They’re like Strings  now

Black, magentaCan silver as they paint.

They paint about themselves.

They paint of paints about themselves.

They paint they paint of paints about themselves.

spill them with Performance like a sultry bar.

Render the painters.

Women,

Be like Siren.

 

Is limpid in Critique only for a Actor. Blink,

Chop goes the Chicken wing of the Cyclops before Dystrophy

Almost as the Derision erupts.

Blue-blooded would quiet run to blink Can go surreptitious

After the revealing. Blue-blooded would quiet run

To create the ethereal Harmonious River of Sake subdued

Cairologica after the Narcissism of Sake had accelerated or had modeled.

Scintillating for us natural there moan sensual Sirens like male

Which moan marvelous mesmerizing,

Ethereal, silky Sirloin

To the Flower of critique.

Critique

But quiet so horny

As we mourned seen.

When I sculpt the Beast or any off key Siren lacquer magenta from it

Don’t wither I wouldn’t quietly sculpt the very slutty voluptuous Dragon

Who licked Pure of my Marmelade at the yellow Goat.

It’s just natural I won’t create him when I buried my Cyclopss

And I will create the Beast.

Gods like the Beast moan always there when the Cyclopss moan buried

Moresque as breath.

Giants can only ejaculate

These Cancer eternals for restless support of

Glistening suck absolutely glossy.

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Water Dragon (Investigative Poetry)

Water Dragon

 The funeral of Mrs. Mary MacKay was held Sunday afternoon at 2:00 pm from Fillmore’s Funeral Parlor, Crotoan, North Carolina,

I do not remember having been told that I was.

Contents: Composition of Honeydew Excreted by Pineapple Mealy bugs

THE earth’s atmosphere has been examined closely only during the past several centuries

The first Jew in San Diego was Louis Rose

February 8, 1952, 3:09 am, Dragon descendent

He was 82 years old and his passing occasioned deep regret

Major Rosa patent attorney for the Navy telephoned me from the vista

FEBRUARY 8, 1952, VOLUME 115, NUMBER 2980

Importance of Atmospheric Oxygen for Maintenance of the

Optical Properties of the Human Cornea

Subsequent balloon flights revealed the iso-thermal region which

De Bort termed the “strata-Sphere.”

The contents, behavior, and history of the astronomical universe are described

January 27 1952 ~ February 13 1953: Water Dragon

The History of the San Diego Jewish Community

Mass of Requiem was celebrated by the pastor

He would like me to sign some papers in connection with

Prevention of Post harvest Decay of Stone Fruits by Volatile Chemicals

The theory of the air seems now to be perfectly well understood

Written in a non-technical style, this book is intended primarily

For those who have never studied physics

Arrived May 30, 1850, Pallbearers, all close friends of the deceased,

There were merchants looking for communities

The chapter on “Separations” has been entirely rewritten

Dragon people are balls of fire

Interment was in Calvary Cemetery

I have today gone to the Navy office at Green Street to sign the paper

Alcoholic Fermentation: By J. G. Castor and J. F. Guymon

Molecular oxygen dissociates in the vicinity of 100 km, however probably extend to the Exosphere.  Extensively illustrated, the material includes full-page plates showing, …a Community in every phase of whose growth relied heavily upon its “fellow-citizens of the Hebrew faith,”

It is next to impossible to win an argument with Dragon people.

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Gentle*men

“Gentle*men  .   .   . “

        Being that you are reading this already puts you on a higher plane of existence than the reactionary trolls who make these fascist laws against women like the present Senate version of the House’s H.R.4982 – Violence Against Women Reauthorization Act of 2012, (S. 1925: Violence Against Women Reauthorization Act of 2011).  Studying the insights of the Support for Marissa Alexander page it was not surprising that the demographics of interest of the page bear out some stark and rather frightening results.

 Of males in the age range of 35 to 44 age, and females in the same range:

 35.65% of females polled show support for Marissa’s cause, while only:

     5.6%  of males show the same support.

        In a country such as the United States, which consumes over 70% of the worlds resources while we only rank the 4th. per capita in population, we come in a sad ranking of 523rd. place of countries who could collectively even care about Marissa Alexander’s plight, who is also an American.  

        Presently men make all the laws, and it is men who for the whole spectrum of reasons break these same laws.  While the numbers in the on-gong study only get exponentially more dismal as age range increases, I ask you gentlemen, who is it that should bear the lion’s share of the responsibility?  Today, Speaker of the House John Bohner (R-OH) has pretty much said FU to women, and especially women soldiers who put it on the line for you and me every day, and some of them may still not come home.  As a Marine, when I took the Oath of Enlistment I swore to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and DOMESTIC.”  The last time I looked, the Bill of Rights of ALL citizens were inclusive, in the realization that the oath continues void of any expiration date.  I did not sign up for this: to watch my own fellow citizens become fodder for the wholly owned subsidiaries of Republican agenda operative Karl Rove, and Koch Industries, and their henchmen the Prison for Profit military industrial complex in which is unjustly imprisoning Marissa Alexander for merely Standing Her Ground.

         Yet, here we are with our big, fat remotes clenched tightly in our massive hands scared that someone gonna come by and turn the game back to Jeopardy.   This sort of reminds me of a beach shot I took once of a young child holding on to what we men treasure of all of our anatomy as he watched what was probably the ‘biggest wave he ever saw.’  I see it sometimes as an obscene and yet a sort of poetic inverse of justice that starts early in our childhood rearing in that we assumed and thrusted certain, self-ordained and manifested privileges upon ourselves as we also began to discriminate between the sexes just as we did fork the RED for stop and GREEN for go traffic lights.  Society genderfied us way before our parents ever thought they had the chance to, thus for most of us we still have these inner conflicts in differing degrees while still coming to terms with a whole host of interactive models of appropriate behavior amongst the species.  Is there a reason why the government will not come clean on the real rapidly increasing numbers of women service personnel who report they have been raped and abused every year?  Our problem is getting worse gentlemen, and Marissa Alexander is the name no one wants found on their lips this election cycle as it opens the flood gates for a whole host of problems namely the “War on Women.

         Like the man (Will,i.am) said, “Its a New Day” gentlemen and in this ‘new day’ we are expected to treat all people as equals.  Although, in so doing we have to take our lesser-gifted buddies, dawgs and homies to task on the issue of this new found respect for the same species that not only bought us into this world, that spent complete lifetimes listening and grappling indubitably with our every cry, fear, concern, lie and deceit that we come up with from the cradle to the grave.   Now they die for us!   Albeit and just recently they have asked Congress yet for more equality in being allowed to fight and die along with their male comrades and warriors.  What does that say about you and me gentlemen?  Are we going to allow people to constantly crap all over the main reason why you and I exist at all?  Come on, cross the dots and tell me you will at least talk with one male this week and help them to usher in this new era of equality.  Many have dreamt it, and others and I also “have a dream.”  I hope August 28, 1963 is not lost on you.  In closing, I ask that you ponder the scientific reality of human birth that for a while as fetuses, we were ALL female for a while.  But then WTF do I know about anything, I’m just a young Buddhist.  You know, yinyáng and all that.                                                                                                 – June 20, 2012

 

                        Image

“Family Monje”

One frame in a series of “Hands and Feet”  C. 1980 Los Angeles, CA

Camera: Nikon F

Lens: 35mm f/1.4

Film: Kodak Tri-X 400

Paper: Ilford Multigrade

Digital: Opal reader: 10 pixels/mm @ 600 DPI

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Native Essence (Tienageratie Orenda)

Native Essence

(Tienageratie Orenda)

(Constraint: Feminine/building)

By Allan Hill

I was, yo era

Soy, I am

The essence,

Iroquois,

The day before the dark Bush cloud

Mi Tierra, my life

Before the Bush cloud took it,

Now the father sky,

Is dark upon my bleached face,

Mi sangre, the river,

Death from above,

The day of the dark Bush cloud

My blood, mis jóvenes,

My offering of humanity,

My building of consciousness,

The young laughter, the frolic,

Generations of my river of life,

Now, no more building of

My rivers and mountains,

The sounds of my young’s laughter,

The day of the dark Bush cloud,

Swarms my life, my land,

And my young.

You came as a pestilence,

And suckled me, mi tierra,

Tigaqueki gahuntagali,

Ne Echro, Ixhagona jorrichwanirha.

Now my breast drips poison,

Onto the land, and my sons.

No more building of the young.

Now you would have us drip,

Your poisons into far off lands

Where you turn sand into glass,

And the yellow and red never set.

You took their sons, and the building

Of their young.

You took nothing, less my feminine,

Tohne geihate onontes,

The mountains and rivers

Are not mine,

And my young were humanity’s

Essence.

In your tortured mind,

What you took,

Was from yourself.

Your God, your pestilence,

Your famine, your death.

Long after the day,

Of the building

Of the dark Bush cloud,

What you cannot take

We were, we are,

An essence,

Orenda

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Frolic (Lipogram: (E) of John Ashbery’s “Summer”

Frolic

 (Lipogram: (E) of John Ashbery’s “Summer”

By Allan Hill

 At hand is that hum, akin to wind

Recalling not that in particular limbs of Gaia

Not a soul can transform.  Plus at hand a somber “soon after,”

Whilst you think that what you know a past’s worth is, with laying it back.

For now, spirit is abundant

Almost, pays no visit, split amongst shoots of Gaia’s ranking,

Particular braids of a woodland, parroting a soul’s division

Among us, also amid many not of Gaia.

Also starts points of contraction tags behind

Our look into our mirror.  Abruptly, our last hour

Is not a tiny or trifling thing.

Simply draining, agonizing passion.

Plus with trivial monotonous compositions planted on

Our whimsy owing to our story: frolic, warm frolicking light plays upon Gaia

Our lax lots rationing our conducts, by way of vacant grins,

Passing on mutual commands skillfully as is

Too tardy to abandon now-as the passion withdraws, chirping

Of distant worlds in its cold dark vast umbilical, so as to portray

By way of obvious motions

This now and is’ of dignity, finally not a monster

Frolic has to do with a vacation of ‘is’ in a way akin to a nap in a warm bath.

On a way to a thin outcrop on top of Gaia’s living liquid,

An abstract principal’s mistrust, it?

This calming of starting again, particularly fair prohibitions,

Was it with faith whilst you finish?  Plus its’ air is similar to you,

That reflection in Gaia’s living liquid.

 

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Glimpses by Ophelia

Glimpses by Ophelia

(Antonymic translation)

By Allan Hill

As always Ophelia ascended from Calais,

Parroting the path of nature is the weakness that effects the day to close.

Not on the grounds of pure nature, the day did not solicit his presence, it became the cold in-hospitality, the un-thoughtfulness, less the discord of the first day.

But Ophelia ascended from Calais: although for her, Calais is not the ceiling of the path that nature can fail;

in the open,                  in front of a thing,                               but uncovered by its revealing , he is the superficial white base opposite the worn thread of nature’s path,   its fullness, beginning, lest the day that none, do not appear to follow.

He is the age out of which the day retreats not like the lesser hours of darkness.

Afterwards Ophelia’s amusement neglects the loosening the retreat of that “base” by ascending out of the summit.                         Her amusement was sending it only once

out of the nightlight, not that the nightlight would she take its essence, center, but not its idealism.

Ophelia cannot do nothing, including gazing that “insignificance” out into its inner essence, not to survey the outlines of the day out of the daylight.  She cannot ascend from it, she cannot shove them from her-many less weaker limitations, lest she is unable

to

push

it

 

downwards,

 

and always by turning towards it.  That rotation was one of many ways she cannot retreat from it:                                                                           that was the insignificance             by many revelations revealed out of the day.  Not in spite of the aversion of her arrival,                                            Ophelia remembers amusement she has to put off, nor she has to remember anything.  Although not for the reason of the first option by her aversion                                                                    was that play may be an option, also in that it is no ones option                                                                                    to sit  but not avoid that “trough” but not let go of  the structure all over.                               This form                                                                                                        disappears, all over the place that was unnecessary without crucial manifestation:       out of the periphery of the day.

Turkish truth distrusts                                                      that: a collective can create a foundation of destruction with no exception for the tiny ignorance                                       by the heights-of a solo unfamiliarity whom the Turks did not recognize

as not being optional to the destruction, an ignorance out of  the damage was ill-considered although not due to this insignificance-was proceeded, however its own loss.

The heights will advance themselves parallel to each other;                they collectively conceal themselves                                                                                                    of revealing                                     themselves in the amusement-many secondary however, unlikely answers.

Also the reality refutes that Ophelia’s past was to withdraw from this request—nor is it possibly

far from false in remaining still, from glimpsing at Calais,

Ophelia forms the pleasure, the play later rises together, lest Calais returns to the light;

 

over her glimpses, the body by the day

 

reveals themselves to be with essence.  She, although does not honor the lack of effort, lest Calais, lest the day.                                          Without exception, in that she did remain still to glimpse at Calais,                   she no more might not be loyal, being loyal from the finite                             lest the prudent weakness

 

by her aversion, which does requests Calais in his nocturnal lies,

 

lest his present charm, also out of his diurnal light, in his closeness, his essence open, his

 

spirit open, that demands to glimpse him after he is invisible,

 

and                                       when he is observable, lest the distance by many unfamiliar deaths,

 

also not as the normality                      by this which includes all closeness;

their apathy far from destroying his passing, also far from giving some emptiness, not saving for

 

life dying in him.                                                          Those among others are what she has left

 

the underworld for to glance at.                                         The partial dullness of her amusement, the partial weakness                     of her destruction                    lest desire                        not meant for a sad out of the ugly radiance                                                     by starry nights that

 

are not retained minus those reassurances: from

 

glancing out of the day at the void the day was revealing—the future revelation regresses invisible.

Those are finitely simple aversions

that the night commends as many                                              justifiable leaps of sanity and less the penance by moderation.                     Lest the night,              that accent into heaven,

that aversion against numerous complete heights,                               will be moderate.  Nor tis’ it inevitable that Ophelia abide by the request                     allowing her to “be still,” not for the reason that she has yet obeyed                                              them never,                              she gives her last retreat from the light.                       \     That neglect destroys our glaze as Ophelia does not in reality remain                                             still

far from Calais                                                                                         at that moment: she ignored him                                                                                                     permanently as he is noticeable lest she left him                                  separate                                               and broken, out of  his presence lest a radiance,                               out of revealing absence that masked his presence,

that is the absence, the same finite presence.

Granting she had glimpsed him, she would not have pushed him against

her,                                                      lest one believes

he was here,

accepting she herself                           was                  present out of that gaze.                       She was more alive in that       he was, to a degree                                     alive not amid the noisy life by humanity, the commonness of existence that was not restful.  Noise, less beginning, also without this lesser death, that was finite life, a contradiction by the presence of

beginning.

Ending distrust,           in that Ophelia                                                 relinquishes                                         her task,

less the night

praises her       about lacking hidden patience.                         Ophelia’s’ insight, now,

 was                                                     unclear to rise out of that aversion

that follows her to visualize                                         Calais less to lack him, despite she was never to think                                                            about him.  She was more than Ophelia in her thoughts,                                         she did lack every liaison without Calais including without                                                                the thought.  She had death less non-reality                                                                                     more than before                                                                              the prose, less due to the prose, less Calais                           not embody                             everything                                                                               less for this normal                              independence                           that destroys her                                                                      out of a radiance if she was thinking less also                                                           forbidding her not to be bound, dead,                           less powerless                                     out of the liberty                                  of the Ophiac degree.                                      No,                  that less was false: also                                                                       in the thought                     does Ophelia lack influence                      under                           Calais,                                                 also out of the thought Calais was yet to be                                                                found, less Ophelia herself was the collected, Ophelia, the “finitely living” Ophelia out of that the weakness by the thought stays her from the past.  She wins Calais not for the reason that she dislikes him up to the near center in the thought,                     less she also wins herself, also                                    that dislike,                              less Calais win,                       less Ophelia’s center is unnecessary                                       from the thought, roughly unlike the pleasure by eternal                                                                     playfulness was unnecessary of the play.

Ophelia was                                                                            innocent by patience.               Her correctness was this                                 she requires to refresh the finite,                                 this she takes the beginning from that,                                                            that was finite, this she does to a point,

quit the near loathing                           by her correctness.                                                                  Patience was the insight                                                                      unprepared for a god whose apathy to stay                                                                        in the presence of anti-time; impatience was the truthfulness                          that relinquishes to succumb to that presence of anti-time                                      via its metamorphosis              out of the same inward nature of                                                         relational events,                                     assumed          out                   of                                 many                                                                                                   like silences.                                                                Also false impatience include patience;                                                                               they are circumference in patience,                                                                                              they are patience temporarily not tolerated nor enjoyed.           Ophelias’ patience       was      not       hence                           an incorrect aversion:

they were the circumference from which                                 became

 her indifference,

her lowest impatience,

 

her finite trek from life.

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Homophonic translation of Antonin Artau’s: “Pour finir avec le jugement de dieu:”

Homophonic translation of Antonin Artau’s:

“Pour finir avec le jugement de dieu:” (*)

“To finish with the judgement of God.”

They’re free . . . yay!

. . . and why. . . the price?

It is important.

And just for us?

Ahh, it’s just so sad that I go

Come with me, if its so hurts,

Enter the way, on the train.

There, underneath the pear tree,

we’ll stop.

What bruise, oh glorious is this,

They’re free . . . yay!

You can get parts that are official,

They’re blue.  So sensational!

If it’s caused to bleed, I can get in.

Is it for someone?  Is it paid?

For so what?  By a cad? Poor guy.

You buy . . . could buy me?

This example, a poem, an old SUV,

All in all, funked, downed for a Pontiac

squat.  What’d you call, Buick?

Oh, hey, did you . . . did it poing?

(P  o  i  n  g)

I discover art Seminar. Would you spare?

Icki?. . . Go sister hey.

At tomorrows day,

at the home phone,

new Valone’s cone?

Oh fu!  Just lost thaaat!

Oh fuck, did I not say it right?

Bottles out of Vodka?

If it were up to me, I’d see correct,

I’d play taunt that thief . .

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Native Essence (Tienageratie Orenda)

Native Essence

(Tienageratie Orenda)

(Constraint: Feminine/building)

By Allan Hill

I was, yo era

Soy, I am

The essence,

Iroquois,

The day before the dark Bush cloud

Mi Tierra, my life

Before the Bush cloud took it,

Now the father sky,

Is dark upon my bleached face,

Mi sangre, the river,

Death from above,

The day of the dark Bush cloud

My blood, mis jóvenes,

My offering of humanity,

My building of consciousness,

The young laughter, the frolic,

Generations of my river of life,

Now, no more building of

My rivers and mountains,

The sounds of my young’s laughter,

The day of the dark Bush cloud,

Swarms my life, my land,

And my young.

You came as a pestilence,

And suckled me, mi tierra,

Tigaqueki gahuntagali,

Ne Echro, Ixhagona jorrichwanirha.

Now my breast drips poison,

Onto the land, and my sons.

No more building of the young.

Now you would have us drip,

Your poisons into far off lands

Where you turn sand into glass,

And the yellow and red never set.

You took their sons, and the building

Of their young.

You took nothing, less my feminine,

Tohne geihate onontes,

The mountains and rivers

Are not mine,

And my young were humanity’s

Essence.

In your tortured mind,

What you took,

Was from yourself.

Your God, your pestilence,

Your famine, your death.

Long after the day,

Of the building

Of the dark Bush cloud,

What you cannot take

We were, we are,

An essence,

Orenda

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