Jeremiah and the Big Bright Orb: A Childrens Short Story

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If I know you're joyous in anthers arms, I'll seek not anger nor render harms, but accept the loss of that most dear, as punishment just to live in fear. Tears in a Bottle. Upstairs on the carpet the warm hall inviting the sound of our trudging feet. And there you stay blinking, teary-eyed winking a lonely plea within it a message tragic ships sadly passing on tear filled sea.

And still onward I press despite depress, hollow and hungry. Nights of desperate dreams, digital paper in reams and reams, chronicling nothing unusual or unique. Never Better. Last night the kiss you gave was without feeling. Remorse really. Just the desperate physical application of face upon face. A starving man will place Worcestershire on his tin of cat food and convince himself he dines on the finest beef tartar. And we all tread the fine line that sways between the stupidly obvious. And the delicate subtlety of a lie we all know is fallacy. Workers striving against the pre-dawn beams, printers unsupervised begin their morning reams, forms for eyes that weep for dying, draining eyes that are weak for crying.

Marching armies of mundane and enslaved, placated by lights played on walls of cave. Masses innumerable that toil for naught, children pre-trained instead of taught. And on we drive and on we strive and on we struggle for the almighty dollar. Morning after night placing our heads in the mutifoliate collar.

Names Changed to Protect My Future. Raven haired vixen with a touch of autumn, delicious, desired from top to bottom. Enchanting and charming though a little elusive, at times high society, at others reclusive. A furious damsel, a maiden ethereal, generous and kind, life time material.

Beaches Not for Bette. In my mind I slay a thousand men with a thousand swords. In my visions of the future I see only a break down. World wide catastrophe, cacophony, community.

Jeremiah and the Big Bright Orb: A Childrens Short Story

Perhaps huddled in terror we will find our solidarity. Thrown a damnable rod or some nonsense.

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I have never been a socially dynamic mechanic. Only a telescoping explorer of dark horizons. Avast ye, I see the shore. And it is bloody. And covered with parasols. Your fires and nights I attempt to share My company you tolerate forgive and bear, As I rattle on endlessly about dirigibles and fans.

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Inflatable Phones and samurai clans. You show us your swords and your most precious things, The metallic sundries bits of memory not pawned for kings. My riches are invested in dreams of prosperity, My life I capture digital for the sake of posterity, And this evening my friends, I will give it to you, What riches remain important and true. This year saw joy and sorrow in measure in the seas of time we lost precious treasure. You Shamrocks Tumbling. The dawn smells fresh as I recall the greatest holiday of them all, The ides away and winter at bay the promise of warmth and mirth.

The pipers all slumber, small in number but salty and sauced. On the ring resonating as numbers congregating wander home, On the smell still lingers of nicotine-hash on sinful fingers, On the tumbling patters of murmured manners, Onward still as shamrocks from fallen banners cascade, Parade to stricken floors of glass and bile-blood stained tile. Quitting the day we all away as dawn commands us obey. Bunches of glow-in-the-dark balloons hung in the air like alien grapes, anchored by shattered cinder blocks and vacant bourbon bottles.

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Within the balloons were butane and helium, aloft and pregnant with flame. The Men took turns firing salvos of magnesium from the flare pistols, Hoping for a brilliant explosion of concussive crimson. The tattered luminescent green of radioactive polypropylene. Savage cries of victory primal and alive.

At the gravel pits edge they threw pilfered fire axes at the trees, trying as best they could to sink a spike or blade into the birch. Heavy thumps and confused tumbling of red steel and wood. They had liberated the weapons from glass cases silent and alone. The Men drank brown liquor and inhaled hand rolled smoke. They dreamed of the End of Days aloud and with hope.

Their enemy was and always will be mediocrity. The Pax Romana legions of mundane Status Quo. They railed against the night and cursed the dawn for rising. When at last the ammunition was depleted they returned. Went home to The Weather Channel and Taxes. Baron W. VQ Oktoberfest. Feel your steins heaving with my bratwurst cleaving unt then I be leaving Onto the next lucky frau. Wasted and wanting and feeling the funk this one a crazy and this one a monk vixens all round me gonna drive me nutty gonna mold your body like pretty pink putty Pork sausage delightful and salty sweet listen as wolfgang will drop the beat.

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Got real bent for all September Gonna recover all November Bring on the she-meat you best remember Remember my name you hot bitches. Chemical Panic.

The hand on the heart is relentless and pressurized surrounding arterial flows I require else retire as I perspire pneumatic and cold and ever more straining maintaining remaining sustaining my control despite the chemicals assist yet persistent resist the grasp of the fist the anger eternal my devilish vice in a world of nice and still on the fist it clenches threatens to choke smothered constrained refrained and contained inside this box inside this box I call a casket my head in a basket better there than thrumming eternal to off-beat measures the little treasures of afternoon migraines and attacks of panic tumbling mumbling rumbling without the words to scream still on the cadence the strained screaming marching a legion through eyes as small as a pin so deep within the piercing is abstract and familiar as respiration the dread reparation for my hesitation and fear.

Lunch break poetry. Try Again Later. In the mind the thoughts are likewise a-rattle. Promotion, preparation, precognitive presumptions of a predestined performance played out perniciously within my cataract-crusted minds eye. Toccata and Fugue providing me a sense of drive.

Half-masked villain caressing and manipulating the characters into sense and reason. Formulating and fomenting a linguistic fortune out of the inter-ether. Broken fingers weaving the web with crazed abandon. The edge of ruin so close the taste of ramen-perpetual wafts into my oral cavity like an unwelcome guest. Time to begin negotiations with the machines.

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Time to rally the true believers. Time to get my ducks in a row, offer them a cigarette, blindfold the poor bastards and get this shit on. Notebook Waxing. Dizzy, confounding, diving too fast A warm white enclosure horrific and vast Trapped in a moment too long to last. Lips thick and salty, skin silken smooth Entrapments and doubts free to remove Time tells the lies our hearts must soon prove. Held in arms and legs and tongue Feeling heartbeats and gasping lung Swaying softly to songs unsung.

Complete and whole if just for a night Blessedly freed from wrong or right The ifs and buts and the choice to fight. Forever I'll hold you alone as I sleep Inside your walled heart I've made me a keep I'll wait for you in this darkness all deep. Sort of Sexy. Browned humor of turkey delight, bring me the courage to face the night. Turkish blend for a turk so leery, make me bleary warm and weary. In my skull make your lavish abode, evicted eventual to echoing commode. For now embrace me without despair, oh sweet turk love me beyond compare.