Bantering with Octagons

That's what Rhampsinitus said before Cheops brought ruin to Egypt. Give tea to the pyramid builders and leave the Irish navvies to build their own canals. Fresh fruit is all they want in Greenland where the snow is rarely warm.
 
tea for the pyramid builders
how perfectly proper
one lump or two
now go back and kill yourself building this monument to me
you fucking worthless shit of a slave
where's my whip

blood from your back
like the monthly blood from within me
a flow of cleansing
cramping
aches

but at least i'm not pregnant
then again
how could i be
immaculate mary might
but i ain't fucking no god
 
No god? Much more, much more than god.
Sentient, sensitive being
flowing full, a plenitude of tactile words,
caressing my spirit.
Here is my Helen of the written image,
Who is all flesh and freshness.
Earthness, too, nomatter what the moon time be.
 
Ragnorock n' roll! Pants stuffed musical gods and pussy powered musical goddesses build pyramids out of mechanical Idaho snow.
 
Musical notes, soulful, weeping, drenching a field of jagged iron and pink.
 
Perky pink. Glory be to ducks for quacky things, warm sugar breast, bright wings deep down downy things. Eider up and eider down, she makes me laugh.
 
Laughter is a gift the bold take with gustatory abandon. The rest, living lives of quiet desperation, accept lettuce salads simply because they're there and, anyway, they like carrots. What the fuck kinda life is that for a laughing child, anyway?
 
Lettuce, freshly torn peaches, and mozzarella on the tines of my forklift. One bite of summer, and I'm distracted from your dead eyes.
 
Distracted, not guilty. Conditionally discharged to a probationary purgatory. The charge was "being for others". One life sentence later, my basic recipe is still ketchup, vinegar, soy sauce. sugar and monosoduimglutamate.
 
Ingredients integrated for ingrates in incurably inaccurate inca inflections. Intermittently, I impulse Ingrid's intistine, ink influxing in her incubated infant. Invalids inspire my Impertinent, Indredulous, Idiosyncracies. I inherit infantile insights in international incidents, Israel is important, but Interloculary incidents injustly impound idealist inmates. Iniquity inducts interns into intermediate illusions illegally, their Ill-gotten imitation I-macs are impressive, but imbued with inadequacies. The Implication is inherently important, but inopportune inflection implies an inept inclination towards impotense. The Introductory Iwo Jima isthmus is inland, in ironic inspiration of iconic iron IPO investigation. Intonation is important, I intrude with intrest in Ivory Inheritance. Iodine is insoluble? I Injure Inferior Impala, Imparting Idempotent Integers intelligently. Inwardly Isolated, I identify iconoclaststic imbiciles, Imparting intertia on Industrial intensions. Indelible insurgency of index items, I am Interdicted! Indigenous to Idaho, if not including Isotropic Intradermal intrigue. Incredibly, I intercepted Intuits Interim IV information. Impossible? Improbable? Imminent? Intimate Insurance Intensifies Interplanetary Inquiries into injustice. Indistinct in Icelandic Income tax issues, I imply inner injury in innocent Ink-Blot incinerators. I am incessed by in-bred immortality, it implies imparting important ideas inside Intimate ichor indigestion. Inconsequental inhalation of incongruities.

Impressive?

-I
 
A boatload of immigrants denied identity in octagons. The whistle blowed a foghorn's blast: capsized and drowned the would-be chevalier. Impetus regained.
 
Denied identity was the begining, then ending was my ass hitting the pavement. THUMP. With painful clarity. With reserve unleashed. With bruises unsung, unknown, and unused. Without myself I mean nothing and say less. Without you, THUMP. That would be my ass again. Rubbing myself raw, an earthquake splits my bed in two, my mirror rattles and groans with the shifting plates within the earth, and...... THUMP.
Once more into the breach dear friends, once more.
 
Breeching beaches, we swim. Breaststroke, sidestroke, freestyle for awhile. THUMPing waves pound distantly but we don't care. We float away in elemental solitude 'tween bluegreen sea and skyblue sky. Eyes, heart, tummy, toes: all wave up to the gods smiling benevolently down. Maybe it's not good to let the gods see you content.
 
No clue what to say but trying to sound smart


" an angry man will defeat himself in battle as in life"

"the dead do not bring us grief and pain the living do"
 
green-blue waves crash into shore
piling high with froth and foam
to sweep the bathers off their feet
and tumble them onto the sands of shore

gasp and sputter and wipe your eyes
then laugh and run
into the waves again


no need to battle
(the ocean wins)
no anger matters
(the ocean wins)
smarts be damned
(the ocean wins)
banter with octagons
for the ocean always wins
 
I am on the ocean. Slowly, today. Miniscule movments are my universe, everything travels in waves. I am weightless here, without mass. Nothing I do affects anything. I may kick a leg, but the waters do not care. They continue to flow, flow, wave, and flow. I am unneffected and without effect, and as the waves come my body bends. I am a willow reed in the ocean. I am the water. I am the wave. And, as such I am perfectly nothing.

-I
 
i am the water
the water of rain
the water of pools
the water of pee

never eat yellow snow
nor drink from the yellow pool
nor inhale yellow steam
(unless you're into that sort of thing)

i am the water
the water of life
 
Cognac is yellow. Well, golden brown, really. I sip. I swirl. I inhale. I sip again. Intoxication tiptoes like small tame mice outside the rim of water-wet eyes. This day has exhausted me.
 
Rest calmly if you can.
The water trickles on the stagnant pond,
breathing life, clarifying clouds and murkiness,
yellow, once sulphur, now salamander gold,
refreshes. Alms-giver of light,
I brush your water wet-tears with silent lips.
Many mice were listening.
 
Stagnancy breeds life breeds pain breeds love breeds food breeds health breeds carbon dioxide breeds stench breeds green breeds death breeds coatings breeds life anew.
 
Broody, then, hen? Well bred girls breed cakes no better than than the baker's daughter. The grain and heave of the flour, the mass and motion of the sudden hour is what achieves. Surplus ovens don't more croissants take, if they are lined with spinach green. Temperatures fluctuate and breeding is most congenial in temperate climes.
 
Carbon coated girls frolic with gold Eskimos and take up residency in miniscule oceans of sand.
 
Coated in salt my arms fondle the ocean's swells. Feeling for life, feeling for the violent promise of change. Looking outwards towards the straight line of the edge of the earth, waiting to hear the cascade of the water pouring over the side, into the void.
You are a welcoming back from the ocean.
 
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