Lynk
_frisson_rifts_ _
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Written by Lynk

Gorgeous Flames

smoldering semi gas smell

and a single spark in me

to wrap love around

(like more reels

than the b-side montage

on Nevermind)

as pressure feels

like the grip of wheels

as my patience

skid marks pavement

to get to your place

in them gorgeous flames

ahh my loves for you

ignites the sun

frees the highway

without signs

in incredible emptiness

a weightless candle

that is dawn and so vital

at the speed of sound

as free to me

as fiction in the public library

with ethereal moon

behind soft white clouds

is coming that which

far away forever

pursues

and if words could define

your real face

i could only smile

as they try your name

sensing the shine and glows

those fiery likely laughs

the same mine explores

so into the landscape

of spirit

over the pass and open heavens

to the extended floats

as if coins

upon every crest of the ocean

were all going to

see you at the center

of the universe

the one and only gorgeous flames

which

dovetails and intertwines

all of eternity's challenges

as if the rest were not

connected

by greasy chains

rather smooth gravity

and this beyond gorgeous flames

whom she shall always be

and infinitely graced as

my sweet dreams

 

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Written by Lynk
Gorgeous Flames
smoldering semi gas smell
and a single spark in me
to wrap love around
(like more reels
than the b-side montage
on Nevermind)

as pressure feels
like the grip of wheels
as my patience
skid marks pavement
to get to your place
in them gorgeous flames

ahh my loves for you
ignites the sun
frees the highway
without signs
in incredible emptiness
a weightless candle
that is dawn and so vital

at the speed of sound
as free to me
as fiction in the public library
with ethereal moon
behind soft white clouds
is coming that which
far away forever
pursues

and if words could define
your real face
i could only smile
as they try your name
sensing the shine and glows
those fiery likely laughs
the same mine explores

so into the landscape
of spirit
over the pass and open heavens
to the extended floats
as if coins
upon every crest of the ocean
were all going to
see you at the center
of the universe

the one and only gorgeous flames

which
dovetails and intertwines
all of eternity's challenges
as if the rest were not
connected
by greasy chains
rather smooth gravity
and this beyond gorgeous flames
whom she shall always be
and infinitely graced as
my sweet dreams
 
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Written by Lynk

The Eunuch

The further they went through, hurried beneath the divided sky, the more they began to tell themselves they had martyred already.

Glazed upon that similarity, they yearned the design. Like the electrical poles, like the crosses; laden with pockmarks, remains of innumerous or various staple and nail holes, old weathered bulletins, fraught wood, splinter slit in long splits over their sides; they were rugged, marked, raw, beholding; and if they had to, would hang these two down these small sidestreets epic, novel. The wire connections attached little angles and minor old-fashioned cul-de-sacs without curbs, gravel drives that branched the ideal anointing. Circulated the innumerous pilgrimages richly through to the basilica, where an opening into the woods, as if each infidelity has been tracked to every shade of gray tall atmospheric layer they rolled under over and over unyielding, as if the continuation of the threatening and the electrical flow within that revelation—one for every single sin great or small—made a permanent mark directing everyone’s attention to the place.

“Well now, who’ll encounter us out here?” in some sort of marvelous absolution and sacrifice, they continued; these folks who come here this afternoon and one of them asked practically out loud as the other continued.

That was when what looked like a man, half glorious, half disheveled, spoke. And Similar to the dust-clouding, that is, maybe as the dynamic Tertullian, the glory, that truly does not exist, falls short even, of sainthood, like Origen, with an in-between area, at least from here to the reader; as of yet, separate significance from the reader because of slow Time; or conventionally, from a saint’s period to a modern man’s; and the glorious idea of faith that expanded in that short standard timeframe which had not been distorted I tell you. Yet, without sacrifices—due in part to the feeling martyrs have necessarily done what was required; so many unjustly repent, and only the occasional requests upon them watching over apparently seems contingent—however, to truly consider them at great attention on the man in the great preceding era, requires a different sort of faith. As for, it is like the apologists’ mourn since years presumed in merely triple digits existed; for, how long the hermits dug their own sandy graves in the desert!! for how long Anthony fought the devil in them tombs!! Was how long it took him to respond to her, “eh-everyone??”

Something heroic travels in spoken word; written, though, becomes spread of myth as well; and here, well eagerly telling in fantastic beliefs and magic possibly of such a distance, that somewhere, in sometime—mind the aforementioned saints —one existed, say parted a fire around oneself chained to such a belief. Here are the greatest heroes, loomed once in physiognomy; and I am to believe I witnessed in some old fascination, a life, a miracle, and a day further inferred with one of these saints face-to-face, but, honestly, discovered in that sort of world, with a perception of faith, when these two individuals who consecrated and conceived this holy being out of adultery.

And this child I had believed there remained—by documentation—beneath the wiry connections like beard hairs into faces, and close sporadic gray strands frazzling and curling long with the dark far horizons that once surrounded the ecstasy of warm eyes where they stood, squinted with confidence when this place severed its penis. Not just in as ever awesome as any saint that ever lived, but I believe in every encounter that leveled universes as if in some access through these awfully brave dimensions; which shaped, shifted the entire continuum, Time, and maintained a grotesque elongation of faith in the period from their existence to mine watching them endeavor in that veracity, and that possibility, overlooking a new mulling presented by practical thinking, that they were somewhere; and as continually marveled after such lengths of my own apathy and turned quick in the luxuries of one praying right beside that day, “I know, I know” as Morris had growled contently into that person who wondered about faith. Moreover, as he robustly went, “you are my hero, my hero.” And she just moaned and moaned.

So this new understanding I awaited passed along; finally developed a few, and blended away the myth that fell into a place; for, rapidly gained strength that is intangible, the force that holds through them stories with blessed understanding of such divine diminution, that places mighty wings upon this Morris, and upon the Eunuch he bore as if it were willed, in the same thoughts and literatures as Aquinas, in word without iniquity; in say, joined impetuously to record a sojourn placement along the road for whomever, however long it takes to become published; to some boy centuries forward, a real necessary requisition; wanted to take the path that it takes to create a saint.

“Let me tell you,” he went, “I have been holy set apart, yes. And aware of my own sacrifice in this wheeled chair, I live, though, splendidly in this area of congenial paradise certainly designed by the good will of the Lord for my security, my own severance. An illicit son of an old Franciscan student, the seminary up the road here in Cahreis what I call home. But, all overwhelmed with suffering in this world; yet all the tragic, and all the disappointment with the all mighty and what He left upon this earth as an existence before everyone here around us today, nevertheless, with all this effort for continuation, processes in a mere old tiresome, repetitive pilgrimage. Yet, I know no depletion of faith; of the repletion that grows; and I know the multiple shrines that have come into this place; and perhaps in all effort, I know that I won’t reach some before me, where we are today, as no more than but only an endless dream which merely started years ago.” he told them with lackluster gazes, he deemed it; and to those of whom were not listening let alone present.

Morris could not resist nor control sidled eager twists in firm nudges towards an inexplicable lateral burst that crashed and glimmered the splurge of the shadow of electricity across the sky, which circulated from the galvanic mulling in their musty expanding imaginations, insinuations and ensued a half forgetting of the nearly halting consumption of the interceding power, when the intermediate focus essentially within the woods and his confidence of them possible patrons alongside yet assumed Morris as if a carcass turned roadside when further the transformer had parted the portion of the woods and exposed these two instantly healed by a laying on of hands today, “of course, with enough faith.” As enormous and rather rude an intrusion that disembarked there from the procession.

Not far along the modest stretch of road outstood the impressive edifice, which nearly took all the awe from Morris’ claim. The burst and the fire up in the electrical wires as this congregation promenaded in tens of thousands in its shadows with a similar hallowed fire atop their own clutches, toward the upper basilica. Nearly all of them shared their ailments as they approached, a whole murmur of cries and complaints swept across the way. To the park benches out in the front lawn of the gift shop, the overpopulated throngs emerged into. The sick, in indulgence, unwound prayers instantly in mind; and because Morris continued with them that made it inside behind the shrine, the thunder rolled the clouds over which nearly fell like a river in pieces on those left outside.

Whereas he knew, just as saints had known in the old stories, Morris knew he was already chosen to be revealed in the limitless; a seemingly inevitable and only apparent in mind and hope ridiculousness that overwhelmed. I otherwise was in an ordinary grave instance that generated over the binding of some spirit and vanished into the curbless streets unseen.

He already knew before my thoughts were even in the roads outside. Morris’ vehement, knew the punishment of a child conceived in this manner or style; as if implying the storied right to oppose pagans, gave way to the impression of him being merely an untouchable stain in a glass window. “Consequences are much harder than decisions,” he claimed. Where the complete awareness of minding physical contact within me realized his coat against my hands, without thinking, crossed several times to which everyone in their excruciated fingers thought that they must convince themselves by relying on these words, what he did know, was the impressive child that would be born.

Something of magnificence that neither sight itself nor heart, no, only the soul could withstand followed. “You will need more than just pleads from today here travelers; requires innumerable confessions, countless searches for truth. Today is mine and this blessed boy’s.” …But no one celebrated this comment. It was like looking for something and when they found it they could not have it. No one else knew to follow, to dream alongside of it. Never partake in what it is. The place overwhelmed the day in and day out with all the suffering in the world, all the tragedy, of the disappointing many that had lost the faith and more confined atmosphere, there, with such lucid vicarious perceptions and despairing fiddles, they slowly, upon whirling miniature begging, perhaps, at lengths, gripped into clutching, winding importune prayers to be healed and astonishment that these two did I not melt beneath them. And that was it. Over and over in the smallest breaths he said to her, “I know. I know. I know. I know…” though they did not know what for.

After the mass ended and we were instructed, all the thousands before the priest, to go in peace. So spread the cruel assumptions that just swelled within the bellied land of gravestones by the black spire fences over time; they now carry a thinking that saints await hallowed to give souls to the Lord; because of the instant ability to prayer in the last minute before the only place to find this beautiful physical realm is gone astray. Just as so, upon entering the glorious brightness outside the dim tremendous lull of the stain glass aura, house of God mind you, the outdoors (is his realm, too, right?), before this pathway serried in a routine and rather rude intrusion, some perennial parade for the half forgotten nearly halting all consumption of the intermediate knowledge, and as if assumed to just turn the carcass roadside, now remains with an old-fashioned and uncertain unveiling . . . . no wait. Hold on, not Eunuch….Centaur, the Centaur! Oh, oh man! Oh lord, now I probably seem just completely ridiculous. I apologize. … Morris was supposed to be a Centaur with a lady, and… oh this is embarrassing.

 

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Written by Lynk
The Eunuch
The further they went through, hurried beneath the divided sky, the more they began to tell themselves they had martyred already.

Glazed upon that similarity, they yearned the design. Like the electrical poles, like the crosses; laden with pockmarks, remains of innumerous or various staple and nail holes, old weathered bulletins, fraught wood, splinter slit in long splits over their sides; they were rugged, marked, raw, beholding; and if they had to, would hang these two down these small sidestreets epic, novel. The wire connections attached little angles and minor old-fashioned cul-de-sacs without curbs, gravel drives that branched the ideal anointing. Circulated the innumerous pilgrimages richly through to the basilica, where an opening into the woods, as if each infidelity has been tracked to every shade of gray tall atmospheric layer they rolled under over and over unyielding, as if the continuation of the threatening and the electrical flow within that revelation—one for every single sin great or small—made a permanent mark directing everyone’s attention to the place.

“Well now, who’ll encounter us out here?” in some sort of marvelous absolution and sacrifice, they continued; these folks who come here this afternoon and one of them asked practically out loud as the other continued.

That was when what looked like a man, half glorious, half disheveled, spoke. And Similar to the dust-clouding, that is, maybe as the dynamic Tertullian, the glory, that truly does not exist, falls short even, of sainthood, like Origen, with an in-between area, at least from here to the reader; as of yet, separate significance from the reader because of slow Time; or conventionally, from a saint’s period to a modern man’s; and the glorious idea of faith that expanded in that short standard timeframe which had not been distorted I tell you. Yet, without sacrifices—due in part to the feeling martyrs have necessarily done what was required; so many unjustly repent, and only the occasional requests upon them watching over apparently seems contingent—however, to truly consider them at great attention on the man in the great preceding era, requires a different sort of faith. As for, it is like the apologists’ mourn since years presumed in merely triple digits existed; for, how long the hermits dug their own sandy graves in the desert!! for how long Anthony fought the devil in them tombs!! Was how long it took him to respond to her, “eh-everyone??”

Something heroic travels in spoken word; written, though, becomes spread of myth as well; and here, well eagerly telling in fantastic beliefs and magic possibly of such a distance, that somewhere, in sometime—mind the aforementioned saints —one existed, say parted a fire around oneself chained to such a belief. Here are the greatest heroes, loomed once in physiognomy; and I am to believe I witnessed in some old fascination, a life, a miracle, and a day further inferred with one of these saints face-to-face, but, honestly, discovered in that sort of world, with a perception of faith, when these two individuals who consecrated and conceived this holy being out of adultery.

And this child I had believed there remained—by documentation—beneath the wiry connections like beard hairs into faces, and close sporadic gray strands frazzling and curling long with the dark far horizons that once surrounded the ecstasy of warm eyes where they stood, squinted with confidence when this place severed its penis. Not just in as ever awesome as any saint that ever lived, but I believe in every encounter that leveled universes as if in some access through these awfully brave dimensions; which shaped, shifted the entire continuum, Time, and maintained a grotesque elongation of faith in the period from their existence to mine watching them endeavor in that veracity, and that possibility, overlooking a new mulling presented by practical thinking, that they were somewhere; and as continually marveled after such lengths of my own apathy and turned quick in the luxuries of one praying right beside that day, “I know, I know” as Morris had growled contently into that person who wondered about faith. Moreover, as he robustly went, “you are my hero, my hero.” And she just moaned and moaned.

So this new understanding I awaited passed along; finally developed a few, and blended away the myth that fell into a place; for, rapidly gained strength that is intangible, the force that holds through them stories with blessed understanding of such divine diminution, that places mighty wings upon this Morris, and upon the Eunuch he bore as if it were willed, in the same thoughts and literatures as Aquinas, in word without iniquity; in say, joined impetuously to record a sojourn placement along the road for whomever, however long it takes to become published; to some boy centuries forward, a real necessary requisition; wanted to take the path that it takes to create a saint.


“Let me tell you,” he went, “I have been holy set apart, yes. And aware of my own sacrifice in this wheeled chair, I live, though, splendidly in this area of congenial paradise certainly designed by the good will of the Lord for my security, my own severance. An illicit son of an old Franciscan student, the seminary up the road here in Cahreis what I call home. But, all overwhelmed with suffering in this world; yet all the tragic, and all the disappointment with the all mighty and what He left upon this earth as an existence before everyone here around us today, nevertheless, with all this effort for continuation, processes in a mere old tiresome, repetitive pilgrimage. Yet, I know no depletion of faith; of the repletion that grows; and I know the multiple shrines that have come into this place; and perhaps in all effort, I know that I won’t reach some before me, where we are today, as no more than but only an endless dream which merely started years ago.” he told them with lackluster gazes, he deemed it; and to those of whom were not listening let alone present.

Morris could not resist nor control sidled eager twists in firm nudges towards an inexplicable lateral burst that crashed and glimmered the splurge of the shadow of electricity across the sky, which circulated from the galvanic mulling in their musty expanding imaginations, insinuations and ensued a half forgetting of the nearly halting consumption of the interceding power, when the intermediate focus essentially within the woods and his confidence of them possible patrons alongside yet assumed Morris as if a carcass turned roadside when further the transformer had parted the portion of the woods and exposed these two instantly healed by a laying on of hands today, “of course, with enough faith.” As enormous and rather rude an intrusion that disembarked there from the procession.

Not far along the modest stretch of road outstood the impressive edifice, which nearly took all the awe from Morris’ claim. The burst and the fire up in the electrical wires as this congregation promenaded in tens of thousands in its shadows with a similar hallowed fire atop their own clutches, toward the upper basilica. Nearly all of them shared their ailments as they approached, a whole murmur of cries and complaints swept across the way. To the park benches out in the front lawn of the gift shop, the overpopulated throngs emerged into. The sick, in indulgence, unwound prayers instantly in mind; and because Morris continued with them that made it inside behind the shrine, the thunder rolled the clouds over which nearly fell like a river in pieces on those left outside.


Whereas he knew, just as saints had known in the old stories, Morris knew he was already chosen to be revealed in the limitless; a seemingly inevitable and only apparent in mind and hope ridiculousness that overwhelmed. I otherwise was in an ordinary grave instance that generated over the binding of some spirit and vanished into the curbless streets unseen.

He already knew before my thoughts were even in the roads outside. Morris’ vehement, knew the punishment of a child conceived in this manner or style; as if implying the storied right to oppose pagans, gave way to the impression of him being merely an untouchable stain in a glass window. “Consequences are much harder than decisions,” he claimed. Where the complete awareness of minding physical contact within me realized his coat against my hands, without thinking, crossed several times to which everyone in their excruciated fingers thought that they must convince themselves by relying on these words, what he did know, was the impressive child that would be born.


Something of magnificence that neither sight itself nor heart, no, only the soul could withstand followed. “You will need more than just pleads from today here travelers; requires innumerable confessions, countless searches for truth. Today is mine and this blessed boy’s.” …But no one celebrated this comment. It was like looking for something and when they found it they could not have it. No one else knew to follow, to dream alongside of it. Never partake in what it is. The place overwhelmed the day in and day out with all the suffering in the world, all the tragedy, of the disappointing many that had lost the faith and more confined atmosphere, there, with such lucid vicarious perceptions and despairing fiddles, they slowly, upon whirling miniature begging, perhaps, at lengths, gripped into clutching, winding importune prayers to be healed and astonishment that these two did I not melt beneath them. And that was it. Over and over in the smallest breaths he said to her, “I know. I know. I know. I know…” though they did not know what for.

After the mass ended and we were instructed, all the thousands before the priest, to go in peace. So spread the cruel assumptions that just swelled within the bellied land of gravestones by the black spire fences over time; they now carry a thinking that saints await hallowed to give souls to the Lord; because of the instant ability to prayer in the last minute before the only place to find this beautiful physical realm is gone astray. Just as so, upon entering the glorious brightness outside the dim tremendous lull of the stain glass aura, house of God mind you, the outdoors (is his realm, too, right?), before this pathway serried in a routine and rather rude intrusion, some perennial parade for the half forgotten nearly halting all consumption of the intermediate knowledge, and as if assumed to just turn the carcass roadside, now remains with an old-fashioned and uncertain unveiling . . . . no wait. Hold on, not Eunuch….Centaur, the Centaur! Oh, oh man! Oh lord, now I probably seem just completely ridiculous. I apologize. … Morris was supposed to be a Centaur with a lady, and… oh this is embarrassing.
 
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In 15 words tell me why you write
Written by Lynk

I write to Link

To connect. to share this confusing syndrome i have. to explain my issues for posterity.   

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In 15 words tell me why you write
Written by Lynk
I write to Link
To connect. to share this confusing syndrome i have. to explain my issues for posterity.   
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Written by Lynk

Bird

A little birdie once told me so

There's too much strength 

For this earth to evaporate 

Not so much within yours truly

But A strength the God of gods

Could not vanquish 

(Otherwise, what

Was the point to squish

Nebuale into a world?)

The wind in its soul

Good you heard

Of my impact

The Bird inferred

With a voice 

Like wings of a butterfly

And yea then I was 

hanging out and with it

With this mad-crazy poetic 

Prosing on about and never written

Oh How in minutiae 

sheer emo gleams

Without all the creams

Save fir the rediculous

Moonbeams he ceremony

He championed as literature

At gazes in tiny species

Merely when existing aloud

That celerity which was him

Etched in an age on stages

With muses ruining generations

With Philosophy heartbreaking

In every bar corner of the cities

And freaking garage chords 

Then emulating via radios

Like elongated this eloquence

In instances overwhelming

As if the philosophy ordure

As if the philosophy mindset

As if we had no opposition

Or no chance to offer

A small varied view

To that dropped, like gross rain

Onto windshields

As if we were merely cameras 

Watching from in the trees

These Perspectives greater than

Yet too much strength

And The way he even said

I do believe in Jesus

But my faith ends there

However I choose 

And i gotta tell you

Yet no matter 

Where i awoke

As i have lived 

In a multitude of homes

Stains wriggled open my heart

Form a better form against thee arts

Cuz then there is the same bird

Chirpa chirpa churpa

Warming through ma soul

Warming up like that fresh sense

Of a new Spring

Just beyond new windows. 

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Written by Lynk
Bird
A little birdie once told me so
There's too much strength 
For this earth to evaporate 
Not so much within yours truly
But A strength the God of gods
Could not vanquish 
(Otherwise, what
Was the point to squish
Nebuale into a world?)
The wind in its soul

Good you heard
Of my impact
The Bird inferred
With a voice 
Like wings of a butterfly

And yea then I was 
hanging out and with it
With this mad-crazy poetic 
Prosing on about and never written
Oh How in minutiae 
sheer emo gleams
Without all the creams
Save fir the rediculous
Moonbeams he ceremony
He championed as literature
At gazes in tiny species
Merely when existing aloud
That celerity which was him
Etched in an age on stages
With muses ruining generations
With Philosophy heartbreaking
In every bar corner of the cities
And freaking garage chords 
Then emulating via radios
Like elongated this eloquence
In instances overwhelming

As if the philosophy ordure
As if the philosophy mindset
As if we had no opposition
Or no chance to offer
A small varied view
To that dropped, like gross rain
Onto windshields

As if we were merely cameras 
Watching from in the trees
These Perspectives greater than
Yet too much strength
And The way he even said
I do believe in Jesus
But my faith ends there

However I choose 
And i gotta tell you
Yet no matter 
Where i awoke
As i have lived 
In a multitude of homes
Stains wriggled open my heart
Form a better form against thee arts
Cuz then there is the same bird
Chirpa chirpa churpa
Warming through ma soul
Warming up like that fresh sense
Of a new Spring
Just beyond new windows. 
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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap

Figurines and Expectations

So gracious that I was not taken

From this penultimate generation

Right as it advent

But oh oh I could have been

So deep breath in

Huhhh_whooooo000

in the blood and fantastic ooze,

of the arenas that are our souls

wailed into, our eardrums

electrically guitar

charges right mega inside

the poltergeist fuzz

and that static madness

oh yeah the sense of raging

to keep sentience to the chords,

ears slit in exactly how fast

that unleash,

the insanity

growing on puberty and

and oh how they’ll ever catch

the screaming highway nous,

ever fast diluted

majestic instruments and anthems….

oh how I could have missed more

amps and perpetual montage segments

stretched

where highlighted horizons

dawned so graceful, elongated,

appeared in the usual thin morning

and busted open over rising the sounds

in some trek of peripheral details

faintly captured into parallel effects

like the horizon whisks

as the noises all went next to each other,

strained, turned and cooked

to the mirror-like theater stage lights

reflecting as they shape faces and hairs

and yet become fearless figurines and expectations

and the frisson rifts lifted through arenas

swarms of waves ever penetrated

but to those lengths

ahhhh they get

all-encompassing in the little

over-detailed spaces

I occupied; where I would have never

heard it and maybe it would have fade

within the subcity streets;

and within hidden speakers

but but but just to stay

stay aware,

just to remain flaming into the stretches

of the enhanced tiny moments

when thee adventure finally came….

perhaps just for this place in me

of the immaculate emergence

where little draped lights blended

but beginnings

well about the music that reamed

sick bloodstreams and leaked slick chills

all surfaced form in the air

and then exit into the existence;

yea when I’d rather have been written down;

where I would rather be written

within the strength and energy, listening,

within that power crammed

and unpolished, strum, hum melodic

finding a baseline overly nostalgic, mmmaybe

#socrushmebaby_imallears

about guitar fiddles, or the pierced;

the brand new literature;

that remains in the diaphragm all day,

in the fresh spirit, in fortuitous imagination,

discovered in this loud advance of angels

in wild hair and icicles breath; within that

cold passing through nasal passages,

in the soothing all at once

in so close and so near;

in so over and over

so ensnared in-charged

(when you feel your ear hairs)

stuffed drums indescribably unique,

vamped but slow and deliberate,

fierce but gentle and intelligent,

sonic lyrics disengaging

the way teens can deeply dream

when they begin a long drive

oh yes I am so gracious

to have witnessed the alternative

cosmic accumulation

all painted over

the states

the places garages were made

for when we were just

figurines with great expectations

 

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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap
Figurines and Expectations
So gracious that I was not taken
From this penultimate generation
Right as it advent
But oh oh I could have been
So deep breath in
Huhhh_whooooo000
in the blood and fantastic ooze,
of the arenas that are our souls
wailed into, our eardrums
electrically guitar
charges right mega inside
the poltergeist fuzz
and that static madness
oh yeah the sense of raging
to keep sentience to the chords,
ears slit in exactly how fast
that unleash,
the insanity
growing on puberty and
and oh how they’ll ever catch
the screaming highway nous,
ever fast diluted
majestic instruments and anthems….
oh how I could have missed more
amps and perpetual montage segments
stretched
where highlighted horizons
dawned so graceful, elongated,
appeared in the usual thin morning
and busted open over rising the sounds
in some trek of peripheral details
faintly captured into parallel effects
like the horizon whisks
as the noises all went next to each other,
strained, turned and cooked
to the mirror-like theater stage lights
reflecting as they shape faces and hairs
and yet become fearless figurines and expectations
and the frisson rifts lifted through arenas
swarms of waves ever penetrated
but to those lengths
ahhhh they get
all-encompassing in the little
over-detailed spaces
I occupied; where I would have never
heard it and maybe it would have fade
within the subcity streets;
and within hidden speakers
but but but just to stay
stay aware,
just to remain flaming into the stretches
of the enhanced tiny moments
when thee adventure finally came….
perhaps just for this place in me
of the immaculate emergence
where little draped lights blended
but beginnings
well about the music that reamed
sick bloodstreams and leaked slick chills
all surfaced form in the air
and then exit into the existence;
yea when I’d rather have been written down;
where I would rather be written
within the strength and energy, listening,
within that power crammed
and unpolished, strum, hum melodic
finding a baseline overly nostalgic, mmmaybe
#socrushmebaby_imallears
about guitar fiddles, or the pierced;
the brand new literature;
that remains in the diaphragm all day,
in the fresh spirit, in fortuitous imagination,
discovered in this loud advance of angels
in wild hair and icicles breath; within that
cold passing through nasal passages,
in the soothing all at once
in so close and so near;
in so over and over
so ensnared in-charged
(when you feel your ear hairs)
stuffed drums indescribably unique,
vamped but slow and deliberate,
fierce but gentle and intelligent,
sonic lyrics disengaging
the way teens can deeply dream
when they begin a long drive
oh yes I am so gracious
to have witnessed the alternative
cosmic accumulation
all painted over
the states
the places garages were made
for when we were just
figurines with great expectations
 
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Short and sweet challenge. Write a story--a horror, thriller, drama, comedy, tragedy, etc.--in 15 words. See how much impact you can make with such few words. Winning prize: 50 coins
Written by Lynk

After the Flames

Ephemeral misfortunes

She drastically placed

Pictures

She separates

Windows

She pursuades silhouettes

Encounters

She's taken

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Short and sweet challenge. Write a story--a horror, thriller, drama, comedy, tragedy, etc.--in 15 words. See how much impact you can make with such few words. Winning prize: 50 coins
Written by Lynk
After the Flames
Ephemeral misfortunes
She drastically placed
Pictures
She separates
Windows
She pursuades silhouettes
Encounters
She's taken
5
2
2
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20 reads
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Written by Lynk in portal Micropoetry

Exposed

Exposed to the extent of fiction

freed, dignified, resolute

 I - I seriously cannot believe 

the fool that I was

delusions of these clowns

step in shatters

smooth, alright.

Exemplary

as a tinfoil head.

General respite 

mocking the worst situations.

But should have never 

touched the rain  

twisted and racing.. unfettered

  

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Written by Lynk in portal Micropoetry
Exposed
Exposed to the extent of fiction
freed, dignified, resolute
 I - I seriously cannot believe 
the fool that I was
delusions of these clowns
step in shatters
smooth, alright.
Exemplary
as a tinfoil head.
General respite 
mocking the worst situations.
But should have never 
touched the rain  
twisted and racing.. unfettered
  
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0
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5 reads
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Once upon a time, there was a table that... Finish the sentence!
Written by Lynk

The overflow and the night Austin finally plowed the screwdriver through

Once upon a time there was a table that was thick wood and carved in by all visitors. Especially euchre legends and '10,000' champions; filtered smokey elevations . . . memories. In the Southend ruins. We keyed our names. Quoted. Scraped things. Knived. Recessed permanent marker designs throwing Jacks/Aces/spinning straights/sixes....    

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Once upon a time, there was a table that... Finish the sentence!
Written by Lynk
The overflow and the night Austin finally plowed the screwdriver through
Once upon a time there was a table that was thick wood and carved in by all visitors. Especially euchre legends and '10,000' champions; filtered smokey elevations . . . memories. In the Southend ruins. We keyed our names. Quoted. Scraped things. Knived. Recessed permanent marker designs throwing Jacks/Aces/spinning straights/sixes....    
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CotW #64: Write about the most hilarious thing you have ever witnessed. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by Lynk

Mystified Chords of Vision

Organic sinews into the afternoon

chewed hidden meanings in like food

Gentlemen; one head-phoned

with two fingered glove, crams

extended pinky, chalk, twists, slam!

along carpeted bench perimeter

another sat on, speaking out loud

to him and the manager. . . .

“Well, I believe the idea of an economy

simply requires sustenance, uh...to remain.

For civilization or ‘life’ (if you will)

to preserve itself is the ultimate triumph.”

All some confounding numb comfort

of reasonably shifted instance, as my apocalypse

Time-maneuvered, an envisioned fallen

Of the 20th century, closed in to the promised end

Placed every anxious certainty

upon power failures, palms of daylight

melt down, comet tidals and two-tone typhoons

Computing outages, screens blipped mad

further in these mind boggling

Beautiful circuitries than crudely ensued

with stupid hope; and scampered scrimping labors

by the speakers anymore - as vanished, done

as for something finally counting to zero;

sounds the final whistle

as the ball drops of déjà vus trailed away

as the real separation

And a billion shoulders gathered, mashed,

youths kinked, ages crushed into where?

Perhaps sent in wildest chills

through the front doors, here

into the extension of the world

of uninterrupted poses inside areas

where the assumption of hall life, the inevitable

arrested all-movement spins

bursting bubbly popped glances

Seeing these split-second, mushroom cloud images

unsettlingly systemic fire beams

over and over attach like traffic, intervene

sinuous sunlight tall window panes

Reflected and disturbing, distributing

blaze repetitively

through tomorrow’s thoughtless continuance

As if near the front windows, bright looks

In own my revere save them in breast pockets,

And instrumental vestments

Trying to explain all, to explain to all

that matchstick ignition

like Glenarm’s facing backdoors

Thus leading to

in their search for my dreams,

into my ideas that remained nowhere

Double chances steeped

floats from these rumbles

never slowing down

Nor physically soaking in, but

like my fails to suck on the food,

oh the central aggravation

drip sickening leaks

not circulating in pumping arteries

where pulses energize, instead

“Would you suppose I intended

to look differently had I fed

this brain and anatomy already this morning?

You suppose I would have dressed differently?”

The other finally returns, turning out a bud

as each vehicle flashed tremendous

stone reflections across them windows

where spray-painted “the END has already passed”

on the graffiti walls into the alleys of quotes

And The Real separation of microsounds

sprayed from the uvula “Reach! Touch me!!”

I always had in me.

Into a look in yesterdays of someone

in clothes so old the angel carver himself

would weep

Oh before, though, twisted sentences, enclosed

in this TV blur freebased on thinner, obscure

Again & again pressed smooth back,

easily filled lost tracks of all trains of thought

With chills slipped, minnows’ lips

gasping on hot vinyl sunlit ahh hobby, a hero,

Glorious pinnacles lingered stronger and stronger,

scents of Rane Arroyo, water burning. And Visions...

Thinking muscles began to understand

glooms & deeply yearned emotions of images

of the ones rummaged around for metaphors

Of the overgrowth near the edges

The dirty unkempt places

in the moments unsuccessfully, overlooked corners

Meaning places extended

well in posterior breaths, along foundations

and such resemblances to my predecessors

that Only spurred smooth Camden

In my new heart as I was searching,

circulating curves in space, then came in

compressions to peripheral natures

& when the sun crossed over

into night in the sky-solar system sunk

within All them waiting, the waiting room

& preoccupation of the poolhall

sense, captured in intriguing fatigue,

cluttered amongst

& maybe that everything

Which does not aimlessly star everywhere,

so pulled the Still-dissolving

little white paper flakes,

in the absent coated slivers quick aura

that minded a distance through

sharp razoring afternoon beams, memory

as each, parts flustered & jumbled

each glass all over the floor, just in pieces

-the near shattered open entrance

And the all-Hysterical laughing where in the hall

where I had been, gone in, with those old men

in nonsense

Cuts, tickles, giggled squirmed ripples

in the sinking rainbow of their own hullabaloo

that desperate drove... for

“Fuck!! There it is!” sundry considerations

about implausible or something, someone

Deepened backwards in a telescope; as glimpses

quickly as night segue, and the alignment

of prophecies of me entering into the place

So overhead in the hall was that

As heaven swept up, shattered,

stones through stain glass music

we all Counteractive believed in

spirits & a power, but thee older men

and intangible connection, contact inside

Some dusted crying from sky to land

The squeezed cloudless showering,

pinholes in pinholes

as a smoldering desire to feel the texture,

dangle small collage on one fingertip

in full detail of its hand

Struggling stranded fidgets all tangled

enduring the glowing everlong, ecstasy

The Manager snipped about,

“to pieces with thees poetry

--trapped storytelling, perspectives on discs

-they have kind of struck that,

beside I work

engines

no concern with invention

of . . . . of lyrics”

spins his own in axle grease, ball bearings

and whatnot, roses of stories

Now whereas one remained on the bench;

The wood seat the entire length of the wall

when that part lived thoroughly, this fallacy

Like computer clackers, hacking

across keyboards in hypnotic communication,

swirled that which skin into cyberspaces’ lining,

innards pressed deep

The sounds of divine fingertips

Transmute within a TV; soooo understanding,

communicating, connecting all the bite-size particles

And as such dust spreads,

ignorant trends swell

as if novel, yet the minds must experience

itself, instant

And now the whole thing gathers

in the sky clouds, the endless mutating

piece of art in palms, the infinitesimal drops

then broken out of magic glaze

like whispers, annoying sensations

intertwined snickers, cracks,

deflates the twisted logic

But those strong old hearts once danced with...

around the instances, and now cranked in grins

at their beady eyes

The Gazed big, tough, practical old timer, yeah,

right through, right (points) “their fuckin beady eyes”

So roars the other two

Amongst an incubus of Classic brewing

fitting the scenery, a song in my head maybe

And I’ll just cherish backwards

As deathly looks burned, drew closer, his

became dying & all the news

spread silent pitiful variations

Scrolling of the discovered chips, endless art

Scrolled anymore along the walls

Across to all the screens

And above the weird wonderful halberds,

With his thick comets dipped

of multitudes & myriad infiltrations

inTo invincible stares,

strive the middle, around the nose

kind of jab as if the dragon’s heart, Achilles heel

the awesome primitive imaginations

like Yawning flames

from heavy throat

‘An in my first memories that shot Kennedy’

(to let...you know)

But could no longer resist

to these mystified chords

of Vision,

a retaliation that would long to maneuver

the over-theatrical

over-orchestrated extravagant valor

he so infuriated -to pluck out into oblivion

like the Dark squamous clouds hung endless

the reality of the spreaded falling luminaries

and here is where I pulled anchor

since I could not sit still,

headed ashore, as vessels I contemplated too

Squinted slow, gradually rose,

unfolded flip-phones, flops to step in,

rinse the grime of glossy cues

Then finger-slit slightly open

the stream of red pinnacle

giving in to the end

But mirrored, glide back & forth

remembering Visions, opening forth

yelled, “Reach! Touch me!!”

from in them mystified chords

across the avenue’s wire sagged forest

 

3
2
0
Juice
32 reads
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Juice
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CotW #64: Write about the most hilarious thing you have ever witnessed. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.
Written by Lynk
Mystified Chords of Vision
Organic sinews into the afternoon
chewed hidden meanings in like food
Gentlemen; one head-phoned
with two fingered glove, crams
extended pinky, chalk, twists, slam!
along carpeted bench perimeter
another sat on, speaking out loud
to him and the manager. . . .
“Well, I believe the idea of an economy
simply requires sustenance, uh...to remain.
For civilization or ‘life’ (if you will)
to preserve itself is the ultimate triumph.”
All some confounding numb comfort
of reasonably shifted instance, as my apocalypse
Time-maneuvered, an envisioned fallen
Of the 20th century, closed in to the promised end
Placed every anxious certainty
upon power failures, palms of daylight
melt down, comet tidals and two-tone typhoons
Computing outages, screens blipped mad
further in these mind boggling
Beautiful circuitries than crudely ensued
with stupid hope; and scampered scrimping labors
by the speakers anymore - as vanished, done
as for something finally counting to zero;
sounds the final whistle
as the ball drops of déjà vus trailed away
as the real separation
And a billion shoulders gathered, mashed,
youths kinked, ages crushed into where?
Perhaps sent in wildest chills
through the front doors, here
into the extension of the world
of uninterrupted poses inside areas
where the assumption of hall life, the inevitable
arrested all-movement spins
bursting bubbly popped glances
Seeing these split-second, mushroom cloud images
unsettlingly systemic fire beams
over and over attach like traffic, intervene
sinuous sunlight tall window panes
Reflected and disturbing, distributing
blaze repetitively
through tomorrow’s thoughtless continuance
As if near the front windows, bright looks
In own my revere save them in breast pockets,
And instrumental vestments
Trying to explain all, to explain to all
that matchstick ignition
like Glenarm’s facing backdoors
Thus leading to
in their search for my dreams,
into my ideas that remained nowhere
Double chances steeped
floats from these rumbles
never slowing down
Nor physically soaking in, but
like my fails to suck on the food,
oh the central aggravation
drip sickening leaks
not circulating in pumping arteries
where pulses energize, instead
“Would you suppose I intended
to look differently had I fed
this brain and anatomy already this morning?
You suppose I would have dressed differently?”
The other finally returns, turning out a bud
as each vehicle flashed tremendous
stone reflections across them windows
where spray-painted “the END has already passed”
on the graffiti walls into the alleys of quotes
And The Real separation of microsounds
sprayed from the uvula “Reach! Touch me!!”
I always had in me.
Into a look in yesterdays of someone
in clothes so old the angel carver himself
would weep
Oh before, though, twisted sentences, enclosed
in this TV blur freebased on thinner, obscure
Again & again pressed smooth back,
easily filled lost tracks of all trains of thought
With chills slipped, minnows’ lips
gasping on hot vinyl sunlit ahh hobby, a hero,
Glorious pinnacles lingered stronger and stronger,
scents of Rane Arroyo, water burning. And Visions...
Thinking muscles began to understand
glooms & deeply yearned emotions of images
of the ones rummaged around for metaphors
Of the overgrowth near the edges
The dirty unkempt places
in the moments unsuccessfully, overlooked corners
Meaning places extended
well in posterior breaths, along foundations
and such resemblances to my predecessors
that Only spurred smooth Camden
In my new heart as I was searching,
circulating curves in space, then came in
compressions to peripheral natures
& when the sun crossed over
into night in the sky-solar system sunk
within All them waiting, the waiting room
& preoccupation of the poolhall
sense, captured in intriguing fatigue,
cluttered amongst
& maybe that everything
Which does not aimlessly star everywhere,
so pulled the Still-dissolving
little white paper flakes,
in the absent coated slivers quick aura
that minded a distance through
sharp razoring afternoon beams, memory
as each, parts flustered & jumbled
each glass all over the floor, just in pieces
-the near shattered open entrance
And the all-Hysterical laughing where in the hall
where I had been, gone in, with those old men
in nonsense
Cuts, tickles, giggled squirmed ripples
in the sinking rainbow of their own hullabaloo
that desperate drove... for
“Fuck!! There it is!” sundry considerations
about implausible or something, someone
Deepened backwards in a telescope; as glimpses
quickly as night segue, and the alignment
of prophecies of me entering into the place
So overhead in the hall was that
As heaven swept up, shattered,
stones through stain glass music
we all Counteractive believed in
spirits & a power, but thee older men
and intangible connection, contact inside
Some dusted crying from sky to land
The squeezed cloudless showering,
pinholes in pinholes
as a smoldering desire to feel the texture,
dangle small collage on one fingertip
in full detail of its hand
Struggling stranded fidgets all tangled
enduring the glowing everlong, ecstasy
The Manager snipped about,
“to pieces with thees poetry
--trapped storytelling, perspectives on discs
-they have kind of struck that,
beside I work
engines
no concern with invention
of . . . . of lyrics”
spins his own in axle grease, ball bearings
and whatnot, roses of stories
Now whereas one remained on the bench;
The wood seat the entire length of the wall
when that part lived thoroughly, this fallacy
Like computer clackers, hacking
across keyboards in hypnotic communication,
swirled that which skin into cyberspaces’ lining,
innards pressed deep
The sounds of divine fingertips
Transmute within a TV; soooo understanding,
communicating, connecting all the bite-size particles
And as such dust spreads,
ignorant trends swell
as if novel, yet the minds must experience
itself, instant
And now the whole thing gathers
in the sky clouds, the endless mutating
piece of art in palms, the infinitesimal drops
then broken out of magic glaze
like whispers, annoying sensations
intertwined snickers, cracks,
deflates the twisted logic
But those strong old hearts once danced with...
around the instances, and now cranked in grins
at their beady eyes
The Gazed big, tough, practical old timer, yeah,
right through, right (points) “their fuckin beady eyes”
So roars the other two
Amongst an incubus of Classic brewing
fitting the scenery, a song in my head maybe
And I’ll just cherish backwards
As deathly looks burned, drew closer, his
became dying & all the news
spread silent pitiful variations
Scrolling of the discovered chips, endless art
Scrolled anymore along the walls
Across to all the screens
And above the weird wonderful halberds,
With his thick comets dipped
of multitudes & myriad infiltrations
inTo invincible stares,
strive the middle, around the nose
kind of jab as if the dragon’s heart, Achilles heel
the awesome primitive imaginations
like Yawning flames
from heavy throat
‘An in my first memories that shot Kennedy’
(to let...you know)
But could no longer resist
to these mystified chords
of Vision,
a retaliation that would long to maneuver
the over-theatrical
over-orchestrated extravagant valor
he so infuriated -to pluck out into oblivion
like the Dark squamous clouds hung endless
the reality of the spreaded falling luminaries
and here is where I pulled anchor
since I could not sit still,
headed ashore, as vessels I contemplated too
Squinted slow, gradually rose,
unfolded flip-phones, flops to step in,
rinse the grime of glossy cues
Then finger-slit slightly open
the stream of red pinnacle
giving in to the end
But mirrored, glide back & forth
remembering Visions, opening forth
yelled, “Reach! Touch me!!”
from in them mystified chords
across the avenue’s wire sagged forest

 
3
2
0
Juice
32 reads
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Juice
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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap

Strangled - Lyrics

Osker - Strangled, Lyrics revived by Elliott

I feel strangled.

I feel torn into

insufficient amounts of two.

Is this a sign of what I'm made of,

Or how I allowed myself . . . .

Grab the wrists, pull away.

I don't want to die today, and so I won't.

I can't believe this is me,

While you're drowning me with my own hate, so I won't

Do you feel they're laughing at you through the TV? I know I do.

And do you wonder how they get away with that shit they say?

Is this a sign of what I'm made of,

Or HOW-I ALLOW myself . . . .

to be treated

Grab the wrists, pull away.

I don't want to die today, and so I won't.

I can't believe this is me,

While you're drowning me with my own hate, SO I!!

I was the glue that held us together.

I'll be that fucking stitch forever.

When you feel like there's nothing left inside of you

Just remember I wanted something I could hold onto

Are the mental restraints a good replacement for me?

Is this a sign of what I'm made of,

Or HOW-I ALLOW myself . . . .

to be treated

Grab the wrists, pull away.

I don't want to die today, and so I won't.

I can't believe this is me,

While you're drowning me with my own hate, SO I!!

such a pretty sound, ear to the ground-hound no no

such a pretty sound, ear to the ground-hound no no

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Written by Lynk in portal Music and Rap
Strangled - Lyrics
Osker - Strangled, Lyrics revived by Elliott

I feel strangled.
I feel torn into
insufficient amounts of two.
Is this a sign of what I'm made of,
Or how I allowed myself . . . .

Grab the wrists, pull away.
I don't want to die today, and so I won't.
I can't believe this is me,
While you're drowning me with my own hate, so I won't

Do you feel they're laughing at you through the TV? I know I do.
And do you wonder how they get away with that shit they say?

Is this a sign of what I'm made of,
Or HOW-I ALLOW myself . . . .
to be treated

Grab the wrists, pull away.
I don't want to die today, and so I won't.
I can't believe this is me,
While you're drowning me with my own hate, SO I!!

I was the glue that held us together.
I'll be that fucking stitch forever.
When you feel like there's nothing left inside of you
Just remember I wanted something I could hold onto
Are the mental restraints a good replacement for me?

Is this a sign of what I'm made of,
Or HOW-I ALLOW myself . . . .
to be treated

Grab the wrists, pull away.
I don't want to die today, and so I won't.
I can't believe this is me,
While you're drowning me with my own hate, SO I!!

such a pretty sound, ear to the ground-hound no no
such a pretty sound, ear to the ground-hound no no
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0
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