Agabus
I am Agabus a paleohumanoid entity
with a distinct clarity.
My tale shall I unveil without any anxiety.
To have no futuristic loss
or get reproached by the lasting boss,
see and uncover my tale.
Here’s a mystery that’s yet to be cast from under
or get reproached by the lasting boss,
see and uncover my tale.
Here’s a mystery that’s yet to be cast from under
One day, in the outer region of
glowing darkness,
I was ambling in calmness
to get the bright-seeds. In my wind-bid
I saw an ultra-pure hominid
sitting beyond the meta-galaxy
with other parts uncouthly partying in sympathy.
Like the descent of the morn mist,
all were speech-dead as an indisposed beast.
Plumb! From the fag end of a mighty finger
was come, a winged waxy statue. He whimper
-ered loudly and petered out in anger;
my eyes couldn’t be so dim at the scene.
Anon, I became dead of my feast.
I was ambling in calmness
to get the bright-seeds. In my wind-bid
I saw an ultra-pure hominid
sitting beyond the meta-galaxy
with other parts uncouthly partying in sympathy.
Like the descent of the morn mist,
all were speech-dead as an indisposed beast.
Plumb! From the fag end of a mighty finger
was come, a winged waxy statue. He whimper
-ered loudly and petered out in anger;
my eyes couldn’t be so dim at the scene.
Anon, I became dead of my feast.
I flung my bowl in dismay and hid
behind
the sizzling bolt-hole. And ere my very mind,
umpteenth sword-holders of a grim kind,
lighted out in a red mien.
How could they be so mean? I fancied.
Due to the pictureless scene thereof, languid
I became; hence I left by the night’s flash-train
O blimey! I couldn’t lend to have stood in pain.
I in a mo fasted. Suddenly, I was taken away by
the wind far off my
home like, ‘the helpless’, forcibly accepted.
In the middle of our romance,
I heard a thunderous sound.
What a hell of cacophony have I found?
Angry sticks and songs were somnambulating in trance
of a restive ruckus. Forth with, I left my lover.
Then I was strongly in focus.
Who then is this hungry hellion
with a scimitar of Edom gravity
akin to the futuristic Apollyon(s)?
The other is bepainted in a black hue
which then and there, I can’t view.
Why this brawling?
O! Misrecognised loathsome cantankerousness…
This scene is becoming more stultifying.
The thongs in a rope-like tier,
keep howling with a spontaneously changing
squib sparkling within. Who can cure
this ill-nurtured unrest?
O mighty crest!
the sizzling bolt-hole. And ere my very mind,
umpteenth sword-holders of a grim kind,
lighted out in a red mien.
How could they be so mean? I fancied.
Due to the pictureless scene thereof, languid
I became; hence I left by the night’s flash-train
O blimey! I couldn’t lend to have stood in pain.
I in a mo fasted. Suddenly, I was taken away by
the wind far off my
home like, ‘the helpless’, forcibly accepted.
In the middle of our romance,
I heard a thunderous sound.
What a hell of cacophony have I found?
Angry sticks and songs were somnambulating in trance
of a restive ruckus. Forth with, I left my lover.
Then I was strongly in focus.
Who then is this hungry hellion
with a scimitar of Edom gravity
akin to the futuristic Apollyon(s)?
The other is bepainted in a black hue
which then and there, I can’t view.
Why this brawling?
O! Misrecognised loathsome cantankerousness…
This scene is becoming more stultifying.
The thongs in a rope-like tier,
keep howling with a spontaneously changing
squib sparkling within. Who can cure
this ill-nurtured unrest?
O mighty crest!
Aft this fiery fete, I heard a
rough cry.
O lachrymal Lucifer! Something came rushing nigh
in a yeasty hotness; clad in a hydrothermic
veil; accompanied with a hail of shame.
Trooping with him, were melancholic
beasts of consternation having shambolic semblances;
all disfigured and slugged like a geriatric
crone, same in the nature of the first.
They all came conjoined in the same
bond. They dashed thence into the sphere
of the nine fruits. Lost
they have become, in journeying. There
lays, a lot of putrefaction
to life and them to. In our generation,
white-beshammed creatures have risen.
And now in this flagitious season,
none of the earths can reason
not even for these days.
O lachrymal Lucifer! Something came rushing nigh
in a yeasty hotness; clad in a hydrothermic
veil; accompanied with a hail of shame.
Trooping with him, were melancholic
beasts of consternation having shambolic semblances;
all disfigured and slugged like a geriatric
crone, same in the nature of the first.
They all came conjoined in the same
bond. They dashed thence into the sphere
of the nine fruits. Lost
they have become, in journeying. There
lays, a lot of putrefaction
to life and them to. In our generation,
white-beshammed creatures have risen.
And now in this flagitious season,
none of the earths can reason
not even for these days.
I see from what I read
and there from, I speak,
instead of perusing empty lays.
Let me tell you more about
you-selves. Don’t vote for any bout.
Already, you earth-born cre’tur’s are understood to be
too malcultured. You’ve been split ‘twixt the heavens
and dragged ‘twixt the subheavens.
You must learn one quiet mystery:
The killer-angel, Hedoneal Cyrenaica,
has created a deathful hive of honey
by which all Adam’s saw gladly
fall. To furl evil, he ensconces pleasure.
His powers doubts and demurs the power
‘hind the great mud used of ‘the old purblind’.
And thus you are drowned in a gloomy
enigma which wets the worth
of the world’s true philosophy
within you. And the condign verisimilitude forth
is thrown radioactively into the sea of sleep.
Do not be maddened when lectured with wise tactics
to beat the beast in y’ur mind’s candy cataract.
You are drunk in one else’s ‘acteristics.
You must beware of that old rejected
folk, who makes you feel All-perfect.
Like the fates, he and they gamble y’ur
souls for vanity with unchristly wits.
Within you the doctrine of darkness
Is injected imperceptibly intravenously,
E’en with smooth ghostly touches w’ich unconsciously
you really know. They must be chided.
It is albeit an ill-beseeming paradox in
a greatly seeming wonder, that there exist
much darkness in the sun and its ally:
The physiognomy of the night as much as I belief,
is much brighter. And how can we say now?
There is a promiscuity of nature with a visible
extant of a palpable significance.
All element, mute, life-ware and disnatured etc,
are responsible for the annihilation
of the sparkling incandescence of the sol’s glory
in their souls: The ultra-physical iridescence
bestowed upon their selves, has been destroyed
with the spirit of disgust.
You can’t find any magic on this letter.
Inside the heart of the emperor of all books
you find plenty tales much in every, better.
One says, ‘no one in one; all are out of ‘the one’’
this allusion unto one, is very bitter
aye! It is truly bitter no other one can
ever get its villain. Go hither or thither
like victory’s flag on a hill, the golden
diadem of truth still sits on truth’s throne
and there from, I speak,
instead of perusing empty lays.
Let me tell you more about
you-selves. Don’t vote for any bout.
Already, you earth-born cre’tur’s are understood to be
too malcultured. You’ve been split ‘twixt the heavens
and dragged ‘twixt the subheavens.
You must learn one quiet mystery:
The killer-angel, Hedoneal Cyrenaica,
has created a deathful hive of honey
by which all Adam’s saw gladly
fall. To furl evil, he ensconces pleasure.
His powers doubts and demurs the power
‘hind the great mud used of ‘the old purblind’.
And thus you are drowned in a gloomy
enigma which wets the worth
of the world’s true philosophy
within you. And the condign verisimilitude forth
is thrown radioactively into the sea of sleep.
Do not be maddened when lectured with wise tactics
to beat the beast in y’ur mind’s candy cataract.
You are drunk in one else’s ‘acteristics.
You must beware of that old rejected
folk, who makes you feel All-perfect.
Like the fates, he and they gamble y’ur
souls for vanity with unchristly wits.
Within you the doctrine of darkness
Is injected imperceptibly intravenously,
E’en with smooth ghostly touches w’ich unconsciously
you really know. They must be chided.
It is albeit an ill-beseeming paradox in
a greatly seeming wonder, that there exist
much darkness in the sun and its ally:
The physiognomy of the night as much as I belief,
is much brighter. And how can we say now?
There is a promiscuity of nature with a visible
extant of a palpable significance.
All element, mute, life-ware and disnatured etc,
are responsible for the annihilation
of the sparkling incandescence of the sol’s glory
in their souls: The ultra-physical iridescence
bestowed upon their selves, has been destroyed
with the spirit of disgust.
You can’t find any magic on this letter.
Inside the heart of the emperor of all books
you find plenty tales much in every, better.
One says, ‘no one in one; all are out of ‘the one’’
this allusion unto one, is very bitter
aye! It is truly bitter no other one can
ever get its villain. Go hither or thither
like victory’s flag on a hill, the golden
diadem of truth still sits on truth’s throne
In the denizen of blood thirsty
trees
all are deaf to hear, but listens to
the voice the night.
Before night falls, we shriek to
the dire end of our keys, singing
to the new leaves to get a new leaf.
Trees are not to be rubicund; they must
be washed to be green. In their
blue nature, they misuse their
deciduous abilities and shed away
the greenness in them. And now daubed
they’re in an anti-chlorophyllous vermilion
all are deaf to hear, but listens to
the voice the night.
Before night falls, we shriek to
the dire end of our keys, singing
to the new leaves to get a new leaf.
Trees are not to be rubicund; they must
be washed to be green. In their
blue nature, they misuse their
deciduous abilities and shed away
the greenness in them. And now daubed
they’re in an anti-chlorophyllous vermilion
Be thou not a prudently foolish
vine!
You’re frightfully out of range.
For how long will you keep
sowing scorching fruits? You are spared
for many seasons with the hope
of becoming greener! O mercy!
You’re frightfully out of range.
For how long will you keep
sowing scorching fruits? You are spared
for many seasons with the hope
of becoming greener! O mercy!
Listen! Time for harvest is near
I want my fruits and yours, to be gathered
in a bowl of a joyous eternity, not
a bowl full of chaffs thrown into the gutter
o f a running hydrothermic aqua.
Hark to this tale: The husband man
travelled before time came and before
the watched time he will come to
visit his vine. When he comes,
He will wine the worthless weeds
into a widely stored wickedness;
but the others will be treated like
special gods as they are consumed
by a paradisiacal mouth. They shall
not whither or be masticated, but the
king’s hook will take them in, softly.
Be at alert. Live in one, like eleven’s
hands that has nought but ‘one’ with ‘one’.
I want my fruits and yours, to be gathered
in a bowl of a joyous eternity, not
a bowl full of chaffs thrown into the gutter
o f a running hydrothermic aqua.
Hark to this tale: The husband man
travelled before time came and before
the watched time he will come to
visit his vine. When he comes,
He will wine the worthless weeds
into a widely stored wickedness;
but the others will be treated like
special gods as they are consumed
by a paradisiacal mouth. They shall
not whither or be masticated, but the
king’s hook will take them in, softly.
Be at alert. Live in one, like eleven’s
hands that has nought but ‘one’ with ‘one’.
Xerox the culture of the right
roses:
they are good for the end,
they hate the red painter that tries
hard to paint them with the paint
of deceit and unfruitfulness and death.
You who are tinctured black-red
must fight that evil painter, painted
in the colour of the squall, using the unearthly
piercing seed pinioned around y’ur branches.
Tell an ear to this tale.
Grace yourself with the right yarns
given you by the angelic hamadryads
and you will no more lose the greenness.
Do not live out of their true tales.
By doing this, that oldish beastly sculptor will shame
be put and in the end, empty shall be his aim.
they are good for the end,
they hate the red painter that tries
hard to paint them with the paint
of deceit and unfruitfulness and death.
You who are tinctured black-red
must fight that evil painter, painted
in the colour of the squall, using the unearthly
piercing seed pinioned around y’ur branches.
Tell an ear to this tale.
Grace yourself with the right yarns
given you by the angelic hamadryads
and you will no more lose the greenness.
Do not live out of their true tales.
By doing this, that oldish beastly sculptor will shame
be put and in the end, empty shall be his aim.
More upon, don’t side step this tale!
Be not by the storm be pushed
or wrongly by you, the storm be pushed.
If push either push, both part
It can cause the ‘real’ death push.
And in the end, away in hell, shall you be brushed.
