Category Archives: Downs

Poems about love, love poetry, homesites, graphical arts, legalized dreams,, love, sex, sensuality, surrealism, art, computer graphics, evil, known artist



Feigned Reasons.

Affirmed the preessentialist movement. Standing against a crowd. The mildly placed elegancy in time of such a dire informality a cat wouldn’t estrange it’s bait. The vindicate mother lease. I rarely frequent such areas. This time they really did wan’t an appraisal. In manner of speech I managed to keep them down by following deemed souls to their graves. The prosperous new dawn. Affirmed riots. No reason to abandon sanity. As honesty prevails the instant time of which lies flower. The custom of advice seemed appologetic of nature. Now this all took place in the land of the sun. I ventured there and saw a second sun. The darker. In clear-voyant stairs the pictoresque ability to assume evidence seemed prosperous an ability. Very much like admiration. Fictively speaking of course the dream of these stairs. Vile and monstrous, without anything such as a tint of mistake. The polite distant perfecy de facto. To commemorate the improper casual sinister smile of lost lives. In my place known as hell. For a while there I was confused with the enemy. To my ancestors I would like to describe the horror and preventual gleems of these trips to hell. Very much of known. The traditional liot found scarce. A scarecrow in his late teens parloring gates to limit the fortunate ones. This time I saw my cathegorical denial scheme showed to the audience as of a priority to ammuse the mass with someone less fortunate. I discovered my road layed in poverty. For I whom once had known wealth. Servants washing my hands. Swift dazzling mansions. With the appology of fame for a reasonably protectionate in vane shoe shiner somewhere. The fiction of thought refrains to permanent denial. I dreamt once again of distance and the nature of fools. In a portrait of a favour to the devil himself the vindicate mother seemed a liot compared to her flame. The disdained informal ventures of arrousal. I could not process the memory of clouds. In favourable pity the framed fame that followed. The centennial joy. The skies over the beach and the furious thunder. The limit of tendencial waters. A proverbs atonement. The incites of command. Que jeune que vivrè. The passion of fervent lore. The infamous surreal lights from the inside of pubs. Late night glory and misfortune dancing into destiny. The audience can not see the play. Into the sustainably lowered voice of this clown. The insolent betrayer of paradise. The visions dear. I know to hold verity in my hands. To obey this freedom come late of knowledge without judgement. Fashion. Tieing my shoes. He is an early riser. Forgiven not of freedom thus what is late. The intentions are polite though the infamy is of shame. Shame of vanity.

Private aureola.

Soul traders. What is behind me. The advocated memory of mist. To a dear. A picture sinking in. The wasted timeless apology. Sinister but blind. The infamy of careless confessions. In a sentimentalist frameset vision the clouds are empty. Scarce silent attributions of thin air. The accustomed to fatalist adventures. No reason to leave. Indeed we all belong to the proprietor. A wounded hart. The realised supposition of leaves. Fashion at the gates. The prolonged honesty in deceit. Rememberance. A certain dread of conviction. The reattained costumes of judgement. A posture of vengeance. I read of thus. Linear Freudian tendencies. The property of thieves. As silence weighs puny disdain upon the all too clear. We are all blind. Ideomatic shadow release. The pious portrait of crime. To a door held suffocation the myth of appearance before law leans on me. Twats sudden scheme of lies. The ignorance of latter panic. Their vile distress. Gray moon clever. Cleft of dishonest attempts to refigure relief. Feigned laughter and the cushion holder. Critters wake on the horizon. A bird flies away. A token wildcard the enigmatic scare of wind. Buried illiterate. Show-down painted relics of the blind. The weak eulogy of vindicate moons. A mist rain. A hymn of dainty days daze and the immoral kiss of death. To dream of sleep. The mighty appraised convolute in gates. The dive of pearls. To an immense fraction of litigated lights the only way out is in. The prosperity of smoke. The petty adoration of eyes. A cliff of red dust. In passionate poverty the conveyed stars relive beauty. A filed sustained toll of reliance. In the shade of an umbrella the scattered winds feign. Resolved demnified rats relive their pasts and fortunate inmates pray. An house built on rock. The construct of enemies. A faint symphony of bullets.

The covert featherhead of peace. A dialect shoe. No clowns may cry. In an instant the rain washes. To a certain grave extent the effect of abused bytes contain value. A friction cloud plays outside my windowsill. The detention of leaves. To go where my shadow takes me.

The swift cry of wind. What adorations flocking advice fled the ceremony. To make a stand against death. Appearantly in luck the sway of leniant pride’s shoulder to cry on. The mark of lice. The worm of dirt. A collapsed centennial swarm of shame. Shattered independently upon the likes of giants. I wept and felt small.

Shamanic endeavour


You freaks may see the winged creature.

I took a walk on my lawn today. The wet grass posing in daindriff. I asked my self a question. What if nature is proud. I dwelved into the spirit realm and thought to myself. This other day when I saw my future daughter or angel at the front of my computer desk. I turned my head after saying hey and she was gone. Evapourated like dust. This spiritual experience really had me doubting my senses. Can I actually see into the future? She had blond har and an aureola. I regret we did not have a longer conversation. Then again I’d probably loose my mind.

A trip to hell.

The visualization of hell.

The door pressure. There has been none here before. A cloud stared. Cream advice. The filthy glare. A step of stones. Destined to adore. The fictive wounds. A bell ringing. The place was empty.

Spitting images. Hollow. The chilly creep of birds. Soon we’ll be home. To sit a while. Shadow’s leaping crowns. The taste of retribution. In dirty deeds. The victimized. No reasons. Innocence. The bleak Sunday morning sobriety. A fiction vapour. The clouds. To an enigmatic score of late tendencies the pride taken in art. No words. What desire in dreams. The scare token of stairs. A lean procreated mist. No shadows only feet. Deny me this. Fervent leisure condensations of apologetic scarcely fathomed hunger. Therapeutic honesty. The instance we are gone. A shared loners wind. The cry of rain. A drop of lingering lust. To inhibit the morbid sensuality of papers. Newly found fortune in the rapid eye movement. Craving exhumed intolerance and the empiric touch of reality. As it sways wicked postures of blindness across the ceiling. An unsolved rarely increased sentiment of shoes. The naked and alone. The darkness shone. Caved insults of command. Shared beauty. A vision deep as the ocean. Astonished pretty broke fingerpuppies learning to smoke. The myriad famed mortality and morality of frogs. Climbing to fall. A doomed wall. Leaning on black stolen words. Released.

The reattained pursuit of happiness. What I saw there. A figment of paranoid delusion. The clarity of it all.

To be home again.

Self obsessed maniac. Lean on no shoulders. To cry. The relief of adoration. The thing is my dears. A victim of supposition to be disdained. The factual hippocracy of tides. An instigated manner. The mortal swing of touch.  What little known of these. The probable passion. A drummer boy.

Deep sunken coherency in time. The vision near. Of what I found. My lizard shoes swarming. Conventual memory. The informality of such.

Fear the insolence of autocratic surveys. A lesson learned. The process of too much ado about nothing. Invictions of grief. The morality is naked truth. Astounded reason to improve behaviour. No insults. In command.

At peace. The momentual joy of Iscariot. A group flees against the image of Christ. Was he not a man of peace? The obscure tendency of late. A supposed enigma. I wen’t to hell for two minutes. I whom lost my belief. The scarce cathegory of denial. A wink as pleased. To fathom the riot of opposition. The place was empty.

In this vision deep I found grace. The tokens wild. There was a roundhouse there. There was smoke and a mild humming of symphonies. No demons or fallen angels. I guess they are all on earth.