RANDOM

By Darcy Prince (knowledge variable)

How long can you deep death ut? Where modesty no longer exists. Wanting turbulent lust. Auburn hair, eyes meeting in romantic glances, this is not cliche, they marry as they glare into each other’s soul. Bodies under blue coats. They won’t be home for supper. Butterflies felt. They consciously become aware of each other, fingers used to touch one another, undressing from blue coats. Deepening dimples around the sides of the smiling mouth. Where the brightest sun glare could not outshine them. Forgetting that the sun rises daily. They kiss and swapping parts of their souls, mainly confessing secrets. Their love making session, that broke their virgin innocence charms the world and fate blesses them. Have you read any of Mark Twain? And sculptors throw parties for them, celebrating not freedom, but the loss of virgin nature and questioned why they listened to their parents in the first place. But it isn’t a welcomening of sin. Flutes are heard, followed by horns. And when it comes to freedom, people are too stupid or too intelligent to have it. Perhaps freedom and reality don’t belong to one another. As the night continues, the lovers swap thoughts that hold or at one point, experienced emotion. Both nude. Wrapping their bodies together, stoking hair with fingers and the sporadic but on purpose, kiss. And don’t you know, you can meet the Devil before death? For once, even if it’s one small moment. The lovers understand why people write poetry, though they no-longer have meaning, because they had found love in their own life and had no-need to turn to the love that poets yearn and brag about so much and for so long. Wanted the immortality the poems have. With character leads from myths became only cameos in their life and talked of a revolution before they fell asleep. Tall pines, wrestling oak trees, along a reverie of people, in a pattern concerto, having picnics, importing social values to the nature of this earth, Monet is not around to paint. The two loves found a spot to sit and converse, instead spend the first few moments disregarding the cheese and wine they brought, holding and stroking hand, than leaning to makeout. Not complaining, but those around became uncomfortable. Under pastel sky. The hill in the distant and to the side house local gypsies, trying to invent new curses for humanity, instead, found a way to bring witches back to life. Than the lovers layed down, as she rests on his chest and looked out to the sky, until they were the only ones left. Seren half-light crept over the picnic. The stars came out to dance, not only to aide the scene of romance. As the sun glowed red and sombre, in it’s final moments of life, setting itself up for death. The lovers talked about novels, plays and anything in regards to literature and discussed a day where they will not convey in articulated words, but only talk between poetry. When they really wanted to slap Shakespeare’s face. On purpose, seldom, potent, the Muses allowed them to be in love. When destiny had no say in the matter. Angels sing. Muses are under them, if there was a caste system in place. Is love a better universal language than math? Have you read of any of Oscar Wilde’s work? Margaret Mitchell wrote the book, ‘Gone with the Wind’ and the film doesn’t end in the same. Oh. sigh. Moan. Slide down without a sound. Poetry. Love is vital to poetry, but not in reverse. Appealing to whatever high power. The two wrote poetry all day, when that day came. Shoulder drop. Emotion felt. Smiles. Obey thy love lover, for I can write that the both of you will get violently murdered by the Manson gang, and they could have sex with your dead bodies. Which reminds me, have you ‘A Serbian Film’? It’s a fucked film, and I mean fucked, a constructed fictional piece, to the director, what the fuck man? Incest, kiddy rape, rape, rape, rape, you sick fuck, I would rather rewatch ‘The Human Centipede’ twenty-three times in a row, than to watch your film again. William Blake, tell us what you think about ‘A Serbian Film’. Despite it. The lovers exchange poems, sitting in silence, where the mute atmosphere reigns, in a no melodramatic way, but a symphony of cello’s would help. Each word to each poem, had no trace of French accent. Peal. at the end of the poetry, they tore one another’s clothes off and dove into one another's naked body. He got it as hard as any stone, stronger than a horse’s leg and thrusted into her holy part, to each moan she let out, matched to the pattern of each thrust. Liquid vowels. Syntax. No existing language of humans could not describe the scene they can create when they fuck. Some Muses love the melody they choose. In the heart of darkness, things fall apart when you spinning the world around, just to make it tremble in horrifying fear. I want to slice Michael Jackson with the kid from Home Alone. I don’t know why, maybe I’m just bored. You make my heart stop. What do you think about film adaptations from plays? Not books, not from poetry, just plays. I’ve always been a lover of Kubrick's film, ‘Barry Lyndon’, but nothing lasts forever. I'm Still letting go of Kubrick's death. I’ve read everything that William Blake wrote. And I really want no-one else to read it. Have you heard of Mikhail Bakhtin. Things don’t last. Crash. Crash. Potent poetry no-longer exists. Underneath the veil of it all. Sigh, gasps. In terms of the two lovers, they died in a car accident, I didn’t give them names. Because I can’t remember them.

Rushing past the river banks under the silver moon glow, I forgot to take notice of the stars golden glow, a night of romance, but no time for it. It’s a mistake now and at one point, it will be a mistake of the past. I just want to go home. Modern art. That can electrife everything especially at the same time, I chastise myself. At home, I put on a podcast about philosophy, listen to it, here and there, giving attention to some of it and not all of it. I shoulder. But I don’t. Transient emotions. Adjust my conduct. Not my mind. My mind will only react, maybe my emotions will let me know. In room. Alone. The way I like it. The temptation to go to sleep, strong, like Yoda, not as small. I draw, only roses, because I’m learning, while the podcast is on. Audio only. Of course. The only visual is the drawings. If not, the mundane items of my room. History. Reality. Love. Poetry. Template. Oscar Wilde. Words. Marc Maron. Lectures and lecture tours. Lose money. Tense. Do not learn French and think you’re French. Je Suis. Dilute. My anxiety explodes whenever I’m around my crush. I’m not in love now. I like watching cartoons. Despite my age. I’m an adult at the end of the day, the same in the morning. But I’m not in mourning of the loss of my youth. Are there mistakes in philosophy? CRASH. Future. Present. Past. Present. Mirage. POETRY. In poetry, I like reading love poems, fuck, imagine being that person that you feel so much for another person, that you have to express it (or attempt to) and give to the public domain to this world. Do you think if Marlon Brando found love? The stick is bent, but it’s really not a bent stick. Charlie Sheen did drugs and had sex with strangers. I’m on the internet as I am writing this. Cut yourself off from the world, than learn about it, by reading a-lot of books. Buy the books, go into the woods, build a house, make sure you bring supplies. Read. don’t write a journal like Walden. Don’t worry about how the world could learn from your experience by doing this. They can teach and learn from one another. Fuck. In fresh eyes of youth, look at destiny. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak.  Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak.Rushing past the river banks under the silver moon glow, I forgot to take notice of the stars golden glow, a night of romance, but no time for it. It’s a mistake now and at one point, it will be a mistake of the past. I just want to go home. Modern art. That can electrife everything especially at the same time, I chastise myself. At home, I put on a podcast about philosophy, listen to it, here and there, giving attention to some of it and not all of it. I shoulder. But I don’t. Transient emotions. Adjust my conduct. Not my mind. My mind will only react, maybe my emotions will let me know. In room. Alone. The way I like it. The temptation to go to sleep, strong, like Yoda, not as small. I draw, only roses, because I’m learning, while the podcast is on. Audio only. Of course. The only visual is the drawings. If not, the mundane items of my room. History. Reality. Love. Poetry. Template. Oscar Wilde. Words. Marc Maron. Lectures and lecture tours. Lose money. Tense. Do not learn French and think you’re French. Je Suis. Dilute. My anxiety explodes whenever I’m around my crush. I’m not in love now. I like watching cartoons. Despite my age. I’m an adult at the end of the day, the same in the morning. But I’m not in mourning of the loss of my youth. Are there mistakes in philosophy? CRASH. Future. Present. Past. Present. Mirage. POETRY. In poetry, I like reading love poems, fuck, imagine being that person that you feel so much for another person, that you have to express it (or attempt to) and give to the public domain to this world. Do you think if Marlon Brando found love? The stick is bent, but it’s really not a bent stick. Charlie Sheen did drugs and had sex with strangers. I’m on the internet as I am writing this. Cut yourself off from the world, than learn about it, by reading a-lot of books. Buy the books, go into the woods, build a house, make sure you bring supplies. Read. don’t write a journal like Walden. Don’t worry about how the world could learn from your experience by doing this. They can teach and learn from one another. Fuck. In fresh eyes of youth, look at destiny. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak.  Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Rushing past the river banks under the silver moon glow, I forgot to take notice of the stars golden glow, a night of romance, but no time for it. It’s a mistake now and at one point, it will be a mistake of the past. I just want to go home. Modern art. That can electrife everything especially at the same time, I chastise myself. At home, I put on a podcast about philosophy, listen to it, here and there, giving attention to some of it and not all of it. I shoulder. But I don’t. Transient emotions. Adjust my conduct. Not my mind. My mind will only react, maybe my emotions will let me know. In room. Alone. The way I like it. The temptation to go to sleep, strong, like Yoda, not as small. I draw, only roses, because I’m learning, while the podcast is on. Audio only. Of course. The only visual is the drawings. If not, the mundane items of my room. History. Reality. Love. Poetry. Template. Oscar Wilde. Words. Marc Maron. Lectures and lecture tours. Lose money. Tense. Do not learn French and think you’re French. Je Suis. Dilute. My anxiety explodes whenever I’m around my crush. I’m not in love now. I like watching cartoons. Despite my age. I’m an adult at the end of the day, the same in the morning. But I’m not in mourning of the loss of my youth. Are there mistakes in philosophy? CRASH. Future. Present. Past. Present. Mirage. POETRY. In poetry, I like reading love poems, fuck, imagine being that person that you feel so much for another person, that you have to express it (or attempt to) and give to the public domain to this world. Do you think if Marlon Brando found love? The stick is bent, but it’s really not a bent stick. Charlie Sheen did drugs and had sex with strangers. I’m on the internet as I am writing this. Cut yourself off from the world, than learn about it, by reading a-lot of books. Buy the books, go into the woods, build a house, make sure you bring supplies. Read. don’t write a journal like Walden. Don’t worry about how the world could learn from your experience by doing this. They can teach and learn from one another. Fuck. In fresh eyes of youth, look at destiny. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak.   Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak.Rushing past the river banks under the silver moon glow, I forgot to take notice of the stars golden glow, a night of romance, but no time for it. It’s a mistake now and at one point, it will be a mistake of the past. I just want to go home. Modern art. That can electrife everything especially at the same time, I chastise myself. At home, I put on a podcast about philosophy, listen to it, here and there, giving attention to some of it and not all of it. I shoulder. But I don’t. Transient emotions. Adjust my conduct. Not my mind. My mind will only react, maybe my emotions will let me know. In room. Alone. The way I like it. The temptation to go to sleep, strong, like Yoda, not as small. I draw, only roses, because I’m learning, while the podcast is on. Audio only. Of course. The only visual is the drawings. If not, the mundane items of my room. History. Reality. Love. Poetry. Template. Oscar Wilde. Words. Marc Maron. Lectures and lecture tours. Lose money. Tense. Do not learn French and think you’re French. Je Suis. Dilute. My anxiety explodes whenever I’m around my crush. I’m not in love now. I like watching cartoons. Despite my age. I’m an adult at the end of the day, the same in the morning. But I’m not in mourning of the loss of my youth. Are there mistakes in philosophy? CRASH. Future. Present. Past. Present. Mirage. POETRY. In poetry, I like reading love poems, fuck, imagine being that person that you feel so much for another person, that you have to express it (or attempt to) and give to the public domain to this world. Do you think if Marlon Brando found love? The stick is bent, but it’s really not a bent stick. Charlie Sheen did drugs and had sex with strangers. I’m on the internet as I am writing this. Cut yourself off from the world, than learn about it, by reading a-lot of books. Buy the books, go into the woods, build a house, make sure you bring supplies. Read. don’t write a journal like Walden. Don’t worry about how the world could learn from your experience by doing this. They can teach and learn from one another. Fuck. In fresh eyes of youth, look at destiny. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak. Poems, poet, poetry, poetic, romance, love, heartbreak.