From Fukuoka Meadows to the Suez Canal

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, March 1, 2013 Under: Poetry

Premarital sectarian reports portray a labor force of Nephilim moving mountain springs for the purpose of the hammer, the sickle, the God equation of Sumer.

Strategic chokepoints are really opportunities to re-interpret vessel connections, to forcibly constrict a Mesopotamian body of river delta farm folk down seven hundred miles of harsh bred epicenter Nile cleavage, crocodile milk and all. During the Six-Day war, all Middleastern people gathered for a shamanistic, terrestrial style Thanksgiving where bones are eaten to the marrow where things get soft, juicy and often as ripe as ghost mines. Something about matza balls and the exaggeration of the asteroid belt follows, as Ramadan is practiced while blindfolded with clothespins clasping the dire straits of tongues held between the decision echelons: Fasting and slow primitive prayer. Hormuz is full of copper water and the smell of oil rich supremacy. Hegemon or not, sangria was an ancient beverage of choice with slender, tubular suction tubes the preferred method used for Hume-in consumption. The Book of Erebus greater than or equal to the Book of Enoch, or novels about inter-dimensional water schematics in relation to Zacharias Moon. The Book of Amon Ra and the Scrolls From A Woman Who Watched Moses Hide The Eleventh Tablet In His Ever Expanding Robes, resplendent, adorned with every tribal moniker from Oman, Yemen, Qatar, United Arab Empress, the Saudi Principles, the city state of Halliburton industries.

I know not what weapons will be used in Cops and Robbers, but Chase the Desert Monkey will be fought with sticks and stones. Genie lamps disguised as empty Pinesol bottles, glinting in the petrol golden evening in Giza. Grazing camels complete the backdrop to an outlandish documentary theorizing that the famous Sphinx is merely the head of a larger, deep Earth body of evidence. A remnant as a skeleton of civilization never properly buried, seldom understood, idolized for its foreshadowing for unsuccessful deviated septum surgery. The blood in the nasal cavity dries quicker than it drips from the nostrils, if pharaoh taught me anything. Not a good look if an alchemy classroom is strewn with the gifts of the bodyguards, later translated as “men who spoon fed the mouth of the river and ended up discovering that the Mediterranean Sea is full of the elixir of life - but only if boiled for 3,000 years. Small details tend to miss a warrior’s eyes, and so the assassins meet their end on an exotic seaside retreat. Mud temples ascended, metric systems invented, cuneiform patterns connected to form flamingo nests with pretty purple leaflet symbols surrounding it like isis gardens. Told by the tellers that if a baby in a basket shows up, drop in a note that says ‘Your application for presence is not accepted. It’s not the right fit for the current state of Egypt. Thank you for submitting and good luck in the world of biblical prophecy, or heresy, or both.”

In : Poetry 

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