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therealemotion · 2 years

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Twilight Suzuka by Antigone aka shelina chapman

Wednesday, March 3, 2021

8:21 AM

Chapter One: The fairytale character

My thoughts are to bleed like a mad soul in twine, I say to myself . The voices in my sczhorphrenic head are waging war with. God had told me, long before he gave me sczhorprenia, that I was the Holy Grail.

I could control my fears…but could I control Him? I try to. He only laughed. He would say my Holy Grail was of two naked women in a cup, meaning superficially, I was a Lesbian.--which I, at least to my virgin Knowledge was not.

I listen to Supermassive Black Hole by Muse from the Stephanie Meyer's inspired "Twilight" films. I never watch them, I only read. Reading is ALL I ever do…Either that, or sit around and do nothing but sleep in.

I but on a show in my room as I begin to drift in the world of Real Emotion. My thoughts are luminous. My feeling sore and defiled. I have no EMOTION, I tell myself. My emotions are just that bare a popsicle stick.

I do not watch television, however I do play games on the PlayStation 2 every now and then. My room was a mess, so I reluctantly decide to start cleaning it. My head then fills with the after effects of the amorphic gassy and fizzy feeling of medicinal lightheadedness from not taking my prescription for fears that I may be poison myself with the image of bilateral fusion with Piper and Picus. Piper an Picus are a sedative for making ends met. That is what the gods of Mt. Olympus keeping murmuring, not to me, but about me and me being able to hear the voices of the dead.

No one outside the animal world knows of me and the power vested within. And even that has its shortcomings. That is because the presence of good and evil are everywhere, not just within Man but within Nature. Take that as my experience with my imagination, calling itself Abolisk the Tormentor, or my menial term Imagination, and you get bitter sweet Choas.

I lead with my mind not with my heart.

I can speak to the animal, that is one of the abilities I have. I can shape change, however, I can only complete translation only under certain circumstances. Such things include the Heart judging, as if I would ever allow myself to lead up to that. The heart can fool me, and with a mind like mine, why base everything on love and beauty of your typical Ares woman? I lead with my mind not with my heart. I think a strong mind wields a stronger body and a mind is a terrible ting to waste.

I practice playing games to support myself in battling those mysterious shadows that prey on the weak-minded or the passive. It is the art of war using residual thinking, positive reinforcement, and learning and probability. I practice reviewing school interludes that I used to know before I had graduated before being affected with the mental illness sczhorprenia.

With my eyes wide shut, I would imagine whole new worlds of adventure I read about in books to the point my father thinks it does not do me any good. My imagination is so vivid, its self-aware and able to come to reality. That is when I find out not only I could stop time, but also move back and forth through it in sleep mode.

I call my intuitions "Memory", "Memory", "Melody", "Mnesesyne" or in assimilated order. I had built a time machine, in which Pegasus interrupted and took that away. I have invented time travel back to the Cretaceous Period where my dinosaur dream avatars would be only to discover that all my dreams are real by the message of Allah.

My dreams are amphitoads, now. They spiral out of control. I have dreams of the god of the Underworld as Edward Cullens, his own reincarnation

Edward was an underworld, fairy dream that I ran into in my soon-to-be nightmares while Hades, was my day-to-day reality. He rarely ever bothered Cerberus, the demon-dog of Hell as they walked side-by-side on the Earth saying that they ruled the Netherworld. Cerberus would be in the disguise of a normal animated, Labrador or a human musician.

He kept close to the ghost of Aaliyah and the figurine of Missy Elliot. His association with the canine world was unprecedented. He would really blow them away, especially Charlie Barkin and Elizabeth Taylor, two other angelic dogs caught up in the Netherworld.

I pause. Cerberus thinks to himself again. He understands everything I have been saying. He smiles in his dog-gone smirk that "…the chimney between us goes far as it is wide. Don't it??"

I listen to myself think again for a while. Maybe I can make a new platform hit of Death for Sailor Pluto's planet.

Cerberus thinks to himself again.

My eyes feel watery. I wipe them clean. I begin to think of a more innovative "death". I summon up the courage to challenge my of "life".

I hear Pluto say to himself, "the Garment Grid ain't what it used to be," and then mumble on.

As apparent as the legendary Darla Dimple would have said, "I'm not worthwhile." And that's only because Mary Magdalene poised a threat to her foundering youth.

I want to know about You, I tell myself. Then, I see her: my other self, my other Isabella Swan. Her name was Nadene, alias Christine Howard or Christine steward or whatever, and she looked exactly like myself even thought she was a complete stranger. I got along with her, yeah, uh-huh, but because I was Black and she was Pilipino, my dear Hades sided that white was right and began flirting with her.

He gives me a pat on the thigh and smiles, "I know what you're thinking….?"

"What?"

"You're hunting rabbits," he laughed.

I pretend to be Sailor Pluto from Sailor Moon and guard the invisible gate of Time found in my virgina. Amused, as always, my infrivoulous and infractilous admiration of Pluto goes ten-to-one, even if Isabella is there.

Morning rises, suns set.

The dead walk the earth.

Morning, noon, and night I

Pray, thou befoul my

Epidiifs Earth

Naked, cold, and wandering

A virgin lights a candle.

So black that she utters slurs that.

Transpire as the evening shadows.

Hearts are one, and seasons baring.

And she continues to count backwards.

Time moves on without her.

A high and mighty virgin

Sacrifice….

The cold is baring. The seasons are neigh.

I have no home but the Virgin Mary inside.

I make love to by virgin lover, whose eyes see

Nothing—hear nothing—knows all.

My pilgrimage is one and I am baring the fruits of

Heaven just as my forefathers have done.

Who am I? I am “Padme”.

Miracles are a thing that I have only known.

When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.

---We both love Hades—that is what she said. The female

Goddess of Memory that would be my shadow….and me

Reincarnation. In about 3000 years, Hades and I shall meet again.

I shall be Isabella Swan and he shall be my Edward Cullens from the book

And the movie Twilight by Stephanie Meyers. I was a force bearer, a bearer of

Words and symbols, phrases, and metaphors.

Her name was Isabella Swan the exact Swan of the Final Fantasy.

This world is my world—a world of endless books and writing, a world of letters and dementia. I am author and narrator of the Story—the story being the Story and or stories of my own life or the lives of others. I am free and independent. I am an Ares woman. My real name is Shelina Denise Chapman, and I am an honorary 34-year-old virgin, African-American woman with sczhorprehenia. I can be driven to bouts of paranoia and hernia. My lips are red, and my fingers are forever busy typing new stories that my disease keep calling a Greek-Norse myth. I love to read and to write stories. I have been doing these habits and hobbies since I was in the first grade.

When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.

Back when I was a teenager, it was much easier to write and read, otherwise go ahead a write by hand everything I needed Sometimes I would write in my diary and make it into a fantasy story; other times, when I was busy masturbating, I would write about the whole sexual impulse on screen. I have never had a companion; I have feeling morally applicable that I would not need one.

I keep hearing the supernatural, and have a hard time pinpointing my thoughts with my mind. I can hear them as I think, I can see them as I was—the walking dead. I like and I love to dream and imagine new possibilities and new ideas as well as some newly fabricated technologies and nurturing old ones. Like the telephone! I am the reason why the supernatural have telecommunications, let alone their own souls.

Deep into the passageways of fallen Roman warriors, stood the mighty Disney’s Hercules. His physical statue was otherworldly, with both nimble and grace along a pleasant night sheath. I am Disney’s Esmerelda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame animated film, and I am flabbergasted as to the virtue and maiden aura of this animated godly marvel. Why, oh, why, must I be the splendor one?

“Cupid’s arrows reach you Hades?” a voice familiar to me said from behind. It was Hermes, dressed in fine Latin-American clothing fit for the 21st century this is.

I shake my head to arouse suspicion, “Naw.” The curly -waxed figurine of the black-haired, middle-aged man comes to focus.

So, he is fat too, the Prophet said in her mind thinking from the safety of her own mind. Her name was simply Minerva Backster’s.

“Cupid couldn’t find me at 100% maximum,” he said as he nodded. He shook his head at the tall Roman figure, “Like to tower them nuts for the pack’s their worth.”

They laugh.

I find their flakiness disturbing and harmonic, a pertinence for the admiration yet conservativism of their homosexuality.

I am alone again. My head begins to hurt. I envision myself taking medicine for my needless-to-say sczhorprenia, as well as for the psychic anomaly I pose by strengthening it up. For an instance, I thought I saw Death; a shy smug figure of a Titan named Baby—Baby New Year.

Upon Me Again

Morning rises, suns set.

There are thoughts.

Which crossed my mind?

That fathom not suggestion

But the absence of Time==

Thoughts that are pending, thoughts

That are uplifting— ME.

I take a whisper of sand in my Holy Grail,

And call it Edith Blasphemy.

Such radiance designed by air.

Such vigor

I know not why nor where.

Am I the downfall?

Am I the anticipation?

No one knows why nor

Cares.

But here—But where?

But downfall. Down, down

The river bends a mermaid summoner.

Summoning up Elysian fields.

The mermaid listens—I pray.

Her fin turns to legs, and I ravish her.

She swears at me up and down.

I laugh.

I laugh…

“‘He and his shoulder blades were curving; a mixture of piper and Picus, They were.

Up against the dreariest place, I would imagine.

A ceinture of a void, seldom looked at and pronounced dead.’

Less time is available here, I begin to think to myself. And surely, if actions speak louder than words,

Then so do I-- The intelligence of the human Bible.

A short while later, my arms are wrapped in plenti. I have no mercy for the Lord whatsoever.

That is because my brain is made of Styrofoam, and my prayers are made of ice- cream bars.

I am Pluto—god Hades Pluto, ruler of the netherworld.

My sign is all I have to my name ever since Persephone reincarnated two- hundred, five years ago—and that was Plutonian time.

‘Mark my words, Galileo,’ I told Jesus one summer afternoon, ‘I’ll find the dame for me’

His pale-green eyes hit me like a love light. We made love that day. Passionate, huh? I take a moment to think back: Rome, Ancient. Babylonica. These things reap my mind. From dusk ‘til dawn, I pant like a lion’s head over this Minerva fluid. Jesus’s white ass touched me like that Falcon Furor Phoenix Flame exhibit Hesus likes to talk about so much. I remember myself moaning when suddenly an ebidimic spider came crashing down onto me. My sharp, demon eyes durn pale black and white as the scaled white dragon of Ra.

I give off an instant hiss, ot my lover’s dismay. It was that vision again. My eyes click. I maintain Biblical statues as my discography continues to merge one with me. The Scorpio within me tells me that Isabella Swan from Twilight, just struck down her creator. I give a hushed mouth to my dog Cerberus, faithful and true as always.

What could I say but to allow my own prejudices perceive me? I was in love with the goddess of Destiny herself and her would-be reincarnations….especially Isabella.

I grab my rod and satyr; ‘What a day I’ll be having.’

Isabella would look live and low at herself. My image was decimated…and on the floor? It was a bloody body wrapped in sheets; a mirror image of herself! Gasping, I awaken from the dream feeling a little bit flushed. Why would Isabella murder me? The image of the pickaxe’s admittivities to my forehead is staggering. I am Juno, the legendary Shelina Denise Chapman, personal narrator of the story herself.

I could feel her in my feet and bones—that warm September afternoon, as I envisioned the two of us inside a black spotted jeep, leaning back conquering the world of symbolisms. With my head held high, I begin to recall the primum opus of the magna carta. Every moment was dedicated to my esteem college Micheal Alexander Dimitrius Alleluia, my personification of myself living in the world of Dreams. My Uncle Randy, a middle-age elder man about the age of 47, was dark sinned brown and Spanish-speaking highlights as the African-American man always appealed to me as a strong sense of moral character and duty. That was not just beginning with his Scorpio sign, but his association with the Chronicles of Riddle Freddy Kreuger assigned to me. The antsy thoughts race across my mind about the Scorpio sign of my Uncle.

“Go, Pluto

Do it, Pluto

Go Pluto, shake it, Pluto!”

Little did he know I was an Evangelion…or so it seemed….

I walk up to him one morning late last spring and begin thinking and digging deep into my thought about various obscure aborigines—mostly about feelings that my sczhorprenia missed placed or about thoughts and experiences I had in my early childhood. Here I am, a 35-year-old African American girl thinking about the past. Odd, isn’t it? Especially since my recently deceased, in that time, Uncle Martin—a different Uncle mind you, perished after taking a single needle into his arm. Suicide. My other Uncle Avery was a retired military man, however. Although kind-hearted, he was a little more than trifling when it comes to cooking. I would laugh whole-heartedly with not meaning and concurringly at him until the day I received the apparition of me embracing Squall Lionheart as Rinoa Heartilly when I feel headlong backwards in an African-American, wooden designed chair.

Back in those days, my mother, two brothers and myself were homeless, and, we surely would have need somewhere to go. Uncle Avery was the first to pick up the dresser and pull us off the streets.

I pick myself up off the ground and begin debating with myself. My lips between my legs are tight as a drum as always, I think to myself No one has ever been there but myself, my parents, and a few doctors. I wonder when I will begin to have my own first love? I will be wondering about this for some time now. That was when it occurred to me: I have not practiced my battle format yet. I could imagine my virgina’s transforming into an erectile penis. I begin to moan at the thought of masterbating with Tifa Lockheart and several other Final Fantasy characters throughout the ages. My breeeches were appearing wet and dry at the same time. My thoughts were aflutter. I begin to moan at the thought off the emptiness and begin to cry out infuror seduction. I was a boy again playing with his andromedin, just as easily as I have squared it.

Diablos, my kitten, began to follow it pursuit as the imaginary feline companion. His black fur and grey-white temples began to appeal to my sight of imagination a strange sort of fondness. I could hear him talk to me under his skin. His purrs began to echo in my ears. I began to see images of my feline companion very vividly over the radio speakers in my ears.

Tooth

Tooth, I feel you flowing in my ears

I hear the softness, streaming

Tooth…I feel you flowing through my ears--

A quickness I have only but persevered.

It is going down…Down…down…

The pelvic gland against my ears,

The inert-arachnid—the male womb—

Against my craven belly.

Its tooth of nails—the virgin woman—is but a man,

Yet a woman.

It is my bra strap, that transits reality—

A broadband horizon, a futile

Reality.

From <https://d.docs.live.net/025cb40a2a1fb452/Documents/poems.docx>

Excaliber.docx

Destiny fulfilled

“Looks like there’s no one home,” he said as he led me up the stair of the hotel called Lavenders’ Grave. His name was Boundary, Boundary Loins. He was a smoothed talking nigga-loving, pursuit of religion that had shown through his grey hair and cloudless, white, and green=spotted teeth.

I, Magnificent, guides him firmly in between my tusks, red blouse of sparkling red, grey, and white. “…These arms are yours,” I whispered as I was doomed to repeat it.

His fangs appear as his messages my neck with the tip of his tongue. He echoes slowly purrs of exultation. His black hair, and pale skin collide with my uterus as his suspends me in animation, roaring softly against paved stone.

He clicked his tongue and then fills my mouth with red, silken blood—my own. He was drinking me and fiercely ripping into my thighs with zero tolerance of cruelty.

My auburn hair began to sway as the nightmare began to creep in. I was bitten by a vampire-zombie, and I was licking my lips as he was doing it.

The school bells would begin to ring again, on one Sunday afternoon. Bible study would begin. My seat of raging hormones was filled with sweat as I continue reading a chapter of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I had long since put away my cross when the study of the Egyptian mosque began to ring into my ears. My arms where testy, as the sultry bosom it provided for this 25-year-old body began to vibrate with Excalibur.

“Somewhere beyond the night….” I would say as I would look up at the sky and dream. “I will find you,” I say to the distant wonderland I would know as Event Horizon.

As busy as the day went by, my soul went spiraling; I have promises. My neck bracer of black and grey began to itch and pound my suggestions with Final Fantasy VII popularity. As soon as my arms where full, I gain momentum trusting back and forth inside my chair just narrowly escaping a fall.

“Lucifer, what are you doing?” my history teacher commanded. Her hair was somewhat grey pale. She had no eyes but could sense things, terrible things happing all around her. She wore a pale white and black peddler’s cloak and expected me to do the same. Her back was hunched over with swollen scared ruffles of ginger skin and white velvet culprit defray.

My eyes roll to the bottom of the classroom, “MY name is Lucifer only in name Mon Diez.”

She strikes me down with her clubbed hands.

My world is full of gray stars and vomit. “My head hurts,” I complain. In the blink of an eye, I see Hades’ scythe roll passed my eyes. I shudder and recover automatically shrieking, “What was that?”Wednesday, March 3, 20218:21 AMChapter One: The fairytale characterMy thoughts are to bleed like a mad soul in twine, I say to myself . The voices in my sczhorphrenic head are waging war with. God had told me, long before he gave me sczhorprenia, that I was the Holy Grail.I could control my fears…but could I control Him? I try to. He only laughed. He would say my Holy Grail was of two naked women in a cup, meaning superficially, I was a Lesbian.--which I, at least to my virgin Knowledge was not.I listen to Supermassive Black Hole by Muse from the Stephanie Meyer's inspired "Twilight" films. I never watch them, I only read. Reading is ALL I ever do…Either that, or sit around and do nothing but sleep in.I but on a show in my room as I begin to drift in the world of Real Emotion. My thoughts are luminous. My feeling sore and defiled. I have no EMOTION, I tell myself. My emotions are just that bare a popsicle stick.I do not watch television, however I do play games on the PlayStation 2 every now and then. My room was a mess, so I reluctantly decide to start cleaning it. My head then fills with the after effects of the amorphic gassy and fizzy feeling of medicinal lightheadedness from not taking my prescription for fears that I may be poison myself with the image of bilateral fusion with Piper and Picus. Piper an Picus are a sedative for making ends met. That is what the gods of Mt. Olympus keeping murmuring, not to me, but about me and me being able to hear the voices of the dead.No one outside the animal world knows of me and the power vested within. And even that has its shortcomings. That is because the presence of good and evil are everywhere, not just within Man but within Nature. Take that as my experience with my imagination, calling itself Abolisk the Tormentor, or my menial term Imagination, and you get bitter sweet Choas.I lead with my mind not with my heart.I can speak to the animal, that is one of the abilities I have. I can shape change, however, I can only complete translation only under certain circumstances. Such things include the Heart judging, as if I would ever allow myself to lead up to that. The heart can fool me, and with a mind like mine, why base everything on love and beauty of your typical Ares woman? I lead with my mind not with my heart. I think a strong mind wields a stronger body and a mind is a terrible ting to waste.I practice playing games to support myself in battling those mysterious shadows that prey on the weak-minded or the passive. It is the art of war using residual thinking, positive reinforcement, and learning and probability. I practice reviewing school interludes that I used to know before I had graduated before being affected with the mental illness sczhorprenia.With my eyes wide shut, I would imagine whole new worlds of adventure I read about in books to the point my father thinks it does not do me any good. My imagination is so vivid, its self-aware and able to come to reality. That is when I find out not only I could stop time, but also move back and forth through it in sleep mode.I call my intuitions "Memory", "Memory", "Melody", "Mnesesyne" or in assimilated order. I had built a time machine, in which Pegasus interrupted and took that away. I have invented time travel back to the Cretaceous Period where my dinosaur dream avatars would be only to discover that all my dreams are real by the message of Allah.My dreams are amphitoads, now. They spiral out of control. I have dreams of the god of the Underworld as Edward Cullens, his own reincarnationEdward was an underworld, fairy dream that I ran into in my soon-to-be nightmares while Hades, was my day-to-day reality. He rarely ever bothered Cerberus, the demon-dog of Hell as they walked side-by-side on the Earth saying that they ruled the Netherworld. Cerberus would be in the disguise of a normal animated, Labrador or a human musician.He kept close to the ghost of Aaliyah and the figurine of Missy Elliot. His association with the canine world was unprecedented. He would really blow them away, especially Charlie Barkin and Elizabeth Taylor, two other angelic dogs caught up in the Netherworld.I pause. Cerberus thinks to himself again. He understands everything I have been saying. He smiles in his dog-gone smirk that "…the chimney between us goes far as it is wide. Don't it??"I listen to myself think again for a while. Maybe I can make a new platform hit of Death for Sailor Pluto's planet.Cerberus thinks to himself again.My eyes feel watery. I wipe them clean. I begin to think of a more innovative "death". I summon up the courage to challenge my of "life".I hear Pluto say to himself, "the Garment Grid ain't what it used to be," and then mumble on.As apparent as the legendary Darla Dimple would have said, "I'm not worthwhile." And that's only because Mary Magdalene poised a threat to her foundering youth.I want to know about You, I tell myself. Then, I see her: my other self, my other Isabella Swan. Her name was Nadene, alias Christine Howard or Christine steward or whatever, and she looked exactly like myself even thought she was a complete stranger. I got along with her, yeah, uh-huh, but because I was Black and she was Pilipino, my dear Hades sided that white was right and began flirting with her.He gives me a pat on the thigh and smiles, "I know what you're thinking….?""What?""You're hunting rabbits," he laughed.I pretend to be Sailor Pluto from Sailor Moon and guard the invisible gate of Time found in my virgina. Amused, as always, my infrivoulous and infractilous admiration of Pluto goes ten-to-one, even if Isabella is there.Morning rises, suns set.The dead walk the earth.Morning, noon, and night IPray, thou befoul myEpidiifs EarthNaked, cold, and wanderingA virgin lights a candle.So black that she utters slurs that.Transpire as the evening shadows.Hearts are one, and seasons baring.And she continues to count backwards.Time moves on without her.A high and mighty virginSacrifice….The cold is baring. The seasons are neigh.I have no home but the Virgin Mary inside.I make love to by virgin lover, whose eyes seeNothing—hear nothing—knows all.My pilgrimage is one and I am baring the fruits ofHeaven just as my forefathers have done.Who am I? I am “Padme”.Miracles are a thing that I have only known.When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.---We both love Hades—that is what she said. The femaleGoddess of Memory that would be my shadow….and meReincarnation. In about 3000 years, Hades and I shall meet again.I shall be Isabella Swan and he shall be my Edward Cullens from the bookAnd the movie Twilight by Stephanie Meyers. I was a force bearer, a bearer ofWords and symbols, phrases, and metaphors.Her name was Isabella Swan the exact Swan of the Final Fantasy.This world is my world—a world of endless books and writing, a world of letters and dementia. I am author and narrator of the Story—the story being the Story and or stories of my own life or the lives of others. I am free and independent. I am an Ares woman. My real name is Shelina Denise Chapman, and I am an honorary 34-year-old virgin, African-American woman with sczhorprehenia. I can be driven to bouts of paranoia and hernia. My lips are red, and my fingers are forever busy typing new stories that my disease keep calling a Greek-Norse myth. I love to read and to write stories. I have been doing these habits and hobbies since I was in the first grade.When I once loved Hades, I felt the world tremble.Back when I was a teenager, it was much easier to write and read, otherwise go ahead a write by hand everything I needed Sometimes I would write in my diary and make it into a fantasy story; other times, when I was busy masturbating, I would write about the whole sexual impulse on screen. I have never had a companion; I have feeling morally applicable that I would not need one.I keep hearing the supernatural, and have a hard time pinpointing my thoughts with my mind. I can hear them as I think, I can see them as I was—the walking dead. I like and I love to dream and imagine new possibilities and new ideas as well as some newly fabricated technologies and nurturing old ones. Like the telephone! I am the reason why the supernatural have telecommunications, let alone their own souls.Deep into the passageways of fallen Roman warriors, stood the mighty Disney’s Hercules. His physical statue was otherworldly, with both nimble and grace along a pleasant night sheath. I am Disney’s Esmerelda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame animated film, and I am flabbergasted as to the virtue and maiden aura of this animated godly marvel. Why, oh, why, must I be the splendor one?“Cupid’s arrows reach you Hades?” a voice familiar to me said from behind. It was Hermes, dressed in fine Latin-American clothing fit for the 21st century this is.I shake my head to arouse suspicion, “Naw.” The curly -waxed figurine of the black-haired, middle-aged man comes to focus.So, he is fat too, the Prophet said in her mind thinking from the safety of her own mind. Her name was simply Minerva Backster’s.“Cupid couldn’t find me at 100% maximum,” he said as he nodded. He shook his head at the tall Roman figure, “Like to tower them nuts for the pack’s their worth.”They laugh.I find their flakiness disturbing and harmonic, a pertinence for the admiration yet conservativism of their homosexuality.I am alone again. My head begins to hurt. I envision myself taking medicine for my needless-to-say sczhorprenia, as well as for the psychic anomaly I pose by strengthening it up. For an instance, I thought I saw Death; a shy smug figure of a Titan named Baby—Baby New Year.Upon Me AgainMorning rises, suns set.There are thoughts.Which crossed my mind?That fathom not suggestionBut the absence of Time==Thoughts that are pending, thoughtsThat are uplifting— ME.I take a whisper of sand in my Holy Grail,And call it Edith Blasphemy.Such radiance designed by air.Such vigorI know not why nor where.Am I the downfall?Am I the anticipation?No one knows why norCares.But here—But where?But downfall. Down, downThe river bends a mermaid summoner.Summoning up Elysian fields.The mermaid listens—I pray.Her fin turns to legs, and I ravish her.She swears at me up and down.I laugh.I laugh…“‘He and his shoulder blades were curving; a mixture of piper and Picus, They were.Up against the dreariest place, I would imagine.A ceinture of a void, seldom looked at and pronounced dead.’Less time is available here, I begin to think to myself. And surely, if actions speak louder than words,Then so do I-- The intelligence of the human Bible.A short while later, my arms are wrapped in plenti. I have no mercy for the Lord whatsoever.That is because my brain is made of Styrofoam, and my prayers are made of ice- cream bars.I am Pluto—god Hades Pluto, ruler of the netherworld.My sign is all I have to my name ever since Persephone reincarnated two- hundred, five years ago—and that was Plutonian time.‘Mark my words, Galileo,’ I told Jesus one summer afternoon, ‘I’ll find the dame for me’His pale-green eyes hit me like a love light. We made love that day. Passionate, huh? I take a moment to think back: Rome, Ancient. Babylonica. These things reap my mind. From dusk ‘til dawn, I pant like a lion’s head over this Minerva fluid. Jesus’s white ass touched me like that Falcon Furor Phoenix Flame exhibit Hesus likes to talk about so much. I remember myself moaning when suddenly an ebidimic spider came crashing down onto me. My sharp, demon eyes durn pale black and white as the scaled white dragon of Ra.I give off an instant hiss, ot my lover’s dismay. It was that vision again. My eyes click. I maintain Biblical statues as my discography continues to merge one with me. The Scorpio within me tells me that Isabella Swan from Twilight, just struck down her creator. I give a hushed mouth to my dog Cerberus, faithful and true as always.What could I say but to allow my own prejudices perceive me? I was in love with the goddess of Destiny herself and her would-be reincarnations….especially Isabella.I grab my rod and satyr; ‘What a day I’ll be having.’Isabella would look live and low at herself. My image was decimated…and on the floor? It was a bloody body wrapped in sheets; a mirror image of herself! Gasping, I awaken from the dream feeling a little bit flushed. Why would Isabella murder me? The image of the pickaxe’s admittivities to my forehead is staggering. I am Juno, the legendary Shelina Denise Chapman, personal narrator of the story herself.I could feel her in my feet and bones—that warm September afternoon, as I envisioned the two of us inside a black spotted jeep, leaning back conquering the world of symbolisms. With my head held high, I begin to recall the primum opus of the magna carta. Every moment was dedicated to my esteem college Micheal Alexander Dimitrius Alleluia, my personification of myself living in the world of Dreams. My Uncle Randy, a middle-age elder man about the age of 47, was dark sinned brown and Spanish-speaking highlights as the African-American man always appealed to me as a strong sense of moral character and duty. That was not just beginning with his Scorpio sign, but his association with the Chronicles of Riddle Freddy Kreuger assigned to me. The antsy thoughts race across my mind about the Scorpio sign of my Uncle.“Go, PlutoDo it, PlutoGo Pluto, shake it, Pluto!”Little did he know I was an Evangelion…or so it seemed….I walk up to him one morning late last spring and begin thinking and digging deep into my thought about various obscure aborigines—mostly about feelings that my sczhorprenia missed placed or about thoughts and experiences I had in my early childhood. Here I am, a 35-year-old African American girl thinking about the past. Odd, isn’t it? Especially since my recently deceased, in that time, Uncle Martin—a different Uncle mind you, perished after taking a single needle into his arm. Suicide. My other Uncle Avery was a retired military man, however. Although kind-hearted, he was a little more than trifling when it comes to cooking. I would laugh whole-heartedly with not meaning and concurringly at him until the day I received the apparition of me embracing Squall Lionheart as Rinoa Heartilly when I feel headlong backwards in an African-American, wooden designed chair.Back in those days, my mother, two brothers and myself were homeless, and, we surely would have need somewhere to go. Uncle Avery was the first to pick up the dresser and pull us off the streets.I pick myself up off the ground and begin debating with myself. My lips between my legs are tight as a drum as always, I think to myself No one has ever been there but myself, my parents, and a few doctors. I wonder when I will begin to have my own first love? I will be wondering about this for some time now. That was when it occurred to me: I have not practiced my battle format yet. I could imagine my virgina’s transforming into an erectile penis. I begin to moan at the thought of masterbating with Tifa Lockheart and several other Final Fantasy characters throughout the ages. My breeeches were appearing wet and dry at the same time. My thoughts were aflutter. I begin to moan at the thought off the emptiness and begin to cry out infuror seduction. I was a boy again playing with his andromedin, just as easily as I have squared it.Diablos, my kitten, began to follow it pursuit as the imaginary feline companion. His black fur and grey-white temples began to appeal to my sight of imagination a strange sort of fondness. I could hear him talk to me under his skin. His purrs began to echo in my ears. I began to see images of my feline companion very vividly over the radio speakers in my ears.ToothTooth, I feel you flowing in my earsI hear the softness, streamingTooth…I feel you flowing through my ears--A quickness I have only but persevered.It is going down…Down…down…The pelvic gland against my ears,The inert-arachnid—the male womb—Against my craven belly.Its tooth of nails—the virgin woman—is but a man,Yet a woman.It is my bra strap, that transits reality—A broadband horizon, a futileReality.From <https://d.docs.live.net/025cb40a2a1fb452/Documents/poems.docx>Excaliber.docxDestiny fulfilled“Looks like there’s no one home,” he said as he led me up the stair of the hotel called Lavenders’ Grave. His name was Boundary, Boundary Loins. He was a smoothed talking nigga-loving, pursuit of religion that had shown through his grey hair and cloudless, white, and green=spotted teeth.I, Magnificent, guides him firmly in between my tusks, red blouse of sparkling red, grey, and white. “…These arms are yours,” I whispered as I was doomed to repeat it.His fangs appear as his messages my neck with the tip of his tongue. He echoes slowly purrs of exultation. His black hair, and pale skin collide with my uterus as his suspends me in animation, roaring softly against paved stone.He clicked his tongue and then fills my mouth with red, silken blood—my own. He was drinking me and fiercely ripping into my thighs with zero tolerance of cruelty.My auburn hair began to sway as the nightmare began to creep in. I was bitten by a vampire-zombie, and I was licking my lips as he was doing it.The school bells would begin to ring again, on one Sunday afternoon. Bible study would begin. My seat of raging hormones was filled with sweat as I continue reading a chapter of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I had long since put away my cross when the study of the Egyptian mosque began to ring into my ears. My arms where testy, as the sultry bosom it provided for this 25-year-old body began to vibrate with Excalibur.“Somewhere beyond the night….” I would say as I would look up at the sky and dream. “I will find you,” I say to the distant wonderland I would know as Event Horizon.As busy as the day went by, my soul went spiraling; I have promises. My neck bracer of black and grey began to itch and pound my suggestions with Final Fantasy VII popularity. As soon as my arms where full, I gain momentum trusting back and forth inside my chair just narrowly escaping a fall.“Lucifer, what are you doing?” my history teacher commanded. Her hair was somewhat grey pale. She had no eyes but could sense things, terrible things happing all around her. She wore a pale white and black peddler’s cloak and expected me to do the same. Her back was hunched over with swollen scared ruffles of ginger skin and white velvet culprit defray.My eyes roll to the bottom of the classroom, “MY name is Lucifer only in name Mon Diez.”She strikes me down with her clubbed hands. My world is full of gray stars and vomit. “My head hurts,” I complain. In the blink of an eye, I see Hades’ scythe roll passed my eyes. I shudder and recover automatically shrieking, “What was that?”

The religious, through and through never amused me. I would picture them on the Himalayas stripping bare naked like a Jay bird’s egg. I wonder what else awaits me today as I topple over mountains of pre-owned novels and other valuables amonst the middle of the Ares Ram zodiac sign.

#Twilight Suzuka by Antigone aka Shelina Denise Chapman

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