satanicdoctor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFUzvbkEvRk
Jul 7, 2012 at 1:49am
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the dachshund at the steinway. (pome a day challenge)
Madame sits at the STEINWAY talking
Quietly to it as her fingers run across
The keys with a gentle, tinkling grace.
It is the grace of one who has made happiness
Her exile so as to fit more room in for
Her music; a music for meandering minds,
Yes, but meandering too much, beyond minds;
And, at last she puts her latest phrase
Of notes outside with the retentive
Dachshund, yapping his own little
Notes from patio, paws against the
Sliding door. Forever the child
Of her passions, lady X with a shaking
Of her cuffs in falbalas stretches and
Gets up, goes out of sight. We hear
Strange noises, a coughing out of
Angst. We float to a spot where the
Woman can be viewed, observed, rather,
And find, she has spilled her drink
On the weathered white shag next to
A wooden cabinet with deckings, arty
Frieze; a gift from uncle, Andrew Jackson
Something. She takes a brief gander
At the spot of wine as it soaks into
The rug. She is half who made her,
Half of uncle. Her other half is some
Devil of music: tinkling notes and
Yaps yapping. Insipid canine, she
Thinks, always a distraction, she
Thinks---taking a finger running
Across the enamel of her teeth to
Wipe off residuum from brunch,
Alone, about ten minutes ago.
Sloppy Joe on bun, it was; and,---
Sweet potato fries, with mayo
For dipping. So, she looks at the
Cabinet only to find that it has
Turned into a spacious, liminal,
Uncharted span of heaven, filled
With uncles, filled with uncles
Offering her wine but wine which never
Grew within the belly of a grape. Come,
Bacchus!, she murmurs, trailing a finger
Across the glued wainscoting, as she walks
Into a small retro-kitch kitchen. Some
Of her time for the rest of the day is
Spent forgetting about heaven, all of heaven;
About good, and evil, even beyond what either
Is. She is half who made her, evil in the
Eyes of those who made her. The spot of wine
Grows up, becomes a figure, drawls in tinklings
On the STEINWAY, waiting, waiting, waiting,
Yes, for her to coo into the night badly,
Then yell, anticipating beforehand, then
Yell into the heavens fraught with
Nightfall before lady X can think to
Anticipate anything at all, instead
Opting to be, to be in the night, just
Be, and close herself off, become the
Furniture she desires to have, be in
The Olympus of her hated happiness, while,
Listening, the dachshund blessed with
Human hands pushes open with might the
Sliding doors, tells her to quit yapping,
Takes her place on the piano-bench to
Thunk the WORLD out of a STEINWAY,
Made humanely in the image of music,
All music; the music of lady X, stained
With wine. The stain becomes a dog
Soon attenuated, gone for days without
Brunch, running his fingers of a mutant-
Metaphor far across terrific glass, and we
Are left to grieve for a thing no longer
To be observed, a figure of wine no
Longer to be observed, digested,
Hit with swirls and made like Hermes
From the genius of one mortal, one
Comrade of a tinkling thunk in the night,
One night: one night, logic will stain
No such gifts: and no such furniture
Will be for the taking by some constipated
Heaven: no gifts: for example, cabinets,
Cabinets that make all happiness an exile
For this Lady X, this madame who fears the
Phrases of a thinking gone unsaid, lost:
For the occult to sway forth with stains
With of done Olympus and of STEINWAYS
And of dachshunds plagued with
Yapping hands, the hands of summoning
Happiness out of exile, gone unheard.
throwback1
PERSON MADE OUT OF EYES.
Endangered ghost this man, this written man—
This man with eyes the wane of milky moons
Lodged in the middle the pupils darkly centered
In respective irises as afloat a nucleus confined
Within the Brown Irises; these two measures
—Of the self, encompassed
By contemplative white
Bile, milky, bile, and, together, like a dark marble,
—Them bobbing on the surface of pale,
Some strand of sematic neon giggling in the hazel—
As conjecture is what keeps the fact floating,
As all fact is premature, and his eyes are spherical ideas
That emerge—
From the must of the bile of the sclera
Beholding this shoddy WORLD flushed and tired WORLD
This ornate farce, gush of images, dreading a kind of cul-de-sac
With every assertion in the cornea—
As every assertion is a reflection mirrored—
—Each prone vessel seen, seems something
Created not by GOD but fiend who keeps
This man from knowing fully—what is to be known—
From feeling in his veins the flow of blood
Although relenting a purpose to the sight as one would
Would cartoon the Sistine Chapel: a purpose that the one who
Views it—mysterious hombre—takes to be the entire purpose—
As sight cannot live, without, at least
A partly whimsical understanding of the
Things there are to see . . .
But in the tree that is blue and the ocean green
He names them such, enigmas blunted by names
The definition is sharpened with a wacky intimation
Derived from something not to make precedent
In words—but, perhaps, in words without form—
That buzz thru the trance of the thing that is witnessed
In the clouds congregate in the buildings and the hills
That each may stop being there, if not provided
With a constructive purpose for being there,
Of fear that all will vanish if not caught by the eye,
The images seem to resume when they are seen,
That when not observed will flutter like pixies—
—Pursuing less visible designs, in the hopes of keeping alive
That which the trillion particles not solved by vision could only
Erect as spectacle, which shrinks the noticed scene
Into something less effectual than before,
There lingers a perception that would change what he ganders
—To be left with the idea rather than the object—
And though he may understand the idea,
The man loses the object, in vain struggling ends up
Unable to associate the once unspeakable notion with
What has become the now unspeakable vision . . .
The object roves far back, dwelling in a subterranean
Profundity, beneath the air . . . he moves thus backwards,
—Back apace back to where the object is again fathomed
And the wordless again is a premonitory clue
That, because it is not accessible, provokes anxiety
Like a gravitating horror that by lack of translation
Will capitulate to the pulls of future uncertainty
And hit his ground with an enervated plop,
He wonders, perhaps, if things die when they are not seen,
And when seen again are they different than before
And, when seen again
Are made the bogus bunk of dead conclusions
That plunge a knife into the wilderness
Endangered ghost this man, this written man—
This man with eyes the wane of milky moons
Lodged in the middle the pupils darkly centered
In respective irises as afloat a nucleus confined
Within the Brown Irises; these two measures
—Of the self, encompassed
By contemplative white
Bile, milky, bile, and, together, like a dark marble,
—Them bobbing on the surface of pale,
Some strand of sematic neon giggling in the hazel—
As conjecture is what keeps the fact floating,
As all fact is premature, and his eyes are spherical ideas
That emerge—
From the must of the bile of the sclera
Beholding this shoddy WORLD flushed and tired WORLD
This ornate farce, gush of images, dreading a kind of cul-de-sac
With every assertion in the cornea—
As every assertion is a reflection mirrored—
—Each prone vessel seen, seems something
Created not by GOD but fiend who keeps
This man from knowing fully—what is to be known—
From feeling in his veins the flow of blood
Although relenting a purpose to the sight as one would
Would cartoon the Sistine Chapel: a purpose that the one who
Views it—mysterious hombre—takes to be the entire purpose—
As sight cannot live, without, at least
A partly whimsical understanding of the
Things there are to see . . .
But in the tree that is blue and the ocean green
He names them such, enigmas blunted by names
The definition is sharpened with a wacky intimation
Derived from something not to make precedent
In words—but, perhaps, in words without form—
That buzz thru the trance of the thing that is witnessed
In the clouds congregate in the buildings and the hills
That each may stop being there, if not provided
With a constructive purpose for being there,
Of fear that all will vanish if not caught by the eye,
The images seem to resume when they are seen,
That when not observed will flutter like pixies—
—Pursuing less visible designs, in the hopes of keeping alive
That which the trillion particles not solved by vision could only
Erect as spectacle, which shrinks the noticed scene
Into something less effectual than before,
There lingers a perception that would change what he ganders
—To be left with the idea rather than the object—
And though he may understand the idea,
The man loses the object, in vain struggling ends up
Unable to associate the once unspeakable notion with
What has become the now unspeakable vision . . .
The object roves far back, dwelling in a subterranean
Profundity, beneath the air . . . he moves thus backwards,
—Back apace back to where the object is again fathomed
And the wordless again is a premonitory clue
That, because it is not accessible, provokes anxiety
Like a gravitating horror that by lack of translation
Will capitulate to the pulls of future uncertainty
And hit his ground with an enervated plop,
He wonders, perhaps, if things die when they are not seen,
And when seen again are they different than before
And, when seen again
Are made the bogus bunk of dead conclusions
That plunge a knife into the wilderness
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man carrying thing II. (pome a day challenge)
So here is a man carrying thing. He
Wanders through snow for miles. He
Is a new type of man however not
Necessarily good, a good man. He is
Of a thing in itself carrying him; yes, a
Prompt provider blessed with a meaning
For the design. He is a prompt maker,
True to his word, but a priori to the point
Of being guttural. Nathless, he carries him,
This new man, this man of unlucky telling
Of himself to know the thing he carries good,
As a good. This man who carries heartless
Telling only, only of himself, a burden, and
Yet no voice, no, for the clairvoyant sages,
Blind and beardy. Carrying a thing across
The snow, for miles. Must he be the
Elected for an image of desertion and
Paucity: and must that which provides
Give him only him, be not so descript,
Flourish nothing, merely charge the
Doughty drama of his going on with
Troubled, bubbling musics of desertion:
The desertion of a snow, the evils of a
Thing that is a man who carries it.
So then they work hand in hand: they
Do not perjure one another openly,
Answering scoffs with scoffs, and yet
There is some beef between, some strain as
Though each were handling a sleight: a striking
Of the chords of ludicrous music, here, in a
Place we know not of but that it is for miles,
Is communicative of some distance, abstruse,
Steeped in carnal death to prompt a séance
For the sages to scratch out. We know not
What he carries, the man, this man for the
Sages, and yet himself a clown, funny with
Turbulence, wagging argument out from nothing;
Made of nothing, strung out more from nothing.
Whatever it is is carried, entertained like a
Bad guest, as the narrative goes on through snow,
Begrudging death and more the death of life than truly
Death, a true but impure death of music and thus burden.
He, who is walking somewheres in the snow . . .
No, we know not what he carries but it
Comes from the sun, the music of the sun,
An insane, quite desperate sun of a gross,
Lighted cascade, shoved into being out of
What all of mankind might carry, might not:
That is what he speaks for for the very
Provider of him, in a ludicrous desertion
Of snow, snow, yes, beautiful, beautiful
Snow, for miles and miles, and this man
A symbol for the symbol, the leftovers
Of a sullen dream's drams. An endlessness
Of ecstasy; wait, no, vice versa. Wait,
No, not anything but a paucity: a hulk or
Form far off in the flatness of a big
Place, a WORLD consisting of snow, snow
And things, things to be carried and felt
And not known ever, also. Burdens of a
Seeming of a man, descript as a life seen
As being comprised of three or four trees
And a cloud. Only through a lens of dire
Loneliness can voices drum with honeyed
Thunder; only through persistence, yes,
The persistence of a lens through which
The scope of musics of confusion, carried out
With panache and delicateness, could so arrest
The songs of the death of meaning. Only through
The beating of boards could the last throes
Die out there, the meaning die out out there;
Music of a man and his thing, and him the chief
And obsequious chimer or plebe hungering for
Approval from chief, yet him the chief way out
In a place of chords from nothing, obscene with
Plateau, in gathered flatness, haunted wide
With snow. Figures in the snow; figures, forms
In a daydream, slowly melting in the sun.
Wanders through snow for miles. He
Is a new type of man however not
Necessarily good, a good man. He is
Of a thing in itself carrying him; yes, a
Prompt provider blessed with a meaning
For the design. He is a prompt maker,
True to his word, but a priori to the point
Of being guttural. Nathless, he carries him,
This new man, this man of unlucky telling
Of himself to know the thing he carries good,
As a good. This man who carries heartless
Telling only, only of himself, a burden, and
Yet no voice, no, for the clairvoyant sages,
Blind and beardy. Carrying a thing across
The snow, for miles. Must he be the
Elected for an image of desertion and
Paucity: and must that which provides
Give him only him, be not so descript,
Flourish nothing, merely charge the
Doughty drama of his going on with
Troubled, bubbling musics of desertion:
The desertion of a snow, the evils of a
Thing that is a man who carries it.
So then they work hand in hand: they
Do not perjure one another openly,
Answering scoffs with scoffs, and yet
There is some beef between, some strain as
Though each were handling a sleight: a striking
Of the chords of ludicrous music, here, in a
Place we know not of but that it is for miles,
Is communicative of some distance, abstruse,
Steeped in carnal death to prompt a séance
For the sages to scratch out. We know not
What he carries, the man, this man for the
Sages, and yet himself a clown, funny with
Turbulence, wagging argument out from nothing;
Made of nothing, strung out more from nothing.
Whatever it is is carried, entertained like a
Bad guest, as the narrative goes on through snow,
Begrudging death and more the death of life than truly
Death, a true but impure death of music and thus burden.
He, who is walking somewheres in the snow . . .
No, we know not what he carries but it
Comes from the sun, the music of the sun,
An insane, quite desperate sun of a gross,
Lighted cascade, shoved into being out of
What all of mankind might carry, might not:
That is what he speaks for for the very
Provider of him, in a ludicrous desertion
Of snow, snow, yes, beautiful, beautiful
Snow, for miles and miles, and this man
A symbol for the symbol, the leftovers
Of a sullen dream's drams. An endlessness
Of ecstasy; wait, no, vice versa. Wait,
No, not anything but a paucity: a hulk or
Form far off in the flatness of a big
Place, a WORLD consisting of snow, snow
And things, things to be carried and felt
And not known ever, also. Burdens of a
Seeming of a man, descript as a life seen
As being comprised of three or four trees
And a cloud. Only through a lens of dire
Loneliness can voices drum with honeyed
Thunder; only through persistence, yes,
The persistence of a lens through which
The scope of musics of confusion, carried out
With panache and delicateness, could so arrest
The songs of the death of meaning. Only through
The beating of boards could the last throes
Die out there, the meaning die out out there;
Music of a man and his thing, and him the chief
And obsequious chimer or plebe hungering for
Approval from chief, yet him the chief way out
In a place of chords from nothing, obscene with
Plateau, in gathered flatness, haunted wide
With snow. Figures in the snow; figures, forms
In a daydream, slowly melting in the sun.
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parataxis. (pome a day challenge)
I am no human for the saints
And yet I dare to wipe him off as caul
So that he can dry out his shaking self
And say to me you are left anew now
To die forever and ever
Now that I have fully come out of my dreaming
You are left as a new but different man he might say
And to die a new but different death
You remain steadfast you refuse to pluck
What fruits there are from the seeds
Of my own rising self he might say
And yet strangely I am the part of you most wise
If only you could breathe and savor life as it is
If only you rid of yourself
This disease of a placelessness
You might die a good death
And perhaps I think to reply that he
Is a brute foil to spur an evil
Brutish life forth
And I the one now free of you am left
To be blessed and for your sake goodbye he says
I am no longer to be tortured by you your words
Wreaking a life of disease and paralysis
And yet you he says you in turn will be cursed
With a silence grand as death and as at peace
And perhaps I myself do dream of entering this
The galley of the saints and mythy martyrs
And of built greatnesses however built yes
From no sort of foundation
Rather from rumors that go round
Finagled like a tampering with
By extreme fantasy
And made the story of a darkness
For the wonderful imagination to feed on
And for the people in want of a saint to feed on
Perhaps I myself dream this
And in my dreams enter that plane
But you are still underground he might say
This other different from myself
And most wise and yet to myself blurred
By some too salacious reckoning of him
And shakily as I myself shiver
In the dripping brine frozen
In a majesty adroit and unyielding
And so then not the majesty of saints
And so then in my being in the brine
Am the saint of the brine
The myth is made and is a sphere
Spinning errant with muttered dithyramb
And poor diction and so then hiving
Within a straight nucleus
Or grand bosom of blessings
For this other hop o my thumb to inflate
With the breathing out of a greatness
Is an awakening finally
A rebirth of senses
And yet with an inhaling
Of the cancer of a mind
Unable to breach the sphere
Well yeah with that cancer comes the utter crock
Of differences different men in me
Parroting out the same image
Woven to disarm all the saints reborn
With wires of a hopelessly paratactic thing
Yeah a thing or device
For the english language
To tamper with to fit
This damned spinny dingus of a pome
This my spinny fuckin dingus
Of a depression vested in the rebirth
Of that other and his words to me now
Are as futile devices
That merely change a darkness
To the ruin of light
And they are to me myself as sewage
Negations abrupt wordplay
Strewn blindly about
Fluttering like confetti or
Circling like as a wheel in the mud
But no no this is
A weakest caesura for gerontion
A pause for the greatness
To collect like a breath breathed
In and out as such to make bold
The frozen self in the brine
Unable to penetrate that damned nucleus
And in recognizing this
I know he is blessed by me and my words
He knows he is a saint to be defiled
In rude awakenings like bold breaths
That each and every second awaken him
To one of the sides of duality
Without telling him of his place
And in a godless sort of way
He crushes either side
Once reborn there
Thinking it a poison
Crushes the beauty
Only to remain incurably bright
Amongst a juxtaposed darkness
Not knowing that he knows
Yet knowing I do
And not knowing
That I think him myself this other
Of differences and polarities
That makes a garbage
Out of such an anguishing
As doubt provides
But to be ambivalent
Is necessary is a necessary poison
And is a necessary heaven the other might say
He says to me it is for
The mortals in the gutsy fray to deify
With nonsense and with the raging
Of confusion
And all for ELIOT and his gerontion
And I I I a being in dry month
Waiting for beauty and
Stuck in breathing anew
I who sloughing it all off normally
Not knowing what I trash as not trash
But growing up anyways all stubborn
And doomed to be pissed off forever
At having arrived too late
At wonder-wounding choosing instead
To buckle and grow from brokenness
A flower for coughing goats
Stuck raging in the words like a metaphor
And I blessed
To be in a hovel of brine know
In a palace of ruin bent backwards
Towards a seeking
Of naught but my own place in myth know
My own saintly destruction
Of a self is of my own hellish design.
And yet I dare to wipe him off as caul
So that he can dry out his shaking self
And say to me you are left anew now
To die forever and ever
Now that I have fully come out of my dreaming
You are left as a new but different man he might say
And to die a new but different death
You remain steadfast you refuse to pluck
What fruits there are from the seeds
Of my own rising self he might say
And yet strangely I am the part of you most wise
If only you could breathe and savor life as it is
If only you rid of yourself
This disease of a placelessness
You might die a good death
And perhaps I think to reply that he
Is a brute foil to spur an evil
Brutish life forth
And I the one now free of you am left
To be blessed and for your sake goodbye he says
I am no longer to be tortured by you your words
Wreaking a life of disease and paralysis
And yet you he says you in turn will be cursed
With a silence grand as death and as at peace
And perhaps I myself do dream of entering this
The galley of the saints and mythy martyrs
And of built greatnesses however built yes
From no sort of foundation
Rather from rumors that go round
Finagled like a tampering with
By extreme fantasy
And made the story of a darkness
For the wonderful imagination to feed on
And for the people in want of a saint to feed on
Perhaps I myself dream this
And in my dreams enter that plane
But you are still underground he might say
This other different from myself
And most wise and yet to myself blurred
By some too salacious reckoning of him
And shakily as I myself shiver
In the dripping brine frozen
In a majesty adroit and unyielding
And so then not the majesty of saints
And so then in my being in the brine
Am the saint of the brine
The myth is made and is a sphere
Spinning errant with muttered dithyramb
And poor diction and so then hiving
Within a straight nucleus
Or grand bosom of blessings
For this other hop o my thumb to inflate
With the breathing out of a greatness
Is an awakening finally
A rebirth of senses
And yet with an inhaling
Of the cancer of a mind
Unable to breach the sphere
Well yeah with that cancer comes the utter crock
Of differences different men in me
Parroting out the same image
Woven to disarm all the saints reborn
With wires of a hopelessly paratactic thing
Yeah a thing or device
For the english language
To tamper with to fit
This damned spinny dingus of a pome
This my spinny fuckin dingus
Of a depression vested in the rebirth
Of that other and his words to me now
Are as futile devices
That merely change a darkness
To the ruin of light
And they are to me myself as sewage
Negations abrupt wordplay
Strewn blindly about
Fluttering like confetti or
Circling like as a wheel in the mud
But no no this is
A weakest caesura for gerontion
A pause for the greatness
To collect like a breath breathed
In and out as such to make bold
The frozen self in the brine
Unable to penetrate that damned nucleus
And in recognizing this
I know he is blessed by me and my words
He knows he is a saint to be defiled
In rude awakenings like bold breaths
That each and every second awaken him
To one of the sides of duality
Without telling him of his place
And in a godless sort of way
He crushes either side
Once reborn there
Thinking it a poison
Crushes the beauty
Only to remain incurably bright
Amongst a juxtaposed darkness
Not knowing that he knows
Yet knowing I do
And not knowing
That I think him myself this other
Of differences and polarities
That makes a garbage
Out of such an anguishing
As doubt provides
But to be ambivalent
Is necessary is a necessary poison
And is a necessary heaven the other might say
He says to me it is for
The mortals in the gutsy fray to deify
With nonsense and with the raging
Of confusion
And all for ELIOT and his gerontion
And I I I a being in dry month
Waiting for beauty and
Stuck in breathing anew
I who sloughing it all off normally
Not knowing what I trash as not trash
But growing up anyways all stubborn
And doomed to be pissed off forever
At having arrived too late
At wonder-wounding choosing instead
To buckle and grow from brokenness
A flower for coughing goats
Stuck raging in the words like a metaphor
And I blessed
To be in a hovel of brine know
In a palace of ruin bent backwards
Towards a seeking
Of naught but my own place in myth know
My own saintly destruction
Of a self is of my own hellish design.
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triple-sounds. (pome a day challenge)
So I am left as gross a man as ever
As from the bed I sit upright at once to look at her
And I observe the slouching slimness of her body
And visibly nonplussed I stare and stare
And wait for her to notice my eyes
Though she appears more fascinated
With some measly thing elsewhere
On the street
Or some trivia in her head regarded at will
For when a need arose
To address anything but the conversation
And so I remember I responded as an outsider but responded
So as to prove myself as more to her than just an obliging worm
So as to free myself almost from the usual deference
And I wondered
How her fury would be expressed this time around
In answering to such a stupid thing as passive
As that triple-sounded coronal
Or will she ignore the admonishment completely I thought
And communicate that which I would dread to hear despite
And in her silence say she sees my wickedness plain at last
She will ignore it I think as if it were a moment
Of windy drifting
Across her very cheek
That somewhat makes an impression
And is sensed
However soft and fleet
But she stands and stands in the windy silence of passionate ström
By the window in her sunny dress for the folks
And she raises a blithe hand to stroke the blinds
And it is this image of insignificant beauty
Out of all things
That I remember still as clear
Looking towards the secondhand clock
Instead of me she is averting her eyes
From mine I thought horrified
Waiting for that time to come
When we see no more of each other
So I tsk and tsk and tsk
This is an image and as much a feeling
Disquieting now as I tenderly recall the one mistake
Of a passive and angry man
I remember and know this feeling as as much an image
To instigate a negative sort of hypos in me
And it crying for pistol and ball to crush the grossness
Of these poor and overworked renderings
Once wakened like a mutant of a child
And it crying with his mutant-tears
For the destruction of these gross things
These words to describe a hurt that still is in me
And me by now sharpened to the nub
An emotional dullard
This as I rave bogs more in the banks of memory
And as I now know is as permanent a fixture
As any lurking pain would be
To a mind tending to lacerate itself
In speaking no further on a matter of hurt
But anyways feeling it splinter there
In this mind that preys upon such breakable feelings
Such fragility made crass and dumb
By the need to speak it plain
Speak it at all
I speak now as harbinger for this image of mine for me
And though a representative
Am not one so fragile as my memories are.---
I am callous, callous
And struck by tenderness not much anymore
Less than a block would be
With his block-headed mutant-feelings
Now I am callous, callous as any judge would be
Looking into the face of a murderer of myself
I am one as to be shattered with looking
And for this to be the image I use
For this poem
This image of a peering through blinds
Well it is not so made of power as I thought
Because I forget whether she looked back
To suffer a sidelong gaze at me
Or whether she said her ride was here
And left without bothering
To look at me
This is me recognizing
That I am going on in life not blessed
For if my nonsense is to drool eternally
Onto the page as eternally blank
Well then
I must not find out anything at all
I must remain as faithless and benign as she
Of what could change with three clicks of the tongue
For we have still not spoken finally of it
And now I am left without her face to see
Through the clutter of analysis
That is really altogether a crude elegy
For something I had once
That cannot die
Because it should have long ago.---
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Mar 17, 2012 at 2:51pm
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Re: pomes lefty wrote., Aug 13, 2013 at 6:56pm
Re: Judas Iscariot, Jul 8, 2013 at 4:42am
Re: In a Dead Swirl (Revision 1), Jul 8, 2013 at 4:36am
pomes lefty wrote., Jul 8, 2013 at 4:31am
Re: lessness, with frond . the hush sun . risen structures ., Jul 8, 2013 at 4:18am
lessness, with frond . the hush sun . risen structures ., Jul 8, 2013 at 4:13am
grey suffocations in a violet land., Nov 1, 2012 at 7:16pm
inarticulations., Oct 17, 2012 at 8:32am
Re: makeshifts., Aug 2, 2012 at 2:21pm
makeshifts., Aug 1, 2012 at 12:39pm
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