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grey suffocations in a violet land.

There is something in where skirts
A threshold of palest white from green
Of winter marshes.

I hear the wind shrill, shrill
Enough, battering even the still flanks of
The legitimate dead. Deadening,

A thunder’s lash,
Too; and yet of all this, still,
The miniature trance, the airless,
Genial outsider of a purity divested of white:

Made of long
Colors: shade: a cataclysm
Disclosed, susurrated in an as
Dead throng of weeds, reeds . . .

These smallish pictures, these oblivious delays
Of oblivion . . . and the crucial
Gulp of that, despite . . .
Hmmm. What are
These: common embranglements,

These: crepitate booths of meaning, layered over and
Over, launched with
A chord of severest, wheezy
Wind, one of a few, that-
-Tired wind alone

Couldst rouse, and carve
A path for? Yes;
Yeah, carve, you . . . carve; that is,
For what is the white
In this violet, porcelain
Dungeon but of captivity fairest,

That is, the fairest kind
Of prison? In being snared,---
The white on threshold, snared.
But purple sky, mostly trembled
Millions snared, all,
Beautifully snared. And of

Shitty leaves and manic-
-Undergrowth, fairest,
Quenched in WINTER’s first go
At upping the torque of a thing
Humming for so long, with
A wrath---this wrathful, whopping
Large infant, grimacing out-

-In his comportment of
Silence---of these, these
Smallish, glancing sheaves of smallish
Vibrance---rotund---with eternity’s
Calm, happy, happy
Resemblance, good resemblance,
Yes, these---fractions---altogether

Gleam with commingling
Grey, with a countenance-
-Not so obviously blank; too flatly big across
The WINTER’s night thickly sheathed
In dark: dark, enough-
-To tolerate the chasm’s one ray: anyways,
The brightness of any Ill-won
Eternity wouldst

Mock it: that
Brighter one there: mock
The colors throughout. Throughout
With little, vilest elements-
-Of white: poor white: poor
Violet, of the clouds,
Though by the giant doing
Of the clouds, ignored,

Only for the---old misery---flung
Now just barely. Yes, and
To heighten up
A dry shoot---or more,
Perhaps---into it’s/their scattered
Bourn, wherever wind
Drops to land
The leaf, that is; scattered

All around the pavement while the
Road the silentious master of-
-This reverie taps out, grave,
Gaunt one, meanings in the night.
And leaves. Leaves in their
Condition, on this elsewhere of-
-Road. And, dumb
Branches twisted off by the local
Winds that were in strength about this place,

Once. Where is the
Beauty anymore in an
Elaborate trumping---this---
Of a present eloquence by reasonable
Eloquence at present, pah, for the sake of a more---
Positive---reprisal, of
More positive, at more positive,
Too, junctures, things,
Smallish ones, but big enough to prove

A thing amiss, at least to what’s below: if
Only in communicating mere-
-Lazy upkeeps, once or twice, to what below.
Or what is, whatever. Either way,
Pah! Some really absurd-
-Complacence that takes! And with a beauty
As disaffected as what being
Makes of being
Positive,---by this what
Cordial demon-being

Couldst there lurk, in these
Brief trophies of the
Sun’s approach or what have you?
No threshold holds
Enough: of whatever space it makes to conjugate-
-With glows, brief ones: whatever
Greyish spilling out of throats, struggling
To howl past a gust coughed
Out coming up to meet my flesh
As benignity---reproach---a grimace for

The scene, and scene by vicious,
Earthly scene---determined to hurtle
Over the violet gorge: for it I
Discredit myself, ameliorate the lackluster zone
Of more harmful tonnage: with a stone chucked
From this hand of heat, I tell-
-Of a dearth perhaps there housed in the outlying
Larches: yonder forest down the road,
A halcyon violet wedging deep set in the sky
And shrinking, till---forgotten---and the stone,
A heart for snow to muddy up;---

And for surfaces, corrupt. And, and
Usages, here, the words
Are here, you see,
Only to comply with the abased
Vision of a cold wood. Erhm,
Well, or, too-random torments,
Lost oblivions to see with: no, wrong:
Beauty on the scene
Of piling fall past heaps, yes:
On colors
Of the dissuasion that

This is,---on this there is like
A splotch a severe mortal
Lack of configurement, if even
By just a color or two, or too much
Derivative deadnesses, broken in flanks
Of wind fatigued with being-
-Disallowed the omnipotence it breathes
For: these fractions bake
Their baleful colors, into mud
That reaches, just before
A road lined with white against-
-This a marvel: yes,

A hinge of violet throbbing its smallest give
Of aesthetic along the unslack
Faultline: of
Eternity’s rounded confidence, yes,
Set disc by disc about a proper
Spine as might know a
Season’s irksome latency: give this,
Or, it gives, to give
This: dissuade this: o you fiend already
Of positives and the vision thence
Collected forth---yeah---forth
From a vasty berth way above

The wiry and also shifty stubs the ground
Has now: of trees, the poorer,
Not for thriving in the last pallor,
No,---but rather: once,
The finicky jugglings of meant-
-Words out of peaceable snows, though, like diadems
Of whispers dropped and, unreaching,
Evaporated before the ear;---each flake
Gone returns more of all this to a
Darksome place to WINTER’s
Cornered self. Erhm, well, blow it not
Out, not in flights: and,
Do not embrangle basest chasms

For the vision here
To uphold---no, no---no
Brain is careful, could be, in
This fabrication.
The words themselves struggle, like a
Subject of less ultimate import, but on
The brink of finishing-
-Itself. O matters
Of rings, aureoles, light, shadow.
The subject builds portents; makes
A thing hollow, forces it
To resuscitate the angles of this
Blind spot the haunt

Of raggy souls commands
Others to---in the grey, grey,
Torpid cloud, in their displayed
Glumness---make all else ignored.
!@#$ all. Displays
Are nothing but an oddity
To marvel at, a color through-
-Persistent, glassy white against,
Once again, the tonnage of weeds and,
Well, uprooted stuff, other
Inorganic displacements of organic-
-Things by some
WINTER’s thrashing: a motley
Of brush, all below, in

Accordance with a bully blinking bellicose the-
-Angers of a sky: in patches
Of dispute: between
The grey and green, once-green:
The snowiness of roads that go lengths down
To meet and rest---where: o there goes
A wink in the bleak blinking days
Of wanting from home a dissuading-
-Myth throughout
Murks of a kind, murky senses of home
In swampy traces: home: in it,
A fascination, violet-edged,
Outside, an outsider, caught
In indifference it's own, perhaps, and yet

Not blank, not even there
With the dusk; by
Tomorrow too, as night
In muffled, questionable sources
Of sounds snap, clap, and
Click. Their fearful softness barely
Being heard, is there,
And was, then. When I once stood
On the road at noon
And saw it hinged with snow, but did not see-
-Through my own glass the never-heard
Marvel of that---violent,
In its near-defacing smallness---
Violet hinge, !@#$ all. Making that
It's shy argument, shiningly

Wistful, amongst
The wistfulness of one
Endless, greyish cloud;---
And I the one
Who could have seen
Eternity and meaning fuse and,
Quickly, dissuade my human eye of what
Nobility they meant . . .
And I, cheek engorged of pallor as like
I was taken leave of by a friend
Upon the punctuated seethe a last,
Deft remark follows, hanging
Exasperatedly in some wild kinda blush
Of blood . . . a contemplative squint to
See more of it's response in this-

-Limned scene or pratfall or abasement lacking for
It's lacking place in a listener, absurd,
A listener of a somewhat lurid, softened
Fear, in the night's lurid-
-Gut, and, tomorrow, no rim
Of snow. Perhaps, another wink, as leaves
Get wispier and the ground dries
What collapsed seed
Here, in this mad mind
Of WINTER. Thence from this mind came
What made redness rush to cheeks,
Eyes squint-
-To comprehend: "And I will show you your
Theories blank as decrepitude . . . we are all
Abashed to recognize
A plain death in this carnival
Of sounds hugging an image with
Short arms. Savor this aspect,

A delicious threat. False fear maddening
To the head; a windy battery
Upon, first, the brittle spaces soaked;
The wettest clog in the gutter---voracious underbrush---
And all, all, the most gilding-
-Of textured anything goes
To dust. Furthered
In this way by the state of swamp of shabby
Saturation, slush to brine, before a brightness whole
Of white so white as to be
Violet,---there is none of that. Next time,
Look up, you hear? Perhaps the snow goes but
As long as I can know the sun there, I-
-Can see an intimate,
Fearless color, framed for me, and for
My eyes to briefly taste.
Nov/1/2012, 2:16 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog

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