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lessness, with frond . the hush sun . risen structures .

        Her my soul has resting place! There down by
And returning by the conurbations of my little dismal
Stream. Something splashing out there drips with

           The steps of a caved beast from exhaustion
         And wounds what lessness, with frond
           And daffodil dipping
           Reluctant out of that
           Dismalness: and the

           Amicable space, to speak
           With cruelty and wrath in the feeling through:
Each numbers there, the modest winding tranquil drops heard
           Over the brook, winding through stubs
           Of chasm rock and folded roots, the stream
           A mad disturbance: beggin for the
Place placed out of the place in these wry strokes! The
       Blood on the floor of the wood

Where I saw what fell to squander: an
Angel meek and exquisite dying with abandon,
The blaze of itself a seam from GOD evoked
Though all of thing unravel, and immortal natures
Bereft all: and thing to burn to ruin

As features of pain like photographs on
That face went flashing variable, across
The charred minister, I gettin the frigid, black domain

There in
The eyes I saw there
Once mighty sadness.

O emblem for that dead grace
Which in confusion fast professed
An element of yet to, and the pax of prose. And,

Misbegotten, an oddity
Of wreck and soul, her livery
Of a magnitude dropped to

Reveal a stuttered nakedness, emit that
Very element, and she does, too; leaving soul the very
Welcome in that pressured wood, feline
The creatures groped at the dead thing’s white
Folds of sheet, trailed mannerly in wrinkles
Like a painting, much the more for nobody was
Watching. The emphatic crush timed round
Made the deer back off, the wasted
Form glowing, the angel stunning the air t’breach
A cosmic place of air for souls, to them,
Bemused at this winged shorty dying and lain
Down in the wood, and stoppering the air
With shuddering, an only friend
For power in the scaffolding aerated in thuds
Through this wood, backing off the life
With booms, and air more than air,
The angel havin fallen from a high place,
In the heavens of most things, a thing
Forsaken doubly by his wintry WORLD,

Cosmos of
peace, to escape when one has died
From that zone, and plummet to a perishing

Just to see the
Imperfect WORLD again,
Perhaps, just a leafiness in water,
Amusing the simple daffodil again.

. . . . . . . .

In the draem: I came me upon a dark corridor or room
           For safety from the hoodrats’ striking
          Laughter, chasing me in a

       Drove of them through the streets, and hungry to kill me
     As they struck me, chasing me. Once I roused myself from that,
           That horrific moment upon the knife of the gang, at once going,

A mirror I saw through the end of life, at first a square box of some kind,
      At the other end of someplace, this corridor, it was through
           A room I saw, I swear, the box, the square, a mirror, which
       Was matched between two doors as if
Event-horizon for the deadest thoughts

           With a drifting skein of dusty silk, moving as if itself alive
And an observer of the fear in me in silence, weird quietness, draped
  Over a pair of glass doors opening into the corridor, like a chasm, and
      The mirror, of which the square box became, transposed on and on,

To the more a recognizable ligament of reality, drew perception
          Back enough to grow me nightmares of a clarity, and the mirror

An impossibleness more terrifically frightening for its understated distance
    At the far end of the corridor there I remember in the night of the hush

           Sun. I saw there next to me, could not, refused to turn my head
Where the demon stood, heard the rattling of a different door far off,
As if more of them these beings to be expected, others milling like ghosts

Into this corridor, towards me—the whole thing smeared
      With a malevolent ether turned red with the blooming demon
           And blood of the dying hush sun, as she the horror rose
           With the steadiness of a flower bloomed from hell, by me and next

     To me, and so close a proximity as
           To turn me cold, and the silk drapes
           Begun to whisper.

           I see her, think her far:

           Yet she is slowly rising wearing
           For the lie, to my horror
           A nun’s habit, face still unrecognizable
    But the soullessness felt as equally
           Enough the visage anyway too

           Mangled by the box, that damnable mirror: a three-dimensional
           Rising like she the same as a two-dimensional,
           A thing different in the same place, in unruliness a
           Sack of the cosmos, chaos, entropy, reality’s atrophy

           And degrading, such things I saw:
           These ruinous phenomena, too odd, too bizarre, too
           Nightmarishly bizarre, and the demon in the habit
           Rising too this way through my
           Squared perception made a

          Box, as though
           Out of depths, a carnal pageant
For my hell’s initiation, and she lifted in such a way,
           Yet close knit as the skein, the scene, all this reality as such
     For the clarity it had, yet draem, and so then a most unnatural contrast,

How the demon in the bloodied habit rose, the rosary however
Culled from the picture: I heard a song tell me to hush, my son,

           Like some ugly scariness, the more a berth
      Than—insanity of quiet: that opened up into the holy
           Clothes: I had just gotten jumped by the hoods in
           My sorry little brain: unwelcome thugs,
           The draem went on

          From that place: I had been in my neighborhood,
           And, too frightened by the deafening hush sun,
           I left that darkened corridor, those
           Thugs, that goatish demon
           Most of all, this time myself arisen

With heart pounding, to the evils of the night in real;
          A bump as airless as a swinging door seemingly heard

From outside my bathroom as I pee and smoke,
           A trick of the ear to punctuate the fear I should needs
         Retain, in writing what the draem had said, that I had been

Thinking of hell, and if I’d go there: shrugged it off but did
And still cannot, right now, turn my head: what rests on those very
          Shoulders. Had done the shrugging: and for the moment I stiffen
         At the slightest

         Peripheral noise: thinking perhaps, it be the demon in the
     Habit, keep my neck straight and opened the door of my bedroom
           To mundane darkness. No insensible observer, no squares

Made of boxes. Ended up, I got myself a slice of cheese off the cheeseboard
In the kitchen. Whether I sleep again

Is questionable

. . . . . . . .

The great comfort of a pretty becoming
Gnashed, and fell the victims each away: here: a
Structure made of gravestones: audacious lines,

The victims/perpetrators of this
Oddity, this contextual finagling: and and

And there the eye was, the eye, the eye, and
There the great serpent, the serpent slitted
In the belly to bleed

Inhuman blood: an outpour of

The first cause, become the second and the third,
The pillowy muscles depleting, made of pillows-
-for-stones, stones the requiem for melted,

Charred victims of the wrack, this pretty child a
Monster, made a cordage out of snakes cut, out of
The clink of structures. She blamed the wind,

Who blamed the wind: the eyes, the eyes, the
Eyes. They took a welcome to mean go off from here,
This lark of never-again eagles from the frame of poem, lifted

Springingly to glazing over the temple graces, hocked
Sermons: and once monkeyed-around, the miscreant babble
Changed. It became a thing too wounded for a fourth

Cause. The first remained, having no choice. But
There were lights in the grave, graceless bloodinesses
Made out of stone, pillowed in the sky: a cloudy

Rant for stones to shapeshift, and the choice for poem
Set off renegade to guard the master-shift, the
Final cause, no part of those before, the silly dark

A prescience of eagles to control the sunlight’s breath in
Empty eyes, eyes, eyes. The socket of the sun disguised
Its eminence, drew blossoms from the great fickle

Emptiness of comfort: from raw stones, stones just
Starting to be stones, real stones, live rocks, fake in
Commencing too rapidly the begun-as-absentee:

Not confession, this, this not confession, this a member
Of feathers bled raucous in the raving: slit down
The belly of the snake of lies, and clouds: and seeming

Beauty!, fecund feathers wispy frail with wailing the
Final cause, that last, embellishing particular, that grace,
Fat at the ocular rim to time portrayals right

And emissions, rants, to stone away the clouds and leave
Confusion billowed like stuff through sieve, at least
The filtering action such. No; this more some mannered

Thing for puppets to uphold as flying the mask off the
Sick sun’s sickness, so as to bleed the serpent of his fake
Self’s snake, make a diction of components and vague

Urgency. This a thing most live, lively, like death: a thing
Like death alive: a death-like brimstone to await
The seeming back from cause-at-all, a propinquity

Much the more wasteful than the sign ahead, saying,
Risen Structures, the cherrypicker to bash us lookers in
Through the hood of car, and the sun to kill us when

We see, the structure held aloft just enough
To miss we feathered vans to beat the air,
And careless, tell us no source but to care

For lively-life, and symptoms of the gain a
Silly matrimony, stars of all, against the rickety wind,
A dauntless game to flame the tombs to cloud,

And leave the lies of eyes too loud, to loud, to
Keep stitched the seeming, an earnest serpent,
The belly chasm, spilling the breakable blood

Out into silly eyes the sun may cast, like causes
For the strange ubiquitous, derailed and
Shown like wind, invisible, not missing, the cherrypicker

Crashing behind, as we just drove over
The disaster, noticed our luck, and wailed a rant
Just to mark a zephyr, keep the tarot-trade a trade

And master monsters, monsters of the cause of
All that is that was brought in the light to is, brought
Rotten, in an evil stench, embellishment, the hidden eyes

Of Mr Frank, a dodgy signpost to dodge the
Soul of hollow, dripping spaces
Of comforting death, o death,

O death.

Last edited by satanicdoctor, Jul/8/2013, 12:00 am
Jul/7/2013, 11:13 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
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Re: lessness, with frond . the hush sun . risen structures .

just thought I'd share some recent work. It's been a minute or two since I've visited mtns so im not expecting much of a response, more just sharing for the sake of it on an insightful writing forum. emoticon
Jul/7/2013, 11:18 pm Link to this post Send Email to satanicdoctor   Send PM to satanicdoctor Blog
arkava Profile
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Re: lessness, with frond . the hush sun . risen structures .

doc. welcome back! got to your title today. a painting in itself. still to read through. will tell you about it later.

Aug/8/2013, 10:56 am Link to this post Send Email to arkava   Send PM to arkava Blog

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