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In The Desert Where Striking Stones Is Accursed

portrait of the mind inaction, still life in a frame


guiding feather wingy angel being floating always


from realities furthest reaching fingered tipping glass


looking round the mirror land in worlds glassy eye drop


on the table top spinning in a spiral spiralling out in


circles round the shining shipwreck death discovered


first it twas and twas it first then to be uncovered


leafy brush, paint unto me the portrait of the dove


bleeding neck fainting friends blush the fanning hand


the dancing remnants lifted like sand lifts when so told


rising sun falling sky lifting wings drifting by bird goodbye


flying soaring roaring land ever prevalent goodness


when wast thou so asked to be and to be so asked againe


my goodness, whirling sand round the form in deserts empty


of all time's flow, hourglass, table turned, stacked like books


we burn and we burn and we burn and burn and burn


bodies in the bottomless pit pendulum hits the towered walls


striking sparks create shooting stars and Prometheus in chains


sees once more all things glowing die without remorse without


time, time thy fickle handed fiend, you, wicked fiend, deafening


more, abundance of nothingness, empty of fulfilling reminiscence


twirling tweedily dipping soar thy bird, so sing, upon branches, keep


upon worlds moist soil, roots, dig, find thyself a corpse cadaver


lifting stone by stone all time in both directions colliding shooting


swoopy stars hit and explode first from right and then left again


rising dying falling sparks leaving gold entrails of dead beginnings


golden chains connected from end to end beckoning the stone to rise


the spirit of the masque withheld inside as the body bleeding dies

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