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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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