I WILL SAVE YOU WITH A WORD
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In heart spring up stars asked for in their radiance flaws of which they cannot ask
Are there flowers more faultless than fictions? In an inner chamber
Only those installed with explosive ordinance.
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Are there means for secure disposal of imperfections?
They blossom beautifully of their own accord like intransigent teenage terrorists
hiding among the dust bunnies from the terrors of happy childhoods.
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We never learned how to fuck.
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AS LONG AS THE EARTH IS ROUND
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Lining the air with an excess of fluff bulbul rushes straight into the net
tired, and dies, is not what any of us thought under trembling
a momentary death, but only a death for a moment, to be resurrected and ringed
when the wind or tide is different as pouring across the beach, forever shaping it
to be continued as a serialised fiction with cliff-hanger endings
new sounds in panoramic ribbons of fresh tall grass in fields that are flat
will keep track of the movements of the bird and its life history, at least for a while
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THE RECKLESS APEX OF HOPE
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Optic content is illusion, as is 'evolution' of principle
Because we will leave out all ‘becauses’ as unnecessary and ghoulish
and anyway, saturation by 'forming' will spread anecdotally
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So why not to go through the list of lucky symbols looking for the missing one?
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We are blind to all those already there, luckily enough
The only ones discernible are the ones that are yet to be chosen
The ones we cannot perceive are the ones that have already chosen us
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NEVER LET IT GO
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Leftovers of the oil spillage hiding in the wet sand
alphabet of a toxic rhapsody the earth sings as it absorbs
stain the soles of my feet as every step stains the soul.
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Intellect and 'science' follow the plain capacity of feeling pleasure for fancie in some common, low dialect
fleeing the beach don't forget to see in the world in a grain of sand.
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Speak always with love to what of toxicity makes the world 'seem whole'.
Hold a palm bough in the infinity of your hand, so the hidden might be revealed.
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FROM THERE ACROSS TO WHAT?
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Where both inside out futures our paths crossed,
The mirror can look both ways, but sees just in one direction.
Yes, where our faces gleam, in faces that allege our own shape and substance
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unrecognisable to ourselves, yet promising a recollection,
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tulips become tulips, as they are called tulips, upon which some rely on memories of dying before they do
Do not call them tulips and they will never die.
Tulips are memory lapse as a flower garden soul lapse, lapse, perhaps as in one day home will home return, unrecognizable, and familiar
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READ CAREFULLY
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Do you need to rewrite me? - asks the woodworm, diving headlong into the substance of future paper pulp.
If I am to become a contract for my own death, you do
know where and when to enter the maze of eternity
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to be born again and again into this world and our dreams of it
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Just do not forget that there are other ways out
to live a full life freely with no need to hide behind how it appears
to scribble your line in the hieroglyphics of holes.
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SAY IT AGAIN
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All of our ideas become desire once more
Just as the silkworm turns the colour of the leaves on which it feeds
as your tongues dissolve into flowering pollen deep
within the nature of language
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As the long story becomes short again as it was when it first came into being.
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In the beginning words were just the names of things
and the names of things were the beginning
of love with no end in sight.
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GOOD AFTERNOON
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A fez on a brass coffeepot promises a grand sunset
for whomever is going anywhere for however we are the more so now
than ever before, when the spine of the city could not freely rotate
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yet nevertheless encircles around the beloved and liberating form of love's true substance
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Golden and red are always compatible as are velvet and copper
and why we tenderly call our union lilac and violet?
the dusk asks the twilight.
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NOW, HERE, NEAR THE END
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At the horizon, as if a separate place, blue sky provides a solution.
It fades to white, comprising all colours and non-colours of the memory
Internalized by way of how the body learns to breathe each part of it, at once.
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Eternal marble dust the world will become one day, who will be able to inhale it?
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The statues of marble made of their own inability to breathe, signs of what we culturally 'are',
misleading as always in the labyrinth of free air
where we are always free to be unable to distinguish between flies and bees
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COMPLIANCE
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Everything is fine, when the final decision is to be made
as we make it up and then must make it appear to function and be true to itself
asking 'can appearances be as true as disappearances are?'
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Both ways of it can be had in all things: Presence involves both
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like a greenish warbler in the branches of an unnamed bush, heard, yet unseen
or dreaming you are chewing bubble-gum when you are not, unaware that you aren't awake.
Anyway all is well, while we dream of a birdsong.
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