And over the bare spaces of our skies
The book of moonlight is not written yet
And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat
And their memorials are the phrases
Out of such mildew plucking nearer mould
Do they believe they range the gusty cold,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
08 16 04
And forthfrom the bard-species of azure
The brook of moonlight is not flowing yet
And the lonely soul, O wanderers, demurs
Oldtime centuries, entranc't, are met
And their monuments are the human graces.
Out of sorts Milady, puckish, almost gold
Believe she rages 'gainst the common fold,
And makes a constant sacrifice of praises.
When editee edits, beewharrr, beewharrr!
The letter uprisen takes hold of the pen
and having once risen, 'sne'er transfix't again.
Dolorous meanderings in a tentshow chaos
Please the frothiest of maidens in curlicued
quotemarks for spitcurls for sidelocks for
reliquaries for prophylacteries in the grave-
headed mastiff at the gate of the Semitic Cemetery.
End-marks a faithful scarification of phrasings
When eddies swirl in Eden, stand back!
The stream itself creates a dam of water,
and having risen, rhizomes itself through the earth.
Demeter miasmas in a circuitous haze
Plait the twirly dried weeds into garlands
Parenthetically adorning and embracing the
maidens, an agate necklace for the semiotic dove.
The gate has opened to the awakened ones
WritingDubuffetsTitles | ISBN 82-92428-29-1