Plausible is the scuttling sound in rays from a drifting presence of sun. Green from regular trees blooms on a modest boat of feeling. The people, in their arc, treasure something of very rascal plain. Sour common of lived places reject the sward, sometimes, and a language of bells ensues. The Beatles struck a rock of mired glow, worded with refracted topic sentences and a tiresome song like “Ballad of John and Yoko”. Season blends into tree bark, dogs lead an earnest trust, and the usual kids stumble on the grass. Reason stops the uniform when sunlight backs away from the stage and words are more like shadows. People are as old as their feet, or stout chairs in the presence of god. Weird instants replace other instants, merging with hard balances. No one wants to sleep now, but the emblems fizzle. Blunt objects restrict themselves in the time it takes darkness to spell certain names. Keats died for no one’s sins, in the cluttery days, with a wink towards some transit of station. Then poetry subsumed intention, shares of the new model were offered, and the process turned a corner. Now all cats climb onto all tables, dogs continue to die, and the Beatles will not really disband. The varicose veins of these impressions start to make sense, tho making sense, itself, is a duffer in the park. Kindly dance along those lines now, which have been freighted with feet in time.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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