I cannot help writing great poetry. Poems push thru me like words on a rocket. My vocabulary includes bits of mica and the best selenium. Ardent strips of baked whammy propulse the poems into conscious clinging. Bacon becomes the bastion of my prepositional phrases. Freshets of outstanding congruence exceed the ice packs of expectation. I can control nothing but the dismal swamp of verbs flown for first. If elastic were a pronoun, my poems would learn to cook. If plantains could talk they would they would ask me to replace the exchequer. All arches include victory, even in the vise of my greatest clam bake. I cannot help the exult except to twinge on the porch. Earwigs seethe for the vantage of my insular bray. Cost projections do not doubt my cascade. Soon my next book will endure. You can order online.
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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