Brain castle falls to purple blasting, city riot closing of generous things. New words everyday. Soundings. Newer words sound difference, pickling. Nominal, private scorching remains. Nominal human instincts at the end of the day. Pictish behaviour of disappearing into DNA, anabasis and timeline.
Biographies begin on the ledge of that anticipation, where we meet Roses and factions together. Tumbling as rocks and hailed, the words settle to a preponderent, but with assonance, like a bird. New words every day. Alameda had once been a peach orchard, side by side in American literature, till the fret of dawn and the rising ocean of new poetics. The word came down to several words, in time.
The view from today’s ramparts reports skeins of agitation making something unenclosing the present moment, or one like it. The stems of daffodils cozen the eye, oh but the eye cozens itself. Restless archives of communal action testify to the inner Trotskyite. Thrips create lift using an unsteady circulation pattern. Cheese smells like definite cheese.
Outside, formal grey, the registered colour agreeing to war. Those are the words, the markers for grief, the tempo of exultation in cracking, thru and out. Hornpipes and caterwaul, now, the fresh rain stands us up.
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