In the recovery stage, vowels will need immediate recolouring, seers will seem. History shall gather to the table edge. One will see by not exactly seeing, like every human plant. In time, one and all will find display, on tickets of electron thru a nuclear process. Popes and Pharoahs will finally die by blending into present monied splendour. From space, quasar will mark the beat, breathless observers will sigh. High above the edge a new edge will be born. Absinthe will have to do more dirty work, more acrostics. Morphemes and phonemes will require a hard look, the oceans will fade All this trouble will be rewarded by all that trouble, once the trouble has been shot. So again the Commune rises, garnished with radical in the square root sort of sound off. What impression a green leaf leaves in musical diligence will produce positive charge. We gather by sort and blend, on this actal day, on this matter day. Anyway, history, or what’s left of it. You can imagine Paul Verlaine’s sublime tank, Rimbaud booked solid, alexandrines as old rifles, Communards tilting toward timeliness with mushrooming socialist small talk. The future only dies a little, and just enough. And now, now Adverbs fill the air for maximum while Adjectives almost, word for word.
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