Anyway. They came up with something called poetry, bless the gods or martians. It was meant as an actual transference, with time indicated by musical notes or at least a sonic imitation of interest. Well now.The web in which poetry could be constructed would slightly envelope those trained to perceive it, or somehow they would join factions and enumerate active participation in something called language, tho the instigating gods and martians really weren’t that tuned in to the repercussions of such assumptions and fever of sighing. So anyway. Flowers could be seen disporting in crisp morning light, their fragrance would saturate certain words, and people would become goodlooking, moments at a time. Yes, there was only one ‘time’, sloppily edited by something called perchance, which caused a burdensome dependence on catching the so-called glimmers of what the gods and martians swore were not essences, merely clock ticks in the eternal classroom. But really. Strange adaptations were not simply colloquial, music sighed with a bull moose crackle, and ladies, gents, et cetera, event so forth, ring-a-ding. And so. This proved all so exciting in a muddy way. Mud, the buoyancy of spring, the earth, young love, documents forever, and the true calling. It could include. Electric crackle and rara avis, importunities and lexical whatnot, refried evidence and chance engendering, class distinction and vocal tectonics, a new world and just a world. The gods or martians, and the gods ~and~ martians, seasoned their spatial reverie with striking, clumsy effects, sounding oceanic depths in the silliest of things. The pace of life, the square root of softly, productive clarity of sense and/or, and rent free traces of emphasis: shy rock. More shall be known, and loved, at the right time, such as it is. The knowing gods and martians.
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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