November 15, 2016


This Scraggly Plant Of A Scoundrel , With A Stolid Sun And Sombre Mist Of The Unsullied Rays , Of Tempting Brook ,of The Mean Woods And Declining Moon, Gallivanting Its Mean Shores, Doth Mishit To silence The High And Low Cliffs,It Was A Allegory That The Juxtaposed Stars As Well As Eliptical Oval Of The Sun Is Broken Before Dawn,Such Allegory For Her To Die,in The Midst Of Pastime Of Gilded Pasture,hurdled Against Her Barndoor,Someday Would Surmise, A Far More Miserable Mist And Day,imprecated By Broken But Blazing Sun,mocked Loudly And Gently ,worn Out Upon Its Trail, Distracted Articulated Kinsfolk,With The Clothings Of Othello's Jackass,still Fiddling With The Monotony Of Babylonian Stonework,Stripes Of Magnetic Iron Foundry,swirled In A Studded Alley To Hoover Over This Sport Of Pathless Trod,Of Restless Nights, Detest To Mutter Retreats, Calved By Invidious Faiths And Insidious Intent That Smokes Its Muddle Over Sloven Mist,Still Slipped By The Terrace,Ever To Refute A Pellucid Leap And Fallen Asleep.

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