PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-PART 9

Then Time is not time tis its inveigled be not ridiculed,Time is not time's fool,that it be ripped off by its mortal trickster,Though thraldom by procrastinates and cheeks of rosy lips endear,Within deadluck fathomed,that deadhand postulate of jetsam's mirth frenetic games,Within this deadloss,barndoor hit compass canst not rouse and grovels,Then this claustrophobia as agoraphobia ,debouch! o debouch! o debouch! That thou mayest debug achilles in thy tendentious intumescence,Time is not time's fool that thou mayest a deadluck be,bluebeaten to impinge its arts,Of the art of paroxysm,of the paroxysm of fury,of the fury of karma, that thou its debonair wreath sing, If this desultory be not writ,then this wit be not loved, And if this deskill be desolate,upon this numb, Be it reproof,be it paradigm's shift,then desicate,O desicate,thou desicate,then desicate,o desicate.