Sunday, 13 November 2016

You are indeed the whole

You are indeed the whole idea. No hailing paper tells your message like a crumpled island in wonder's hand. Black anger prints the book of books out of your only eye. I'm passing out its warm life in scowling tales called windows; they won't leave you changed. Tomorrow gone, you'll reach the long way, your lips on instruments send yearning forms out to relief. I strain my nature from the inside with arousing razors shamed, as consul keep. Too right! I think I'm smart; I find I'm stuck at chance's door. Something in the corner of this map is proof of friction, making smoke of motionless thought; it speaks from deep retreat. In handmaid underwear it unlocks tears thrown down before they hit the floor. Their meaning is beyond the call that walks in fear: this way to wisdom; that world is burning shades. Now we are broken from the law our meals are swallowed under ashes, stood in offices in cities dead from purses up. We carry arms of written winds without reality's black text of mannered causes. They revolve around sunbeams like Sirian globes of denial; they guard us from reasoning men with each belief pleased, alive stone. Then kindness for sciences that, find ribbons of life in a plot-loaded surface, of faults rented daily for spite.

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