The knee prevails, torments the furniture of the future.
Intone the couch.
Each travail illuminates the fabric of Jupiter.
Poets detourned by chemical writings enumerate their outrages, suspended, and recite the ancient, unnameable Cyclops, their volatile fortunes impoverished by precarity, the blue improvisations of quantity and fragment.
Our circular cars are the products of a horrible serpentine, bent infants an inquiry trespassed by aviary, by Python, by the Nous we nest in the pointless tension of The Other (dual roles, parsed sauce, a roiling rose, the Delphic coup at Delphi, hirsute apples, the supernal melons of the philosophers).
The foot is a fate.
The gate is a floor.
The door is a fountain.
Blue centers attribute false realities to the ladders and sonnets of sunrise.
Adjourn! Eject! Perchance! Plunge!
Dance, approved by the clinic pouring pulse, marvels an approaching salt. Tripod excavates reception. An homage to the triple sun — eaten by Apollo!
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Jim Leftwich - The Blue Seam 1