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The lush tropically sensuous garden of life, reveling in bare, primitive, luxury A paradise where grows the primevil passion fruit steamed slick and suckled hot with desire, too temptingly abundant. Deep in the soft jungle, you wrestle with the alert snake, slippery, unctuous and sweating, you wriggling and writhing creating sporadic spurting floods of sweet, life-giving, torrential rain that fills the eager and thirsty wombs and wells of earth drowning you both in glutted, guilty ecstasy. And your attention is captured by the flock of gaudy, vain Peacocks | that strut, fruitless and squawking oblivious to the impotence of their stylishly clipped and colored wings And all around, is the overpowering, oppressive odor of decay and too much life | |||
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Ice palace impassive faces callous haughty hurrying; desperately empty they smooth themselves to slide through flat encounters that will not embrace or enliven will not corner or conflict nor allow any warmth to penetrate the cold clear countenances chiseled so superficially precise as to reflect heat hardened slowly to freeze any feeling in cynicism. dormant hibernating chilldren numb with pleasure | ||
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A child still born to the chilled life laid small and eyed wild on the cold bed of the altar world curled before the thin path to the hereafter where the monochrome home hardens to concrete the infant feet, at least pain is heat when pleasure is black and white and survival is dim as death is the only light on the lonely roads toward welcome release where chaos explodes into sensation and with a whirling twist suddenly you exist | ||
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invisibly we crept from the circle of night toward the shrinking ring of shining light the burning tears we wept slipped silently by our sight until, waking in darkness with dreams dissolved like shadows in the night left with our aging eyes to sparkle shortly like stars before the dawn | ||
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In fever sheet or sweet sleeps we don the dun blanket and dim prisms of ambiguity to meander across the schism trespassing in time among the allusive aisles of the nether worlds submerged in night after night errant swaddled in enigmatic dual enchantments symbolic enactments of our starkly bewildered psyches rolling in pitch reeling from the sudden switch to unraveled raw fear or unrivalled primordial delights a reviewed reverie of sights inscribed smokily on charred pages as pseudo-self art | performed on twilit stages by an heroic counterpart before a disjointed audience of one sighing in sidereal surreal cerebral relief | |||
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All gold is fools gold to the chosen enfolded in the heat of the heart where the afterglow of flowering pyrotechnic sticks flashes ash art to the piercingly black-eyed Cezannes zealously canvassing creation they tint elation with quickly fading human hues and pigments of imagination | ||
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We are staunch upstanding men of the sod drinking our ale with a warm wink and an obvious nod to the comely girl who fills our steins and dissolves our cares with whiskey and wines The land holds us The earth molds us we are clinging vines though our backs are bent and hands worn rough we still have the mountains for spines and that's enough to satisfy the fields feed us the seasons teach us to die | And when cities are tumbled minds spindled and spirits humbled you will hear our cry again for we are mountain men | |||