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Allen Parmenter

Got a sheet of the orb and authorized
to depart this port, I betake hence to
Albany; though scratched from the centralised
but ancient audience of the age of
man for this palace's gate of the blue dove.

To where the fountain of the horse courses;
hence, the sanctuary where fugitives are
immune from arrest and haunting forces
else. Hold thoroughly, the winged messenger
from the teacher's chair - - the path but manger

over my head. My other self although
belonging to another, who does bring
honourable reputation and glow
to the rough but arid terrains and serves
all way, the elixir of life; then, swerves.

Interpreted as omens from the flight
of birds, the stars in the eagle's eyes must
be bleary-eyed to outshine. If such light
but blurred vision obvious to the mind's eye
outdoes, blind me, O God of the most high.

Sub specie aeternitatis, is he
a deputy of God in his art of
reason, that consecrates with blood, to gee
up, beyond the bronze money and lights up
a brighter fire for the lop and top,

'gainst the slippery damp? He would not have praised
that statue in Rome on which abusive
verses were posted. In all candour, crazed,
this couch has got a warrant to arrest
my balm and curtains to pillow my rest.

His eyes are never shut of that social
standing that do not mark the oblique lines
with good faith. Tis a knowledge colossal,
of nature that does with art. Held over
the drones of my bagpipe but in clover,

that cast dancers around a twigfire,
a high song blow out of my trumpet and
on leaves so-and-so in a dazed gyre
for this guardian spirit - thus begeting,
summoned in defence, unseeing, watching

over me. Paidagogos' seat was not
elevated; thus, he plucks the woolen
counterpane into pieces to walk forth
men's forked root and wheeled vehicle along
the Milky Way. The tapered tip upflung,

of my shoot bleeds in that he grafts my bud.
Which planter alike would not cultivate
the undying? Like Portunus, in blood,
that protects harbours, he sheathes the bottoms
of ships with copper, against the doldrums,

and trims sails to sail closer to the wind.
He plays my countenance. I prance upon
triumph as dances the mountain but twinned
people. Straying in thoughts and mien, my pulse
stimulates by electricity thus.

All be it, a horse should not be used for
general purposes; should any knob
on the vine, steal upon any sordor,
the nap? Or shorn of his tools, the Magus?
Here is the weight, the jumpers' impetus.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 17, 2013

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