Fragment April 14|April 18|May 4, 2008
(in the Works)

….
Alas all the crocus pipe a murderous trespass crowning across the twilight,
To posit gold by-where leading phantasmagoria turns, of those gold’s‘, Sanctified in despot lading across sanded glades, that vapor of perfect motion!

To stone, follow in to question a seed sown in brazing seas, eggs that birth dusts; Great sepulcher sounds wedge in motionless ascent; Ash flowed Cinders dance beyond flowered brazing seas of concaves, Maelstroms of deadly time! where a throne is wedged half in motion, in the waging upon an ocean of dusts.

Fluxed away in his observance, a king murmurs on old crashed orison:


'Who levies my spirit from serfdom?
In this shadow of ruse,
In the sacerdotal hone?'

'Intuit, stemming in this brood;
When bred upon a still throne-
An altar of current vernal,'
'I there froze when the creatures taught,
What marked me here in the eternal!'

I heard there in a distant chant of some growing sky:

your too Nestled in the Alarum
that founded in these widdershins,
by syndicate fails sent to dispossess
within these spurn trines of sin.

There in-Between those trines of sin,
weighing upon one replicating rent,
you've harbored shadowy usurper surfs
that deform our skies to dullards dim.

No appeals are placed with such kings, whom raise in too tooled wrought, to strut upon their dead limbs!
Those same monarchs dissipate upon one another, by their old myriads seen as pilots of excommunicated whims!

(c) May 4, 2008
-M.R. Doyle

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