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Do you still remember the Ingmar Bergmann movie, Dot,
With scores of strange stopped clocks?
Do some birds late for the long migration — maybe slept in —
rush to join their flock?
I 'll turn off the metronome and ease into some Chopin,
borrow time — not a lot.
On sun-drenched winter days, inner realms of green peek open
tender tendrils will pop.
I imagine Schubert's winter-time young hero wears no watch —
his lovelorn heart tick tocks.
Bristlecone trees regenerate over millennia:
endless forget-me-nots.
Build bridges through multi-dimensional space, go baroque
with Sebastian Bach.
Famous Alice fell into a parallel universe
run by carded crackpots.
Take a trip in reverse, spin through spacetime's wormholes
reenter a hot spot.
My darling has cinematic memories of his past:
of young Sue in snapshots.
Here comes a damned desire again; here comes a lust with dark red rain.
It comes singing a soul sad song; it comes bringing a bright blue pain.
In a blizzard that freezes fact; in a fury that feeds some blame.
Like a banshee wailing a death, like God's judgment, the Mark of Cain.
It needs to want and wants to need; it needs some other to stay sane.
dress for morning's sky flerd infallible as we enter swamp compass Fimbul
music of the spores ragged Aspies dancing in the lamp tempest fumble
dabble in black books black sites burgeon rakso jecycmi gimp ample foible
renovate igloos now outré shambles shimmer and lurch and stomp symptom feeble
let Graywyvern rave he knows nothing more than any temp bumpkin's fable
rakso = "Iraqi"; jecycmi = "citizen"; flerd = "fraud"