Groups Between ranges- whole language buiding

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Whole language building (groups between ranges)

a white board can yield an infinite variety

of suggestions of a thing not required

to still in the middle legends by figures

moving towards destiny but not calculated not

the great schism an island changes

entirely full of misdirection or

a slow surrender as to require tension

layer over forms in 4ths or 5ths in poetry

a cold night on a very cold night

I found a surprising building location

acoustics in and above her head yet

she did not step in the great sea in aboriginal

support this action with an action

into the purple night sky and plummet

which can be connected to form a whole unity

of some spark of some torrent of warm

building between ranges building three main

glistening iron chains which

trace between points

though they appeared silver beneath the

space of an algae-thick pool beneath the halo

photocopies from many diverse sources her

art is not comfortable with her own

yet in our own land the tribes in some myths

were on their way to a different part

in some myths between invasions by torrents

by purple edges of a blackened sea waking

up to sirens only to wear these

and with the same thing layered upon

becomes a memory that has already sprung

to figures placed in niches and sepulchers

that would swing open despite the chain

their shoulders being a whole language building

despite the mere fact that this

stood in the middle legend a fire swells

lives examining the innate rhythmic samples

a quartet we beat out of the wave of some

myth-building approxim breadth

what could only be surmised as a thought

is on the outstanding points as slain this

pattern within the woman’s gait from

outstanding mottles of limestone let me gently

the same thing but with varying speeds

for memory corrupts the snake image

sea and moving birth makes tribes in some

myth-moment at any moment there would be

between the outbreak of war and a time

a break in the weather and the gate

bells a Geiger by blocks pressed bells

in painting the visual arts a stroke of ash

once again the vague outlines the vague

places it by specially building breadth

the woman now passes the gate passes

gods ancient trade the desert

seemed not to labour despite the odd

formed figures along the rows of graves

forms to make a matrix that would form

from the sky from the lashes of this bush

aquatic seeds which speak us the bronze

angle of a body generally moving

days carry the medicine through the smoted

sun forward towards a new destination

reveals the hem of her flowing dress

innate patterns of rhythms which can create

a matrix rung out of some symbols not out

of the sea Greeks or outstanding points in

the rotunda for the overall flow seemed to suggest

that tulips grew through bronze doors to bridge

a moving forward a direction

windows scarlet hued strokes of the sun let

she will believe she is to be the secret

cloudless black fauna-flashed sky that is

the pastel-light through the rotunda through

(as it were) simply motion past the myth

rallied an arch fissions marine identity

gave almost at a hover but not quite

days come upon me swollen as a chill peach

found harmonious 4ths and 5ths

I found the surface of an onion wanting

still through the ocean where trails

of her coat seemed to be as the

smoted sun in various parts of the land

ripped faster as she passed the gate

by her shadow the graces join in prayer

building is approxim breadth is approxim ranges

a woman passes by the gate she is not

art she lives off the proletariat she sleeps

we two sleep here not talking to one another

for between us is breadth approxim ranges and

of us in a hurry nor are we deliberate for

these days are not graceful are not rapid

lives examining the innate rhythmic samples

a quartet we beat out of the wave of some

myth building approxim breath

what could only be surmised as a thought

is on the outstanding points as slain this

pattern within the woman’s gait from

outstanding mottles of limestone let me gently

main entrances between are on the points

of hesitance she walks with a pace into copy

machines she is free and she liberally

beats the floor for snakes we are beating

the rotunda on the great sea moving birth

but not directed were one to suppose

the bones with heavy grist come there

based on the cyclical ramifications of one small

thin bush coloured with every colour in the sea

as if pastels rolled in some wisdom by way

we will wear black unembellished pants in the way

still carried in recent times by poor

qualities of light that a blizzard gives

the day disappears is never felt surely

and with the same thing layered upon

becomes a memory that has already sprung

 

to figures placed in niches and sepulcher

that would swing open despite the chain

their shoulders being a whole language building

despite the mere fact that this

stood in the middle legend a fire swells

she will believe she is to be the secret

cloudless black fauna-flashed sky that is

the pastel-light through the rotunda through

(as it were) simply motion past the myth

rallied an arch fissions marine identity

gave almost at a hover but not quite

days come upon me swollen as a chill peach

which can create an infinite combination of forms

a beading of the floor for memory or

a time when no aid points to figure

to pass the gate which had been holding

shields being in a particular zone

shut and secure heavily as

we kiss you love dark verdant walls

copy machine slightly tracing motions

glowing with a graceful pose that suggested

a time a grey fleck which enabled them to extend

her form which seemed to move backwards

towards spires or the beginning it appears

as the top thrust forward as a glass top spins

yet prodding a bit here and there

to do this for the sake of art

the same thing in intervals of 4ths

or 5ths the next step that makes

our thoughts become approxim

in some myth a crowded part-

woman had now moved past the gate

windows petals in and windows let

worry that it will fall it is just motion

from thoughts we need to thoughts

in the rotunda in myth time before

India ink spilled on the frills she was

that point building (so in our own) land

quite simply stated ‘along for the ride’

still the statue ornate in the mind’s lead

symbols to bend the lens to slide the original

layer upon layer of waxy wingless waves

which are the telling of the great sea

beyond large color fields such as found

in the rotunda the Greek sea building

a suggestion of red blocks

you are not in the same days are heavy

do the post-modern thing let us play

to be memorized for it is already

beginning around her like thin too thin

parts that took great advances so that

a cocoon would snap or tear only

the secret hieroglyphs of the stained glass

across that white thin-lipped gape of the

thoughts but rather we suppose thoughts

the statue jeweled in prayer placed

in niches in which a grey coat drapes

on their shoulders the Greek fire

behind her gait the sea

they fill the lungs with heat in as you sleep

form which contains layer upon layer

of sampled

sky for the sounds of bullhorns we hear

land give birth to groups between ranges

on the great grey sun was most probably

made of sea movin’ between three entrances

or some derivation therof to speak

of the sex speak the narrow the narrow view

art is cheap but still her own she takes

the drone of the cricket cacophony string

and moves the great sea with moving birth

or spiral directions for one would be remiss

between ranges we birth on the great sea

for this woman did not seem either

a Geiger pins splits while grey pear

The actors

Has this mercy about her. She walks

with the illusion of flight. There were

three cardinals, not two, on the line.

She held up the event for over thirty

minutes to watch them sit on the line.

I cannot walk across the line. I must

find the balance before I can begin the

trek. We have been trying her house for

over an hour but nobody seems to answer

the phone. Sadly, he was not long for

the world. Travels in an open carriage

despite the damp air.

From this window that overlooks the

plaza she could see him slowly descend

the carriage. He was not ill at the

time.

November was not her favorite month.

She was held to October. This wiry

thing fell out of the package.

Cut his finger trying to get the tag off

her shirt. The cardinals had long since

flown off. A man was held up for twenty

minutes (or was it thirty) just to let

her see the two birds on the line.

Get out of the carriage get yourself

into the inn. He would always trip on

the front stoop. Old photos fell out of

her sleeve. He was the dam before it

blew. Here was the man selling the

first television. Mountain over their

old home. He belonged to the woods

where he spent many days cutting wood.

Out. Get out of the way. She could

barely breath. Simple memory. I wish I

could shout at you but I am unable to

speak. She was nearly out of breath.

If gold fills the channels. The spicy

blackness of a television screen. Scaly

in texture the hands felt all the curves of

the screen. The window.

Please him to sing into the window.

The screen. He is not sure the devil

did not have something to do with it.

As a man steps out of his carriage some

snow falls, some little boy sees an old

man get out of a carriage and thinks of

a penguin driving a carriage.

Denise, get your head back in the car.

Her mother told her that she had once

seen a terrible thing. She had seen a

terrible thing. Some old guy just fell

over in the middle of the street. Her

mother had seen a body. She was sure of

it.

When you ran away as a child I had to go

down to the morgue to identify a body.

The little girl was covered with a dark

brown wool blanket. She could see only

the tuft of curly blonde hair.

I swear I nearly passed out.

Some little boy giggled as he approached

the inn. The lanterns were spitting.

There were low on fuel. The materials of

the sea are well suited to fit angles.

Makes him fall asleep during the play.

You will never se e a finer performance

again.

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About Paul Gordon 1368 Articles

Paul Gordon is the publisher and editor of iState.TV. He has published and edited newspapers, poetry magazines and online weekly magazines.
He is the director of Social Cognito, an SEO/Web Marketing Company. You can reach Paul at pg@istate.tv

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