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A few things for themselves, Florida, venereal soil, Disclose to the lover.
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The dress of a woman of Lhassa, in its place is an invisible element of that place made visible.
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Abysmal instruments make sounds like pips Of the sweeping meanings that we add to them.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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We agree in principle. That's clear. But take The opposing law and make a peristyle, And from the peristyle project a masque Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness, Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last, Is equally converted into palms, Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm, Madame, we are where we began.
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Nothing had happened because nothing had changed. Yet the General was rubbish in the end.
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Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are Twenty men crossing a bridge Into a village.
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I am the angel of reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
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Poetry is the subject of the poem, From this the poem issues and To this returns. Between the two, Between issue and return, there is An absence in reality, Things as they are. Or so we say. But are these separate?
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Without a name and nothing to be desired, If only imagined but imagined well.
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This is old song That will not declare itself...
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Behold The approach of him whom none believes, Whom all believe that all believe, A pagan in a varnished car.
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Is it he or is it I that experience this?
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After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life’s redemption.