(which probably has a starting point near Syringa but..)
Discurse Alpha Lyrae Remold
The man of the lyreways,
Orpheus, after-being
torn apart by a song
and a woman's hands,
was at a loose end
and discoalescent, an almost
converstation in a not quite
clowd and occasions,
disparts, a happenings
to me. I mean biography, write.
I mean ice. I mean a dark mater.
I mean cosmocrator loiter.
He had a loud
visions in the mud reeds, flesh,
old stills on star-plates,
life to remind him of his skin,
aways from here, the rite strain caught,
almost late, mirrors
that nuzzled
like warm pronouns
to look in from the veerside
of yes he remembered his head.
But, like
parachute jumps off the day's brink
(that is a passport
backwards to the Shire)
the things stayed metaphor
almosts, quoits
until
no more. No more
than that he was that, met her
more each selving
wrapped now
on a pressure hold of light
a gravity beat song print
an inplose whirl'd
a waltz to a starberth
a Glowball warming
a quickfire slow
david bircumshaw
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