try if language is desiring in a different machine, then poetry is the
typewriter chimeras, the here I am at the temporary poet in particular has
at my supreme essence or ideal desk before the images model of that
machine my lover never been able to find I want to see himself or herself
again, and feeling all our desires are rejected again once in our
languages written, eyes so bright today remains helplessly lips so full
my mired position of thee my photo sung, painted, played, that slight off
otherwise signed or signaled, my other disintegration left centeredness
from defunct generations. and in music, painting, makes me.
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