Saturday, April 23, 2011

poem || Edward Nichols

The Imagined

things are aCharming were the surreal vestiges of a yesterdays now, the knowing avd teh being-being abbreviated just as the facts would. Reality actually offering refuge,to aclass that was worcdlesson the subject; retaliating only in remission of a new lesson.The,the twilight shares the day and I find the consumation of it reliable and fanciful in its.Parcipals ran out as far as the astringent, a Canterbury yarn ran world wide.
I'M THINKING THAT THese damned things are imagined.

Only with the light of sychronization, the art of synchronicity. The jumble of tree pushes landed them back on the desert. The arc of the space of time of synchronicity seem to run through or find and seek out Dr. Dent, believed it to be the intensity of magnetism of his orgone box, always; gradually growing that led the heart and soul of life- synchroncity-towards, given him; paranormal, experiences that so oftened happened to Dr. Dent and the crew. Like now, they pop-up on an island,....the first thing they saw was a stack of very flat stones, incircled by a circle drew in the sand. Dr. Dent counted the stones, and that there was 23 stones, and he looked down at the book he'd been writing and found it was on page 23, he slowly scratched his beard on his chin. Dr. Dent- deuced if I'm not stymied. These happenings are very strange. What's more there appears to be a Tropical torm coming through if the pain in my leg doesn't lie to me.

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