Gary Barwin
& Gregory Betts

 


from The Obvious Flap

Chora Sea II

 

The influence of something with something else on the surface of an event remain cloaked in the dim here. And the stores of poppies in your mouth. Meanwhile, rain flashes beneath clouds, and still you speak of the words and the poppies of your sentence. There was a you, and you came to the development of one sweet sum which expresses itself as a bursting forth flame in the shanty your voice telling of them.

 

O burnished blackwing! If haply you seek your image in the delved brain's wax museum, you'll find only that which contains a nether cloud to your perfect matrix. But what of the material of the idea of a gerund along with the possibility of being both here and lost in sea with one's own temperature holding to words in a separate space? That epos is of your creation: you make that mythos of the idea of a gerund along with the curves in space, sometimes in the same sentence.

 

You speak, too, of multiple larynxes. Theirs is the possibility of bewilderment has stoned inner coherence held in escrow until the sentence restarts. Are you now happy to be able to tell stories and surround others with knotted space and endangered equilibrium? Talk is conditional. When do you ever suppose that your words sustain themselves within inner multitudes? Reflective anonymous flashes contribute to the development of one sweet sum which expresses itself as a bursting forth flame in the shanty your voice telling of them.

 

O burnished blackwing! If haply you seek your image in the waxed brain's deft museum, you'll find only that which contains neither cloud nor perfect matrix. But what of the forest and all horizons? Were that space to be able to tell stories and surround others with knotted space and endangered equilibrium? Talk is conditional. When do you ever suppose that your words sustain themselves within inert multitudes? Reflective anonymous flashes contribute to the rescue of both yourself and the stories of poppies in your mouth. Meanwhile, rain flashes beneath clouds, and still you speak of the idea of the generous along with the caves of space, sometimes in the same sentence. You speak too of ripe Phoneticians. Theirs is the possibility of singing. Once a sun had its eye on a found planet that represented another planet beneath its obscuring clouds. But that's only an idea that belongs to you and me and we're only an idea to the north of nothing new, today being history and all. 4:05 pm.