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John Berryman - Dream Song 99: TemplesJohn Berryman - Dream Song 99: Temples
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He does not live here but it is the god. A priest tools in a top his motorbike. You do not enter. Us the landscape circles hard abroad, sunned, stone. Like calls, too low, to like. One submachine-gun cleared the Durga Temple. It is very dark here in this groping forth                        Gulp rhubarb for a guilty heart, rhubarb for a free, if the world`s sway waives customs anywhere that far Look on, without pure dismay. Unable to account for itself. The slave-girl folded her fan & turned on my air-condtioner. The lemonade-machine made lemonade. I made love, lolled, my roundel lowered. I ache less. I purr. —Mr Bones, you too advancer with your song, muching of which are wrong.
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