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... to befall a mummers galliard

his eyes were grills of cinnamon
now open to see a wonder of fencing
horribly polished chromes - the struggle,
the tusk of fallen stars, primus when the flesh become
shadows.In nocturne near futility of fragrance
amok the censers spectacle; before he started
his journey, his wife washed his feet, with her hair
but now, time to time, he roams, seeking refuge, Odysseus
undead while the feet agitate threadbare stumps
stars of the kingdom for the falling drought rain dancers.

knowing about torture of the human abrasion apothecaries
wrath pogroms pall bearers of harmonium, ineligibility of darkness
gable wearing eye helmets and sable plume dense sunniest
or thorns in corrosion and the lavender of blight people
their- sky on temple of the stars- the blazing throne of gold
forfeited, and the spiders make cobwebs of dry existence- in
transitions unattenuated in the midst of curfew
to and fro, as a dry stubble, the leaves break! singing
rustlings of the midnight and its newt face; swinging

leaping children of silver morsels aurulent
if only he knew the lost creatures , mirth estranged, impounded
having to fall like breadfruits clinging traipse
corrosive subtend in the malaise of the crusts falling
null day of light unkempt in association of the natural self
scowling the dreams roaring beneath the fantasy world
the squirrels nods to the wasp, of eventual erosion;
sometimes they spread white cloth upon the ground,
sometimes a man hunted but found only reflections
casements of patch night clouds as a siphon filter
to trace directions of the steps, no one see's

every day slowly opens , pacing to the grande day
windshields in the abridgement that rigors paraded
hills and bells rested in perfect indentures
stained jingled thousands as homemade eclipse
people in recycle panels lit grooves neanderthal,
rehabilitation. Walking through the wild woods
of sound clappers, swoosh as an invisible slippers
leaves no footprint to hunters bunting,
who trace the sounds from cotton fields

Ashcroft, widows and wives, with pans of the days brew,
awaiting. slowly turning, soon-the mummers then observed
to themselves - which is him -' WHO IS THAT INTRUDE AMONG US"
waking from stone sleep, but backward with force,
the man flew, dead as a stone, and after him
a stone still estranged, flung the east sun
give the crane of a man now- seaweeds swirl
of all the flowers that pleased November ;
i mean, seven bodies, could be eight bodies somewhere else

Last few words: 
to stumble upon the mummers , is to stumble upon death, this is both the paradox and metaphor on the poem.
Editing stage: 


Wow, this poem is full to the brim of astounding imagery. I don't know where to begin commenting!

"grills of cinnamon"

"casements of patch night clouds"

"homemade eclipse"

"spiders make cobwebs of dry existence"

I could go on! Your ability to combine words into beautiful, intriguing and unique images is certainly there. You have captured the strange and awe-inspiring view of a mummer's parade, as far as I can tell by searching for images of them. If that was your intention, I'm not sure if you showed your reader what that is or what the story of them is. So I'll ask, what was your intention? In your last few words you said that to stumble upon them is to stumble upon death, a paradox and metaphor for your poem. Could you tell me more? Maybe this is like a "poem of things" and is your observation and feelings of this event?: 

I could offer ideas if I understood more.

Take care,


Critique, don't comment.
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