Do not let this cymbal ring, for there is
A music so fluent it finds the solidity,
Even, of sound, profoundly
Deadening
Don't, don't bring the symbol
Onto parchment, for we are
Awaiting- influence, perfect
And chaste, beyond our own
Enlargement.
Upon parchment upon dead ink
The cymbal must go back it's own
Origin, molten red. For it must
Be able to be the heat of music
More fluent. Flame and water
Folded in single melted sound
Of movement
Throw away the books--
Leave these labyrinths-- the
Libraries, in which it would've
Took Kafka many hours to
Find, a single copy of the
Metamorphosis
Take up the fluency of ink
And bring to life whatever
Is in your own being
_________'_______________'_______________________'___'
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