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Pollock's She-Wolf
Beauty is Beethoven's Grosse Fugue

swirling like a desperate dare that beats
th'Wings of its unique existence

between Fixity's defeats
towards some yet staggering Triumph

over th'teet'ring Turbulence which pits
the heavenly black angels of The Light
forever against the hellish demons of the Right

and the Fall is Beauty, like (the) Beethoven
Grosse Fugue, which sinking into itself

yet leaves many a stopgap rope (of final resort)
like a bursting Hope (woven from th'articles of its
dependence
                 

   --Leaves over) leaves
over Death's empty prophecy:

Spring's fateful rhetorics

peaking over long ago's relics
like phantom figures & ghosts of structures
of crumbling bricks, because

O a desperate daring's Beauty
blossoming upon Death's utter edge

while Dissolution's cavalry there passes
to the inner order of The Mind (part

resignation) beyond which none trespasses

but with that violation Man falls
to the confusion of his Self-assertion

between th'Chasm of Trust & Truth
that's              
         Interpretation

falls Beauty:      

    to cement
with eloquent extinguishment

( born of the moment that it spent
like some immortal accident )

the most evident torment of
its violent wonderment.

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