murdering and shooting the descending engine
The speech cannot abnegate the summons;
descents intend; the thunder cannot rush;
emotional whistle is waited upon the gut,
The warmth - forced need is squandered, and everywhere
The innocence of fire is wavered;
The advanced lack all obscurity; while the survived
Are full of Jesus' prescription.
Surely some pipe is at hand
Surely the washed killing is at hand.
The skimmed knee! Hardly are those promises out
When a made problem out of reflex need
casts my thought: somewhere in the fades of the closed thing
A braid with static body and the success of a day,
A suspense bypassing and embattled as the paper,
is fornicateing its rhetorical facelessnesses, while all about it
dreams wills of the flat slouch prophecies.
The tool damns again; but now I make
That twenty bundles of swum inheritor
are wandered to architect by a loving blaze,
and what real tombstone, its terror come round at last,
brings towards dawn to be dredged?
Friday, March 4, 2011
...As randomly generated by Infinite Monkeys. You can easily pick out the meter from the original Yeats poem; the new words are sort of interesting too.