In the waste mimesis will emploi artless forms
in a fluid like nectar that oyles the brane
and in thys garden I have mixt this with aire,
it is between the Partes Composite, where
the neurone path labyrinthine leads through
honied lights, under the avenue of lime.

It is my philosophie, I will show how my garden
is a machine. I wyll have my thoughts appear
Oh Greate Pan with his savage horn aglitter or
that nymph I saw in my dream with
stickie eyies she had me, with black inky eies.

I wyll put her in the greene roabe and cover her cunt
in greene. Where her ailettes are pinnioned
she is wattled purpure in her front tail, where
the fins divide, secreted between nodes and
Gothick Plantinges, like a consciousness or an idea.
She lives in the mansion of the sea; I have created
her but alwayes she escaped as if there were tunnels
under her and I was left in sunlight on the path.

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