Scripture woven on a Celtic stone of chance tells how the beard of Joyce was once a forest of anatomy carving its spool of time beneath
frosted glass lands where ceramic rabbits lived on the logic of game caught grass, stored in cherry baked wood and brick hutches; the shine
of their bobtail sound caught in the surface gloss of faux mahogony, pannelling a contemporary sup hole home of Ireland's bardic heartbeat
straining to be heard above De Bussey and generic DJ hard house mixes competeing in the CD shuffle of a quick pick surround sound injecting universal
vibes beloved of bar clones the globe over. Their bunny bookstall rhymes forward reach to an overlap of sorrow floating in the nets of recollected thought
and surreal slippage from soda pop mountains where loud checked chocolate shirts are worn without prejudice and literary fairs offer toss and catch the
coconut with a buck toothed looseness of calcifying stars falling from the heavenly vacum we all desire to meet before embarkation to the celestial pen.
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