Angkor Thom quotes

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the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.
moves in a wood of desire,
Distorting hackneyed words in hackneyed songs
He turns revolt into a style, prolongs
The impulse to a habit of the time.
O wily painter, limiting the scene
From a cacophony of dusty forms
To the one convulsion,
The painter saw what was, an alternate
Candor and secrecy inside the skin.
My thoughts are crowded with death
and it draws so oddly on the sexual
From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin
And human title, putting pig within.
These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.
Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly:
One by one they appear in
the darkness: a few friends, and
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