‘Fates and Forces’ Wave 3/4: Transformations Poems (Book 13)

20 Mar

TRANSFORMATIONS

George Braque Metamorphoses

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

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Poems Inspired by Book 13

.Featuring:

Richard Biddle

Transform(ed)

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The unearthly round mysteries address us now upon shores where we fist our pockets with running battles over spent matches.Tongue the rival’s sex without any insecurity. No being secures the famous juice on the budded realm of my sensitive muscle.

This being refused, only their arms are needed for the service, severed from their bodies by the only real moving blade. There is no heart rate, neither a daughter nor son for my own return of my children. Then rock a horse not a chair, see the fire on its own reaching me. The flames return to my arms, there is no spirit for the world of the miserable.

That we may rob a new flower or be seen to have finished our thievery of rose in every manner.

There, in the rise, as if no words could scarcely be, a fact of related meaning to my instinct. The relative and the no shape are so far for the letters of the reserves mighty function. They took what they reckon they needed and nothing ships filled the back of his refused mind. The return and no showing fed off their refused, locally made anagrams.

Take our rogue dreams away for no two are the same or come from there or reveal more. To be returned and to know now should fate turn on this received wisdom like my mood. Their result is a thing that now shoulders us, for here we are of and can receive, moreover, understand.

The open realise we are not supposing false ideas of lazy rigours between my lines. Thought results as a brain nurses its still imagination like fortune’s lost or of layers revealed in the midst of the mayhem. The forgotten remember to allow themselves not to snatch at murmurings from their own ranks or my improvisations.

The rewards are not strength enough for the other right in front of me that rows as I am now by the side from the hidden alphabet or the mortal remains of me. The result is that the arms not snatched or forced out, record who is murdered. Their raging altar is now snapped for favourable photographs of roofs of money. As to the remaining arms, not capable of seeing, they are fixed on the ransom mother.

The restrained and the number suffered a fate of royal pardon most heinous. The remains and the now should be feared. As our energy runs out my tattered and torn remain. Am I not scattering foreign nonsense upon the once upon a time rock mounting?

Then revenge is a joker not a scoundrel for the over confident rage mouth. Too far gone to be remembering as no sorrow is called for on this rosy morning. The right is left and a nodded smoke fogs on, resembling the made. The remembering is a name for the sun fight of which reeking is made. Their times to remember are no shape and the final of the removed mother. The rocky is a name for the sacrificial that stems from origin, from the moved.

Three run and the north stars are a fleet of reached and many. Them are the ruthless and nymph sisters fingers tap on the one reason mother. The rake and the spade are never placed on the single forehead or the returning mountain. The rock and the paper are not the same as the fiercer ocean, you will not regret me. The roaming are seeing the need to see for the offspring of rennet make eyes.

Those who raise assuredly are not sheep fleece on or from the rejecting mine, though we realise, as the never suspecting fled, that it was neither us or the rock that was massive. To create redness at the name we stopped putting it in, for out is more recently seen as might, till we reached a nearby voice that spoke to the fierce of the realm in myself.

The received and the nature of sin come flowing over as we remember the mind.

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You can find more about Richard here:

http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

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Tomorrow you’ll find Weekend Showcase, featuring writer Shirley Golden and a short story she has written. Thank you for your interest.
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