gri_2003_m_46_b03_f08_029
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.037
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.02
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- 65815562 - Amalfari
- 65900771 - darryluk
- WINNER - 66012774 - mar15ted
- 66075097 - Scifigirl12
- 66086585 - srasg56
- 66115714 - Chris5420
65815562 - Amalfari
Polydor (ii)His head a fan-light and his arms folded
On the rectangular panels of his lungs,
The seventh poet solves the world of objects
By his empathic union with their shapes.
One of the poets at one of the doors
Examines the cult of darkness by the lamps
Burning like flowers on the tenebrist carpet,
Preparing his senses for the Epic, Night.
Caryatid of the so-called bridal suite,
Record with Pindar's athletic content
The hboks and eyes, the buttons and holes,
All moving softly the other side of the door.
Operatic poet, do you not fear
To tear the pillow of silence, break
The vases in the delicate ears within
Of the girl of whose sunsets you are sentry.
The enigmatic as the poet's matter:
Diagonal creases on the hidden bed,
Are like geology of hidden springs
Below the sleeper in the further room.
A poet in sunglasses at the twelfth door
Makes a bonfire of his early lovers,
The odes now derelict as empty houses
And the ramshackle sonnets of the stairs.
Instead of a handle one door has a hand
Caressing a poet's genitals:
Roses flow from the keyhole
And stifle the trellis of his happy limbs.
65900771 - darryluk
Polydor (ii)His head a fan-light and his arms folded
On the rectangular panels of his lungs,
The seventh poet solves the world of objects
By his empathic union with their shapes.
One of the poets at one of the doors
Examines the cult of darkness by the lamps
Burning like flowers on the tenerbrist carpet,
Preparing his senses for the Epic, Night.
Caryatid of the so-called bridal suite,
Record with Pindar's athletic content
The hooks and eyes, the buttons and the holes,
All moving softly the other side of the door.
Operatic poet, do you not fear
To tear the pillow of silence, break
The vases in the delicate ears within
Of the girl of whose sunsets you are sentry.
The enigmatic as the poet's matter:
Diagonal creases on the hidden bed,
Are like geology of hidden springs
Below the sleeper in the further room.
A poet in sunglasses at the twelfth door
Makes a bon-fire of his early lovers,
The odes now derelict as empty houses
And the ramshackle sonnets of the stairs.
Instead of a handle one door has a hand
Caressing a poet's genitals:
Roses flow from the keyhole
And stifle the trellis of his happy limbs.
WINNER - 66012774 - mar15ted
Polydor (ii)His head a fan-light and his arms folded On the rectangular panels of his lungs, The seventh poet solves the world of objects By his empathic union with their shapes. One of the poets at one of the doors Examines the cult of darkness by the lamps Burning like flowers on the tenebrist carpet, Preparing his senses for the Epic, Night. Caryatid of the so-called bridal suite, Record with Pindar's athletic content the hooks and eyes, the buttons and the holes, All moving softly the other side of the door. Operatic poet, do you not fear To tear the pillow of silence, break The vases in the delicate ears within Of the girl of whose sunsets you are sentry. The enigmatic as the poet's matter: Diagonal creases on the hidden bed, Are like geology of hidden springs Below the sleeper in the further room. A poet in sunglasses at the twelfth door Makes a bon-fire of his early lovers, The odes now derelict as empty houses And the ramshackle sonnets of the stairs. Instead of a handle one door has a hand Caressing a poet's genitals: Roses flow from the keyhole And stifle the trellis of his happy limbs.
66075097 - Scifigirl12
Polydor (ii)His head a fan-light and his arms folded
On the rectangular panels of his lungs,
The seventh poet solves the world of objects
By his empathic union with their shapes.
One of the poets at one of the doors
Examines the cult of darkness by the lamps
Burning like flowers on the tenebrist carpet,
Preparing his senses for the Epic, Night.
Carytid of the so-called bridal suite,
Record with Pindar's athletic content
The hooks and eyes, the buttons and the holes,
All moving softly the other side of the door.
Operatic poet, do you not fear
To tear the pillow of silence, break
The cases in the delicate ears within
Of the girl of whose sunsets you are sentry.
The enigmatic as the poet's matter:
Diagonal creases on the hidden bed,
Are like geology of hidden springs
Below the sleeper in the further room.
A poet in sunglasses at the twelfth door
Makes a bon-fire of his early lovers,
The odes now derelict as empty houses
And the ramshackle sonnets of the stairs.
Instead of a handle one door has a hand
Caressing a poet's genitals:
Roses flow from the keyhole
And stifle the trellis of his happy limbs.
66086585 - srasg56
Polydor (ii)His head a fan-light and his arms folded
On the rectangular panels of his lungs,
The seventh poet solves the word of objects
By his empathic union with their shapes.
One of the poets at one of the doors
Examines the cult of darkness by the lamps
Burning like flowers on the tenebrist carpet,
Preparing his senses for the Epic, Night.
Caryatid of the so-called bridal suite,
Record with Pindar's athletic content
The hooks and eyes, the buttons and the holes,
All moving softly the other side of the door.
Operatic poet, do you not fear
To tear the pillow of silence, break
The vases in the delicate ears within
Of the girl of whose sunsets you are sentry.
The enigmatic is the poet's matter:
Diagonal creases on the hidden bed,
Are like geology of hidden springs
Below the sleeper in the further room.
A poet in sunglasses at the twelfth door
Makes a bon-fire of his early lovers,
The odes now derelict as empty houses
And the ramshackle sonnets of the stairs.
Instead of a handle one door has a hand
Caressing a poet's genitals:
Roses flow from the keyhole
And stifle the trellis of his happy limbs.
66115714 - Chris5420
Polydor (ii)His head a fan-light and his arms folded
On the rectangular panels of his lungs,
The seventh poet solves the world of objects
By his empathic union with their shapes.
One of the poets at one of the doors
Examines the cult of darkness by the lamps
Burning like flowers on the tenebrist carpet,
Preparing his senses for the Epic, Night.
Caryatid of the so-called bridal suite,
Record with Pindar's athletic content
The hooks and eyes, the buttons and the holes,
All moving softly the other side of the door.
Operatic poet, do you not fear
To tear the pillow of silence, break
The vases in the delicate ears within
Of the girl of whose sunsets you are sentry.
The enigmatic as the poet's matter:
Diagonal creases on the hidden bed,
Are like geology of hidden springs
Below the sleeper in the further room.
A poet in sunglasses at the twelfth door
Makes a bon-fire of his early lovers,
The odes now derelict as empty houses
And the ramshackle sonnets of the stairs.
Instead of a handle one door has a hand
Caressing a poet's genitals:
Roses flow from the keyhole
And stifle the trellis of his happy limbs.