gri_2003_m_46_b05_f25_006
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.053
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.032
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- 69206468 - jesseytucker
- WINNER - 69783879 - Ankettaccia
- 69924314 - Channy58
- 70253169 - Paula-S
- 70974136 - ZeynepY
- 71001213 - dragontatoes
69206468 - jesseytucker
twoI washed my hands and did not look in the glass.
a channel-swimmer was folded like a towel
In the bathroom by the silver taps,
Among the bottles and bent combs.
Her arms felt soft as stocking on my thighs.
I killed a gardener. I crushed his head.
I shall return one afternoon and find
The clothes -line rotting in the gaunt gazebo,
Weeds taller than the balcony and the orchard
Flashing flinty capsules, not soft fruit.
Did I cut the throat of an introvert?
He would not notice. Was there more to come?
That was him lying on the cushions.
Perhaps a girl he might have tortured
Will rave in Easter Island loneliness.
I killed an extrovert. He screamed for hours
As the hives and telegrams retreated,
As he lost the scent of flowers and horses,
As the slanted walls dissolved in crimson fronds,
And the sense of plenitude diminished.
How many sailors will not see the wings of cliff
Swelling from the crystal ball of mist?
As I lie on the lea and count the pearls
That I can shake loose from marine-creatures
I count on the silence of the crow's-nest.
Was there a countess of the North who died
Before the sun was West? I sank a fan
In a lake of fingers. Now the ice
Makes a dazzling hall unscarred by skaters
Who did not last the violence of summer.
Excellent as a proverb or a wine,
Sensual and hampered as oases,
Among cassoni of success I down
The yielding dead and bury lovingly
The heroes of the cult in rocky places.
How many soldiers ended in the first set
And hang like bunches of grapes from the trees
Above the readers of detective stories.
I went in the wood, rode the stile alone
And left before the genius loci woke.
WINNER - 69783879 - Ankettaccia
twoI washed my hands and did not look in the glass.
A channel-swimmer was folded like a towel
In the bathroom by the silver taps,
Among the bottles and bent combs.
Her arms felt soft as stockings on my thighs.
I killed a gardener. I crushed his head.
I shall return one afternoon and find
The clothes-line rotting in the gaunt gazebo,
Weeds taller than the balcony and the orchard
Flashing flinty capsules, not soft fruit.
Did I cut the throat of an introvert?
He would not notice. Was there more to come?
That was him lying on the cushions.
Perhaps a girl he might have tortured will
Will rave in Easter Island lonliness.
I killed an extrovert. He screamed for hours
As the hives and telegrams retreated,
As he lost the scent of flowers and horses,
As the slanted walls dissolved in crimson fronds,
And the sense of plenitude diminished.
How many sailors will not see the wings of cliff
Swelling from the crystal ball of mist?
As I lie on the lea and count the pearls
That I can shake lose from marine-creatures
I count on the silence of the crow's-nest.
Was there a countess of the North who died
Before the sun was West? I sank a fan
In a lake of fingers. Now the ice
Makes a dazzling hall unscarred by skaters
Who did not last the violence of summer.
Excellent as a proverb or a wine,
Sensual and hampered as oases,
Among cassoni of success I down
The yielding dead and bury lovingly
The heroes of the cult in rocky places.
How many soldiers ended in the first act
And hang like bunches of grapes from the trees
Above the readers of detective stories.
I went in the wood, rode the stile alone
And left before the genius loci woke.
69924314 - Channy58
twoI washed my hands and did not look in the glass.
A channel-swimmer was folded like a towel
In the bathroom by the silver taps,
Among the bottles and bent combs.
Her arms felt soft as stockings on my thighs.
I killed a gardener. I crushed his head.
I shall return one afternoon and find
The clothes line rotting on the gaunt gazebo,
Weeds taller than the balcony and the orchard
Flashing flinty capsules, not soft fruit.
Did I cut the throat of an introvert?
He would not notice. Was there more to come ?
That was him lying on the cushions.
Perhaps a girl he might have tortured will
Will rave in Easter Island loneliness.
I killed an extrovert. He screamed for hours
As the hives and telegrams retreated,
AS he lost the scent of flowers and horses,
As the slanted walls dissolved in crimson fronds, And the sense of plenitude diminished.
How many sailors will not see the wings of cliff
Swelling from the crystal ball of mist?
As I line on the lea and count the pearls
That I can shake lose from marine-creatures
I round on the silence of the crow's -nest.Was there a countess of the North who died
Before the sun was West? I sank a fan
In a like of fingers. Now the ice
Makes a dazzling hall unscarred by skaters
Who did not last the violence of summer.
Excellent as a proverb or a wine,
Sensual and hampered as oases,
Among cassoni of success I down
The yielding dead and bury lovingly
The heroes of the cult in rocky places.
How many soldiers ended in the first act
And hang like bunches of grapes from the trees
Above the readers of detective stories.
I went in the wood, rode the stile alone
And left before the genius loci woke.
70253169 - Paula-S
twoI washed my hands and did not look in the glass.
A channel-swimmer was folded like a towel
In the bathroom by the silver taps,
Among the bottles and bent combs.
Her arms felt soft as stockings on my thighs.
I killed a gardener. I crushed his head.
I shall return one afternoon and find
The clothes-line rotting in the gaunt gazebo,
Weeds taller than the balcony and the orchard
Flashing flinty capsules, not soft fruit.
Did I cut the throat of an introvert?
He would not notice. Was there more to come?
That was him lying on the cushions.
Perhaps a girl he might have tortured
Will rave in Easter Island loneliness.
I killed an extrovert. He screamed for hours
As the hives and telegrams retreated,
As he lost the scent of flowers and horses,
As the slanted walls dissolved in crimson fronds,
And the sense of plenitude diminished.
How many sailors will not see the wings of cliff
Swelling from the crystal ball of mist?
As I lie in the lea and count the pearls
That I can shake loose from marine-creatures
I count on the silence of the crow's-nest.
Was there a countess of the North who died
Before the sun was West? I sank a fan
In a lake of fingers. Now the ice
Makes a dazzling hall unscarred by skaters
Who did not last the violence of summer.
Excellent as a proverb or a wine,
Sensual and hampered as oases,
Among cassoni of success I down
The yielding dead and bury lovingly
The heroes of the cult in rocky places.
How many soldiers ended in the first act
And hang like bunches of grapes from the trees
Above the readers of detective stories.
I went in the wood, rode the stile alone
And left before the genius loci woke.
70974136 - ZeynepY
twoI washed my hands and did not look in the glass.
A chanel-swimmer was folded like a towel
In the bathroom by the silver taps,
Among the bottles and bent combs.
Her arms felt soft as stockings on my thighs.
I killed a gardener. I crushed his head.
I shall return on afternoon and find
The clothes line rotting in the gaunt gazebo,
Weeds taller than the balcony and the orchard
Flashing flinty capsules, not soft fruit.
Did I cut the throat of an introvert?
He would not notice. Was there more to come?
That was him lying on the cushions.
Perhaps a girl he might have tortured will
Will rave in Easter Island loneliness.
I killed an extrovert. He screamed for hours
As the hives and telegrams retreated,
As he lost the scent of flowers and horses,
As the slanted walls dissolved in crimson fronds,
And the sense of plenitude diminished.
How many sailors will not see the wings of cliff
Swelling from the crystal ball of mist?
As I lie on the lea and count the pearls
That I can shake loose from marine-creatures
I count on the silence of the crow's-nest.
Was there a countess of the North who died
Before the sun was West? I sank a fan
In a lake of fingers. Now the ice
Makes a dazzling hall unscarred by skaters
Who did not last the violence of summer.
Excellent as a proverb or a wine,
Sensual and hampered as oases,
Among cassoni of success I down
The yielding dead and bury lovingly
The heroes of the cult in rocky places.
How many soldiers ended in the first act
And hang like bunches of grapes from the trees
Above the readers of detective stories.
I went in the wood, rode the stile alone
And left before the geniues loci woke.
71001213 - dragontatoes
twoI washed my hands and did not look in the glass.
A channel-swimmer was folded like a towel
In the bathroom by the silver taps,
Among the bottles and bend combs.
Her arms felt soft as stocking on my thighs.
I killed a gardener. I crushed his head.
I shall return on afternoon and find
The clothes-line rotting in the gaunt gazebo,
Weeds taller than the balcony and the orchard
Flashing flinty capsules, not soft fruit.
Did I cut the throat of an introvert?
He would not notice. Was there more to come?
That was him lying on the cushions.
Perhaps a girl he might have tortured will
Will rave in Easter Island lonliness.
I killed an extrovert. He screamed for hours
As the hives and the telegrams retreated,
As he lost the scent of flowers and horses,
As the slanted walls dissolved in crimson fronds,
And the sense of plenitude diminished.
How many sailors will not see the wings of cliff
Swelling from the crystal ball of mist?
As I lie on the lea and count the pearls
That I can shake lose from marine-creatures
I count on the silence of the crow's-nest.
Was there a countess of the North who died
Before the sun was West? I sank a fan
In a lake of fingers. Now the ice
Makes a dazzling hall unscarred by skaters
Who did not last the violence of summer.
Excellent as a proverb or a wine,
Sensual and hampered as oases,
Among cassoni of success I down
The yielding dead and bury lovingly
The heroes of the cult in rocky places.
How many soldiers ended in the first act
And hand like bunches of grapes from the trees
Above the readers of detective stories.
I went in the wood, rode the stile alone
And left before the genius loci woke.