Why are you working hard my Muse
. . . to shy a blue canvas?
All have fateful sunstroke,
I'm for tantric teaching.
Die, decide, I reach key observations,
I see you on Crete, a sculpture instrument.
See your sins apace,
Come in. You and I will teach her!
I see an old expert . . . and men beat, her.
This is the crazy passion about drugs,
In this I get absurd metaphor, I see questions,
Come, observe, know, influence, imagine . . .
Better I seek you, I was in pain, with our nervy abuse.
Scream Partner!
Happy angel breaks in one past, the life which she formed,
We clean our dust there.
It's alive, a vaginal pink masterpiece.
We ask: 'See me grow out of an agressive mind.'
with N____ K____, June 26, 2006, 57, 58, 59
The Muse Poems:
