Smother us in a black limpid experiment.
Manipulate in sleep, in time, my peace,
to do some right process.
Free too, a still life's always dormant,
finger him, it won’t take an ugly score.
I'll risk mad curious will,
When childhood pressure’s up and away.
How drunk I am, I have an insane mother!
Twinkle always, wryly I crept through a white street.
Draw, Sculpt, your husband!
Process sweet model, up, I better fly in pain.
Her death will feel sweet like a rose.
Make a new banal music for absurd sounds
Investigate an emotional aesthetic.
A boy sees an aggressive double,
eats the original spirit of love.
I want hot beer.
Attribution Lost, November 10, 2010, 45, 46, 47
The Muse Poems:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
