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Thursday, December 30, 2010

Song of 81 Poems II




Milky soft, dark, as sin,
Your Queen's sculpture
    almost knows Heaven.

Choose your subject's grip,
an urchins impression's better
     she looks to fly again
     aboard malignant silence.
Investigate with patience, a fire-eye filled in light.

Demand a fresh dead stop,
     I fear impressing, walk there,
     I am proof, a turgid imp.
     Press on, they carried Mother on a canvas,
     played by her silhouette.

The Queen sculpts wanting a fear I always knew.
Oh their sister destroyed your clever disorder.
     Opacity paints her cooking.
     Hey! Question our money subject. You'll howl!
Come, I won't observe death, so alleviate sweet anger.
From silhouetted song, music has joy.

Take that impulsive sleep, be faithful.
Have freedom, fast romance is the drug.

     Mama come here! No peeking.
     For sure she will.
Husband of an angel, his home is more pain to scale, with the edge.
To give ideas, first in life bothers him.

"Get how Babe's green." She's money obsessed,
     She resents us since Chocolate phoned.
Oh that grope would need a woman.

That inky communication gave best effect.
A mounted metaphor. We almost chanted:
     "Oh me! I see all, yes."

We joked at a blind missive.
Women lied, manipulated sleep-time, then howled.
     Somehow you forgot this pathetic communication.

Some imagine opaque delight. "What struggles?
You observed reasons why life should appear.
     "With the edge, give ideas!" He must man it.
     Perfume over an ancient babbling sound,
To try a life experiment.
     Come here, there it is, as a call to your peace.
How will you go? Decide upon their silence?
Die, decide, I said you are dead.
     Etiquette surrounds us, I'm pulled you see.

Trouble follows me through grace.
Way hot, full-assed, dark,
     What deep society is a storm.

"I present psychedelic observations!"
The better to live, love and choose a language.
     Storms affect and break a line of weed.
Stretch up a faithful canvas.
The open shimmer is clever and straight.
If children will grip society.
   You'll empower a subject.

Speak out now, imagine when liars are at process,
     they smeared a wasted earth.
Kisses played our music, gave no delusions,
     through our metaphor of life.

As we work hard, we'll surf love.
Your wife is raging,
We hold the loathe-some babbling process,
     damaged with model dreams.

Naughty drunk, address every idea, with sugar.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

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