Song of 81 Poems I

Are we becoming moist through lust?
   Perform for me this tea art.

Sweet daughter, I know that laughter,

   when you and I are together.

   Let us live.

Solitary walks for tantra, 

   fiery pictures above dust,
   the full glorious Rainbow.

Man, you never understood Beauty.

You saw them gripped, by virginity,
   driven, 

   until you caught some bird.
Yes peace would dry up language.

My aesthetics you'll use up,
   until you find a green glass body.

Communication looks for music.
   Trust electricity, but never model.

To get her dangerous traitor, 

   the whipped tongue feels free.

You and I both like this freedom, 

   and believe in drunken dunes.

The animal I eat makes empty Death,

Clean sex and and electric pictures,
   are models for granting respect.

Tonight should the old gal win at dice?

I see sculptures, manic sculptures,

Praise my symbols, and their laughter.

19

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 38 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

Tantra of Muse Poem Titles

Raw Raw Words,
Secure your last thought, . . .
Good boy, perform observations over me.

Start. I must see when.
As you and me, I am.

Understand, understand again, fiery film,
Picture above dust, the other muscly men.

Offer her Unity.            
I could learn only.

Bird of Black,
see I hold you yet
Filmy aesthetics she still has.

Look, hard thin language questions:
He crept around our master,
appearing East to find more music.

Kiss me, see romance stop the night sky.

I see sculptures draw always.
Model if silhouettes don't suffer.

First memories, they know.
Here howls this Mare,
above Him.

Her situation speaks out, you and her,
Russian Poets to Russian Poets!
Let her use it.

Smother us Black.
Always scratch, somehow forget.
Improve, please comfort Joy.

I never chose to breathe Him the way in.
You won't cover all love.

Young-headed, how will you go?
Part II is lost. Lead her, seek, take health.
Such a wild chant, every monster bird.

Many said art crushes, twinkle boy's then all motion.

Patience, know time, this impulse.
A puny companion sees that studio follow the language.
Sense a borderline character.

If time could think important music.
Feel more.
The Muse makes some other commune.

Make cooking balance.
Open that. Empower her identity.
Come and manipulate.
Carp us Down.

Take this.


This poem is an in-order sequence of the titles of each of the Muse Poems from Series I and II. 
As work is completed, the poem changes.

The Muse Poems, Series I:

  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

The Muse Poems, Series II:

   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

Raw Raw Words

One. Heavy influences,
obsessive here and more.
Milky soft, dark as sin,
despair is . . .

Two, upsetting .
In his truth he meant to please every bitter advantage.
He tests sex.

Three, she had twins gayly drank chocolate tea.
Rocks over a dark sea.

Four, we verse a faithful symbol
through our angry sense.
Patience cures, need numbers empower?
Impressions last in a kids thought.

Five, strength shimmers.
Represent my sculpture.
Tell Joy, she looms over that smoke.

Six, infant angels have memory.
Look now, see on Crete,
I brought her no ring.

So Heaven would respect,
make a question around.
She's your wife. Give her what you want.

Eight, attach head space.
When that aggressive girl gal homey,
dribbles paint on her cardboard soon.

Nine, mellifluous silhouettes said 'Sharp form'.

Ten my care breaks rich.
Follow, hence cry.

Eleven, wood can drug our emotional drunk,
Feel it on one, said we.

To elves, when wild rivalry damages,
what heals time? Can they?

Thirteen finest girl metaphors, through guilt.

Four teens now lash psychedelic.
Cook, laugh, show.

Fit and free.
Free totally I come past.

Sixteen, we're good.
Originally I lived to diversity up.
All on straight and ugly.

Seventeen, like body abuse must crowd art.
Pressure us apart.


with JF, 12/13/06, 81, 1, 2

The Muse 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