Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, VI




She detested sex, demanded
     never to surf another rhythm.
Isn't life lived in sound?
They invested in Ithaca,
     In a city, with diversity.

Whose studio was a super space?
Imagine beautiful feeling,
     glorious music for communication.
     Press on disorder, peace, comes to deliver somehow.
The brother choose education.
    He always did paint turgid opinion.

She heard them, 
     You guys said drive past. Is tea art?
Discover music, pathetic parasite,
Envy the Muses
   See up, down absurd trash makes leads,
     Temper won't serve life.
Find hot dirty nuts, and faithful fantasy.

They want horny beds of empty mouths.
   to paint a finger-like metaphor,
     a vile fellow about pure life.
Create, write! Let that miasma come Brother,
     then think sleep in unity.

Master feels clever, to have freed them.
Friday he howls, by then,
   Healing deep death, to show how I followed
     an absurd girl,
        who wanted a dust mountain.

Trash bad wood, 
   feeling letters, like silent patients,
Trying to impress her,
   we two are ugly beasts of an original high.
        So please, try while sinking,
           Avoid my inner form.

Do we ever question that awesome studio.
   On Thursdays we eat jealous music.
     Imagine absurd visual noose coupled.

Dear he definitely suffers his Muses,
     thinks I risk madness.


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

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