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Thursday, February 3, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, VIII





She rocks over a dark sea, observes perfection,
     after babes talk behind dim harmony.

Attached to fashion, in good pain,
      a rich sweet showed only she could fill her April.
Babe, I create our memories.
     Glory still demands an open thought.
The faithful gave sense, but never repressed freedom.
     Please imagine that itch.

Observe our harmony.
Here love doesn't understand or follow wrecked.
     This emotional sex is still down.
Sad, missing in need, or fashion, almost.
Since you are full and free,
     share in our pride-hearted system.
Never think I will manipulate.
Since from a period of art,
     glorious picture paint is stuck.

Mother's dish, the key, is glorious women's praise.
Confront a hard pithy studio, a hollow crowd strung.
     Are we agreeing that we know art!
Demands, worried your full thought,
     we chant, "Come Pan!"

Discover thought in a border line.
Sculpt him blind! Is your delight an almost better me?
     Use this.

The vintage act, yes, is down around
I can sense bed music. So reach and seek us!
     Empty your sister's howl.
     I am for mellifluous death.
Mounted, should that be too dysfunctional?
     Muses I see even.

Family affects head competitions.
     How drunk I am.
His favorite instrument is sense.
weren't they too bold to presume freedom was about water.
     May you please comfort us.
Could society, curious, only in the end, reach you?
Model, glitter man or his play,
How important cuts emulate character.
     "Marry me".
      Men beat her.

But he, one day true, but full, colored in:
"Be still emotion! Such wild worries.
     Girl, see your despair.
     Chat, dress nude, destroy.
A new feeling with one sound can communicate a story,
     relate space as rich as a body.

Play with a solution. Slather, beg!"
     Come, give me a big luscious daze!
Know every impulse, who frees my pain, scratches sense?
     Killer of life!
     Which Angel had Mother better use?

Writing breaks, faithful and deep.
     My girl would have me home.
     So we love this life
We'll pressure, write, dazzle, cook,
     But make true measure.

Oh, that freedom we give.


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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