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Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, III




Despair is too upsetting,
Around it, I make my smoke investigate
     a deep inky delight.
You belly dance and surf,
  check behind every Mountain.

"Amuse them Father, to Peace up."
  If I can free her, Doom is obsessed,
    by your Aryan god.

Observe and balance the music.
     a simple angelic sound of home,
Perfect sleep in sculpture,
Sanity, I may ask them Father, if the period's up.
     Mom could hear us hustling, she gave us that passion.

You and I pour tea for a studio head.
Relate to me how a dirty canvas follows
     a glorious sanguine end.
   Friday, more guilt and guile.
I smoked at a secret live romance.
     "Forget your model husband!"

Need we end this dazzle?
I thought we'd stand as good work,
      share our money and sculpt.

An innocent experiment was felt,
The water gave up psychedelic angel paint,
    You cared for our fiery cure.
    Imagine women, clean sex,
Fast romance was the drug,
     healed by intimacy.

Woman, I'm all about bed.
Hence your smokey laugh is so good.
     Soon dark despair will laugh, famously.

My perfect sound is still ugly.
      so feeling crushed, break anew!
Competition follows every laugh,
      you'd better shame.
Death, an ever glorious night, so psychedelic,
      Did we care for trust?
Show me sculpture and green water.
When will I yield?
      I'll approach, and let the others stand.

As author, author-songwriter before,
      the best in Brooklyn.
I feel the surf.
Try to do some right process.
Our empty howl won't confront her.
      I'll have green harmony, deny her furloughs.

Every laugh makes Rainbow represent your sweet wife.
Why complain?
      My perfect sound is still ugly.

Mama the perfume confronts your many opinions
Cramped work, the Glory owes you money,
     that as emotion, forms delusions of art.
Little sister breathe sweetly,
Feel music, art, that chants a fresh imagination.
     "Energy is a thin child."

I reached a key observation.
We buried this over animal music.
      What I meant was: "You'll investigate with sound!"
Romance was risking progress, felt too far.
Have breakfast,
      soft cooking, white.
So delight in anger.
Some'll paint a repressed peace.

She sings with spirit, captures unity,
      poster of my studio's raging dreams.
Smear more! For whose model has classy companions,
     like calm men.
Husbands reach but never capture.
Babe, this observation of paint crept in,
     from aggressive rules of thought.

To face a picture,
      to a sweet obsessive masterpiece.
     "Must ye think of some drunk mouth?"
Why should this girl Rainbow
  believe it when smoke calls.
   She takes her innocent degenerate thought,
      as a flight movie break.
"Control my body, soft and sad."

"How hard it is to know,
      to draw delusions, with color."


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


Breathe





Breathe, disgrace our presence,
The peace which I always open,
Is an awful hidden, and daunting, reserve.
Man you can hide perfume, the glory owes you money.
Be her man, I suffer,
I need to see who you are, so she can see love.
Hindustan, my arty tea, you menstruate, lie and wish.
Model, I've a database!
My language was never meant to abuse.
Confront fear, Observe, I sculpted her man,
Parlay, all in pain.
We must hurry, see in tea, a secret sin.
At best, I see all.
You heard,
I have her city, willing.


with Eva Moll, July 21, 2006, 52, 53, 54   Part I, Part II


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


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