Song of 81 Poems, III

Smoke investigates,

   a deep inky delight.
You who belly dance and surf,

   check behind every mountain.

If I free her, doom obsessed,

    your Aryan god will balance music.
A simple angelic sound of home.

    against perfect sanity to sleep in sculpture.

Mom heard us hustling, 

    she gave us that red passion.

You and I poured tea for the studio.

It relates to me how dirty canvases follow
     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 stood as good work,
      shared our money to sculpt.

An innocent experiment was felt,
The water gave us 

    psychedelic angel paint.
    You cared for our fiery cure.

Imagine clean sex,
     fast romance as a drug,
Healed by intimacy, 

     It was all about the bed.

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

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