Thursday, February 3, 2011

Song of 81 Poems, VIII





She rocks over dark seas, observes perfection.
     Babes talk behind her,
     money attached to fashion, all in good pain.
A rich sweetie showed 
     she could fill our April.

Babe, I created our memories.
      Glory demands an open thought.
The faithful give sense, but never repressed freedom.
     Please imagine that itch.

Honor harmony, where love won't understand, 
     or follow wrecked.
The 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 it
     from a period of art,
     The glorious picture paint is stuck.

Mother's dish, the key, is glorious women's praise.
Confront the hard pithy studio, a hollow crowd strung.
     Are we agreeing that we know art?

Demands, worry your last free thought,
     We chant, "Come Pan!"
Discover thought at the border.
    Lines! Sculpt him blind! 

Are you here to delight an almost better me?
     Use this.


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

Song of 81 Poems, VII





Seated twins. Gay drank chocolate tea.
    You muddled him, since you are full and free,
Have some aggressive cunning.
     How we rotted there, chose age as sin,
Feel memory, a fool's accustomed,
     to save his strength.

In front, the ennui of verbose experiments
    are an important opportunity.
About your sister, music never knows.
It damages education in death,
    creates a psychedelic husband.
Around her, know fast and esteem
    your favorite Moon sister.
 
Sculpt hot and dirty, surf the rhythm,
    She presents, this fun tea and all,
    companionable, though still in passion.
    She tries our instrument work.

So let's write a wry, mean joke.
    Respect us beneath empty music.
    It balances bold and soft.

Who needs a dish of mouth, when green?
    Impulse in beauty, balances, then alloys it.

Avoid Grace. 
Burnt, go out and tell us.
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion,
    Write fast, and draw.
    It shows your sad Mother.

If they reached behind, 
    wouldn't she be too bold with pressure?
    Graces, they ink your work on every pithy surface.

Investigate Brother,
Paint rhythms up, then down.
    The mare above him was caught.
     It knows music.


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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