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Friday, February 24, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XII

I saw you in full color,
playing in reckless affairs,
     emotionally sexed.
Your were hiding her childhood.
     using lust to hold fast.
     a better surreal harmony,
that affects us faithful, to appear free.
Precious to progress, manipulated,
     afraid of seeing down,
     aware, of no "I".

Be in awe, withstand the break.
What howl did serve my young face?
     since bad aesthetic competitions.
could further fool us as a joke?

No fire. Why?
     A new young street balances life.
Men deepen traitors at an entry blue.
She gets it, we present a metaphoric diversity,
    kiss water, and give that sharp sin
     a fear of cooking.

Be tearful, and be all
Come fill my wild dates.
Praise only a symbol.
     and discover Mother Dust.

Throw me here, until your subject feels trouble.
     Chisel and throw. Hide.
Joy destroys the surreal.
Will she love jealous joy?
Create grandeur and sculpt sweet choices,
     Beyond always, and demand to draw.
Sculpt your husband!
Show a mellifluous electric language, but walk to perform.
     Forget my summer night, why complain?
Morphine to scale.
She shares her own thinking,
     Confront! Fear rapes character yet.

Infinite idol. Now is surreal blindness.
Give music and decide upon their silence
     I see questions.
Notice etiquette and around it, call me beautiful.
Model, our star of strength.

A crazy girl feels silhouettes are energy.
     Will song soon balance us?
Anger stands alone.

Kay's companion is in a soft, dead, deep passion.
No style is here.
     Observe her like a wild fresh solution.
Boor! Soon you’ll walk or cry.
Rage's finest day, is sky.
     My jungle emotion has a better laugh!

Lost pals, behind drunk Death, take delusions!
     Strength by earth empowered.
Think and become Music!

If they try a limpid fool, ignore it.
     Married rascal, your air feels empty.

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

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XI

Patience and trouble are never late.
The husband plays, mouths how we wrecked patience.

Lady Rainbow, my astral absurd paragon,
     her dirty little sleep Mama takes what?
She's amused around an insane droll drizzle.

Sound is ok,
   Wildly, our father could capture surface.
I have him fast, problems at a time they saw in front.
Dr. Sanity, we choose a deep laugh,
   Insanity can buy you trust.
     Was observation around, babbling?

I'd let through and act cunning to sculpt him blind.
     Mom, tell us, would it stop the night sky?
My perfect sister, the canvas.

We said, "Look Orphan, My opaque soft instrument,
     has some impression from important missions."
Until sea acts crept into my sculpture,
     and green water.
Such could lick out opinion.
Be young. Good Luck.
     My madness is yet performed fast and dry.

Wryly I crept through a white street,
     used a dormant silhouette to know I'm here,
He creates me and you.

I can't face that character,
     the reason why life should appear.
Praise? Simply her presence was never meant to abuse.

Mail if loosed, vapors a palpable past,
Loves my notable nature.
     How will you go?
Through this I get absurd metaphors.
Amusing, I see Miss Ivy in Beauty.
     To test our will, get off my mind.

Brother smoke, roll a masterpiece!
Observe a mind of spirit and endeavor with raw denial.
     Forget past heart questions, our brain fights.

See on Crete our differences appear.
Like nude, empty psychedelics, I'm bold.
     Wooden models want guilt, share more dance.

A sugar laugh pains, afraid of self, could demand some sense,
     Scream at an infant society.
Some repressed anger would loom, when faced in.
     She gives us the work, then runs.

Talk of memories.

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

Monday, February 20, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, X

Through our angry sense, cute Father,
     get back to the woods.
Fit a sedulous Delphic husband around her.
One day, behind my passive body,
you'll run and believe it's gone,
     the Self's around you, some canvas child.

Sleep, handle him,
Understand why I live, or think, or choose.
     Make kids.

I would get his number, for watching,
If it is a missive done of black.
     Questions under way, through harmony, that canvas.

See the obsessive killer dance, neurotic, in our arms he crept.
     If our son thinks around every individual impression,
Scream to my Mom, no anger with Art.

Grip on! We chat of our glorious married daughter.
Draw, howl!
     Let grace abscond the Husband.

A dysfunctional right knows process,
     chants over her angry story.
Style, a Queen, comes to show pressure,
     Find good, my solution.
Twinkle, then empty your howl.
Orphan my opaque instrument's around every clean space.

You'll observe joy is about canvas.
How will she give my language, lines at home.
     See on Crete your picture, no crowd above.
Not many love drugs,
We have all been beasts.
     Seek your last thought in Beauty.

Heal, have control over us!
Cry a serious Chocolate King,
     More for your favorite cooking.

Face angry despair until canvas rhythms crowd observation.
   If through observation, have her more blind.
Chisel, hence think we're free.

We would only see together, then work.
Young sculptures give life,
     I worry if emptiness blocks a dark party.
A Grand Master breaks the concrete mess.
Cunning palace dances, you improve,
     I know.

Delight and learn me, soft Sister.

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

Saturday, February 11, 2012

The Gypsy U

From the vast midwest,
Came one thought I loved best,
Without explanation, without occasion,
Sent a U . . . through postal invasion.
All was said and done, and lost
Though I tried, I got tossed!

In what way was this too true.
Was Y  the reason our love fell through?
Names? Just three,
All gave me a U, one sent a Z.
Of the other two, one gave a Y,
The last, a B, remade my life,

The second U came from old Japan.
Shall I mention she gave a Z, then ran?
We prowled New York, just her and me,
Who is she . . .  I'll not tell U !
We searched Kyoto through, ate fine sushi.
Her letters read - 'Dōmo arigatō! Oishii!'
Then she fled, not to Tokyo,
But to Italy, . . . to Milan-o.

Two letters later, U and B,
Given by my Kabbalah lady.
I met her in Brooklyn years ago,
Her husband then was awfully shady.
They lived in a Jersey city, though.

23 equals U plus B,
What's this got to do with me?
Or for a girl from a forest town -
It's true you've grown. your age was 23,
I've since drunk your letters, drank them down.

I gave an Aleph, made my ageless bed,
The trouble and strife got previously wed.
Oxen gifts, a bear for boons,
Interpretations, made anew.

U-Boat 23, about 1917,
Sank 52 ships, herself went down.
UB's a postal code, of old London,
Southall, Ealing, and Hillingdon.
Biscuits, breweries, universities,
Belgrade and Basrah drink Burgundy.
Could UB stand for Mongolia?
Ulan Battor in Asia? Maybe?

I read your letters every day,
You'll return to me, don't say no, 
Say someday!

Belgrade?, . . . . through Serbia flows the Ub
Gosh my gypsy's got wandering curls.
With Roma eyes bright, not fair,
So have gone, to play guitar.
Know I'll love her from time afar,
The question's not when, but where.

NAMA - Marsyas 2007

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