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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


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