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Saturday, March 31, 2012

Shillelagh



 The public house at closing hour,
 Knew Tom's call for a gimlet sour.
 Though that damson tart looked plump,
 Tom called out for more beef rump.
 A slow-eyed hubby's grafted wife,
 White Lady took the seed to life.
 Then from sheep the ram got torn,
 She bade him drink some good blackthorn.
 Distilled from sloe, medicinal gin,
 Liquor allayed Tom's life of sin.
 Then the good wife herself got ripped,
 To stalwart cudgels for Tory whips.

The Mole's Last Supper

 A solemn Mole came from a hole,
 To catch a lunch of tender sole.
"I've Lost my Sole", so sang the Mole,
 And held up high his fishing pole.

 He drank a drop of salty sloe,
"O Sole Mio", he sang also.
 Then set a fire with lumps of coal,
 And slowly downed his meal of sole.

"In Hell's Hotel, there lies a gal.
 A little mole for whom I fell.
 On her pillow, upon her bed,
 I'm madly tethered, fated pledged!

 "Mind me not, as I seek a ledge.
  I'll blindly jump, and float to sea.
  One more Mole, to eternity."


Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XV




And against thought,
     an emotional language walks and appears in color.
Slug! Hypocritical rejection of water could scar your character!

Why must it then be me?
If elated, as a water-earth white infant,
    You better know our morning glory.

More to suffer, less sanguine, hence clever.
Water can represent health.
     Luscious memories abscond to a bed of grain.
Share with them, how to sleep.
For a real masterpiece, Friday is here.
Glorious Brother, approach with Metaphor.
     A boy can ask a girl,
"Won't they eschew fun?"

Angels know a better way.
     He caught some bird of black, esteems marriage as art.
Sure we'd try cooking, try hard as a sculptor.
Though . . . have a young impression since she's shy.
Could you give a luscious softer color?
     Her new stick, best hard, choses your young form.

Alleviate my sweet anger.
We'd smear us, here and after,
     as much as it sticks to some soft thing.
It's never absurd to feel vintage,
     through freedom about death.
Kiss me always.

She has the last big demon to fill.
For sure she will,
     Manic sculptures are empty.
After beauty,
     my perfect sound is still ugly.
Empower! Your wasted selves appear many.

I'm through, my every faithful base.
Unity, reach upon it.
     It will crush you alive.
Sister, give a Party!
     Think I resent open unity about that awesome studio.
So question the solution, cuddle our grand bitter life.

As Anna has been, she became a perfect dirty rose.
Make a new banal music for absurd sounds.
     Is the Doctor less than a friend?
She means this Friday.
She's so Arab! Is Mother aggressive?
     "Miss, I'm about this studio."

Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.
     Will reapers send old silent music?
We must hurry, see in tea a secret sin.
Brother, watch through cat fragments.
     when we're aware together.
Notorious creatures, important memories,
     waste away some despair . . .
Better I seek your care.
     A demon, seizes you!
Dull him, of Earth!
     Please see I'm under love,
and have less trouble in our rush.

Win crazy, have patience.
Tropical Dude! Shimmer about rain,
     about sane idols more for dirty use.
We scratch for shared absurdity.
     Scratch a dirty hot influence.
Guard her instrument impression and sexual water.

"Here is my husband, grown.
  Give him my music."
     Feel, face your language, curious in crazy joy.
Imagine, it's risky, you have questions . . .
Why my scratched glass may improve.
     Sin, and gut are one, and they’re sharp!

Important kids fly.
Bed sounds have psychedelic nerve.
     Speak out to inform a young society.

Oh, how the Milky Mother works.


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


Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XIV



Weed romps, ripe sins must last best.
To stand, spot an opaque opportunity.
     Must ugly society make figure art dazzle?

On a psychotic scale here, reverse the Self,.
     Enormous experiments.
Like we cared about cunning trouble.
Shimmer hard electric Man!
     What demands a drunken angel stud?
     Model me! Stop fighting crass sounds.

A slimy, curvy and emotional snake -
Would some impulsive rigid problem affect an infant?
     Some original experiments are there.

Like kids resenting your calm body,
     we're all pleased by surreal fashion.
Talk can blind a man.
Run, angry bold father, I won't observe death,
Was she full? Speak out!
     Some shy sleep before music.

She likes your son.
Brother, marry one secret night.
     Care is above.
Our will gives skirts a still body.
     Could the old gal win at dice?

I am smoke.
With the edge give ideas.
Confront passion, and though dry,
     have the best mind show a grander passion.

The solution is negative.
A question, the more cunning,
     know opportunity from smoke.

Jive language, way after Akhmatova.
     Alas, although I am moved,
She knows her death will feel sweet like a rose.

Observe and find a foolish wife, who thinks totally.
Perform your strength, which stops communication.
     If so, I grip it.
My perfect sound is still ugly.
     Get you Sir, with their raging!
Man, I parlay all in pain.
Improve your black-headed silhouette.
As sculpture drives a chisel, so sculpt . . .
     Are you feeling better?

What marvelous creature composes.
Imagine . . . a heart sound.
     Try romance is risking progress.

Sister, investigate your wild bed with free heart.
Would a friend crush me?
     So fly with a glass stranger.
     Investigate and discover the electric nude body.
A movie's not seeing she's lost positive will.
Free dead music represents your wife.

My luscious wife asks me to experiment.
Masterpieces follow intimacy,
     it's why she comes.
Your sleep, Junky, relates wasted dreams.
Represent an ugly shard,
     demand rest with some.

Take a sadistic horny death.
Seek in some sharp dirty old woman . . .
     How my Muse will make thought like days.


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, March 26, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XIII




Need numbers soon break?
Glorious, I discover'd she heard about our sleep.
     Nor did we. Time will choose.

Passion captures an original. "See I'm bold!"
Death's an emotional, obese raving bag of sugar,
     a street's electric instrument passion.
Granted, her man imagines a dust community,
    go observe, walk, appear as color.

To all, we need such freedom, you'll top your pint.
     I should dull your image of form.

Perform praise better, make a scratch,
     then avoid his enormous sibling head.
     which I sum, very curious, with a whipped tongue.
Suffer raw pain, drunk, but did she make it?
Some dirty dead difference here aborts her lying.
     It hurts the therapist too.

So patience, respect nude play
Fiery mother don’t let yourself influence harmony.
     If I made a man money, let us dance here.
Imagine my instrument can give peace.
More pain to scale
     Beggars grace me, but walk to perform.
A curious daughter progresses,
Borderline, opaque character, a paragon angel,
     shared beside a perfect childhood.

Sleep well.
Stop the solution. Share.
     Afraid to? Try the original process.
Sweet model, up! I better fly in pain.
Canvas will empower your subject.
     And though dry, improves my every faith.

Having stops guilt, only who is it?
     With the edge, give ideas.
I'm pressing on your pride.

Observe. I've sculpted her.
Swine! More balance will make a very crass impulse.
     We come . . . she ends the question.

Energy sees a thin child . .
Come, observe, know I meant what I mean,
     Your trouble confronts reality.
A little sexual, she gives to your trance.
     All motion starts me questioning.

Praise Father, mountain influence,
     out of solvent language.
Sister wants sister, you diddle old influences.

Before she's psychedelic,
     investigate the obtuse ugly canvas phobia.
Hand the enormous dish to a soft side of guile.
Please sense our red passion.
The dish represents a few in life.
     She does that last canvas . .  We need this, to feel!

A glorious number looks for better competition
Cold cooking runs back to ground,
    makes choices that give.
Sculpt every phobia.

Your stance sure could cut him on the rock.


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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