Song of 81 Poems, XIII

I need numbers, soon to breakfast,
Glorious, she heard about our sleep.
     So did we, as time will choose.

Passion captured an original scene,

Old Death is an emotional, obese raving bag of sugar,
     the street's electric instrument.

Passion granted, her man imagined a dust community.
     Observed, appeared to walk as color.

To all, we need such freedom. You'll top your pint.
      But 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, drugged, did she make it?
Some dirty debt, some difference here about her lying.
     This hurt the therapist too.

So Patience, respect nude play
Fiery mother don’t let yourself influence harmony.
     If I make a man money, let us dance here.
Imagine my instrument gives peace.

More pain to scale
     Beggars grace me, but walk to perform.
As a curious daughter progresses,
     a borderline opaque character, a paragon angel,
     is shared beside perfect childhood.

Sleep well.
Stop the losing here.
     Afraid to? Try a more original process.

Sweet model, time's up! I better fly in pain.
    Canvas empowers your subject.

And though dry, proves my every faith.

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