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Thursday, October 25, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XVII

Sinner, represent my Beauty.
Notice if I get those crass sounds.
     Stand by my sculpture.

Draw your companion's curious color,
    we cared about cunning trouble.
Please, I must go to where dead skulls appear.
Share my songs, write my observations.
why I will paint in empty language.
     Follow progress, heal a tree.

Sale of editions: "Muse sees all my Late Energy."
His drunken style was back up. Health too.
     He learned himself that Death, wants in.
To compose form, Mother crushed your bold friend!
When rules think, he sings a guilty space.
   Dust grew a nude-mind metaphor.
An impressionist light piece.
A shame you missed our broken secret.
     Honey, you helped about cymbal rhythms.

Hold, feel your subject, follow no hate.
     Sense must water tea.
Her old man's looking sharp.
Her smokey laugh is so good.
     Soon dark despair will laugh.
Famously, trash bad wood.
Father knows, and learns inclusive dark earth.
   It means on Friday she's so arid.
Have no smoke in manic diversity.
I can't stay around. Say ohm.
   Petitions, they avoid or give reach to insanity.
I was caught, and must know Music.
   Tend every repressed sister
Learned fellow, isn't your Mom around?
Before, "Best in Brooklyn" can categorize spirit and harmony.

Fantasy: a boy's an aggressive double,
   stuck to every limpid loser.
Do cuddle, never use pride.
My Queen's sexy gown smokes no grass.
   Whose struggles do you observe?
A sad mother?
"Look Baby, a Walkman!"
I have her city, willing.
   We measure, glorious Doctor, an ancient childhood.
All love creatures home, how I am enough?
Rainbow, this impulse is soft and looking spotted.
   Marry me.

Scream Partner.
Our poor tune, tie'd down to become a husband,
   True full colors, in bestial emotion.
Don't give in. Betroth her.
A lying solution's better than money.
   Always will a way out.
What deep society is under my storm?
Some paint a repressed peace,
    draw delusions with color.
Should the monkey have come?

Yes, your brother gets electric,
     about this as I stir.
You dress his deep street language of life.
Love my cooking, important music has grown full.
   We compose harmony by deep dance.

Worry pain, afraid of concrete shame, psychedelic passion
   Sanity at last, empowers space.
Days, open that impression.

Take her innocent degenerate thought,
For when her wasted part forms like a baby,
   she sings for a stranger.

Please bless your breath, greasily drawn.
   She found dance, and can suffer.

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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