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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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