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.
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: