Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XV




And against thought,
     an emotional language walked and appeared in color.
Slug! Hypocritical rejection of water scars 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 represents 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 may ask a girl,
     "Won't they eschew fun?"

Angels know a better way.
     He caught a bird of black, 
     esteemed marriage as art.
Sure we'd try cooking, try hard as sculptors,
Though . . . have a young impression since she's shy.
Would you give a luscious softer color?
     Her new stick, best hard, chose 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,
     My manic sculptures are empty.

After beauty, perfect sounds are 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 the Party thoughts!
      I present 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."

In our rush to win crazy, have no patience.
Tropical dude shimmers 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, all grown.
  Give him your music."

Feel, face language, curious in crazy joy.
Imagine if it's risky, you'd 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 endings.
     Speak to inform a young society.

Oh, how the Milky Mother lives.


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

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