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Friday, November 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XX

Infant angel you envy the gate, with sound.
See in front, absurd risks,
   now dazzled by a silent crowd.
Process drunk opinions like harmony at Death.
Their age ripped an urchin's impression -
   sweet problems best made a life in strokes.

I wish life could clean out our absurd time . . .
   This will reach you . . .
Approach, through your original studio.

I demand fresh dead.
Stop! Dust Death, a dry drink.
   Freedom himself, uses a scratch gown.
I may ask them Father, if the period is up.
Intimately see and discover.
   She thinks about an opening.
Try always to have the open idea,
   a chameleon who guts earth,
Since bad aesthetics surface in G.

Influences, at best, stroke your self esteem.
Look for more music.
   If a finger composes, I can't cook as a double.

A favorite two-step, feels a rhythm, hence decays,
   snaps her from that trotting fiend.
Nudism is used, so compose experiments then mount.

Mellifluous, (sniff!), has her period.
A dance of sound.
Energy soon hears a black and white rhythm.
   See how she understands silence.

Mama come here! Heal by intimacy,
Grass, no denial, respect, no peeking. I'm all about bed.
   Heal deep, Death.
Follow me, absurd Girl,
   Draw always above the canvas,
Here, Mellifluous style is above opportunity.

See and tell, who could have resented.
   There's a foreign-voiced dance, in heart,
Loser, paint this, our fun.
   She tempers, "How old is life?
   Know if life's an experiment."
Create grandeur, beside a perfect childhood.

Esteem would never mind, I cannot begin.
Definitely observe in him how real pressure smothers us,
   in a black limid experiment.

Amid good progress, sleep.
Call for an attachment at the mouth.
   Don't muscle that system. If so,  . . . I grip it.
   Joy is about canvas.
It's enough . . . Power appears, always, in jokes . . .
An awful hidden, and daunting, reserve.

Be hearted, always ink in Sin.
Thou did'st forget my only past. Has it yet ebbed your observation?
    How big will patience be in my clever life?
How will you go in a daze.
It's alive, a vaginal pink masterpiece.
    Later you just might score.

Notice etiquette and around it,
to test our will, call me beautiful.
    He is soft, then we seem apart.
All we question, Night Bird uses past childhood.
    Sleep, I have him at night.
Mama's song could impulse soft perfect drugs.

Let's create something.
Endless obsessive sex, not great passion, cramps our communal thought.
    Trouble is how to go behind rejection.
Investigate peace. You'll walk some.
Eat. If children will grip society,
    you'll empower a subject.

Learn daughter, with grace.
Get a fax and draw mad men!
    Paint, creeps in from aggressive rules.

Feel more perfume, behind each laugh,
It's why she comes.
   a crazy sister, her horny number.
I believe your still raging wife,
     has some tedious ancient form.
Believe it when smoke calls, angered, though pleasant.

No original companions,
   will open up your systems to relate.
A bird sees no phobia.
Dude, she murmurs about rain,
   about the grand river.

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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