Sunday, December 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXI





Help me, the more I look,
 I see mountains on Crete,
    a brother, dead or interred, by obsession.

Death is at me again,
Knowing Heaven, sculptures never disagree.
    Sensitive aesthetics amuse them.
Father, please help,
    her wasted parts are glass deep.

Oh then good God, are you empty?
My mind is in heaven,
     I almost question the angel sound of home.

Paint impulsively, for a show.
Get up, then kiss, as rivers do a storm.
Our ode is symbol, 
    try to take her strength.

As Water, I Am Surreal.
Wasted, I perform related mental fixations,
    I'm nerved at how you trod up.

Say marrying has trouble,
I understand but why hate?
    Draw me for mad, soon you'll run free.

Question the money subject.
Life rules her raging health.
A vile fellow around pure life.
Instruments that feel, see you're a tourist.

Cuddle your angel,.
Get to know our obscure grip.
Mother is thy Peace, find more music,
    What glitters Girl? 

Sexy woman, use sanguine perfume to calm the crazy leader.
Some party whores always show.
Want a dust mountain?
Pain to scale, with the edge, give ideas.
     Live from love, free thought . . .

Brother, present time-outs as awesome wild pain.
Life is inclusive,  use color above.
     Morning delights start out sweet.

I see childhood's best faithful young companion,
     questioned about that awesome studio.
Daze, then a period.
Marry please, a vintage favorite.
      Stand, and be all danced.


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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