Sunday, December 16, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXII





Narayan, Heaven sees your muddle.
   There's a key opportunity, beside my moon.
You who belly dance and surf,
Faithful instrument,
   when I'm passionate - ride a simple toy.
   Walk, and take her home,

See if one marvelous breath relates
    how the faithful gave sense.
Choose a sad torpid companion.
Perform the clean thought,
    a beautiful glorious river does need to storm.

They'd investigate and lead her into society.
    Can the blind phone, fiddle, scratch?
Companion, respect my space.
   She acts. A pathetic parasite, envies, eyes music,
   esteems marriage as art.

Film my ass, you can use it until,
My aesthetic, a blue psychedelic Mother,
    forgets you're the model husband.
Smoke this fool.
We'll question our raw care,
    beneath more empty music.

She senses the observations, more seen by youth.
Never composes,
    lies looking for an angry wild howl.
Clean sex and fast romance was the drug.
Feel clever, through freedom about death.

Friday. The dead howl by then.
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion,
Fast, Write, Draw. 
Use this to progress.
    My perfect sound is still ugly.

Come, lost infant
    call for attachment at the mouth,
    Good character destroys what won't give us night.

Ink scars the mean street.
We break finger music,
    balanced through our great film.


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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