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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 - I ride a simple toy.
   Walk, and take her home,

See if one marvelous breath will relate . . .
    how the faithful gave sense, chose a sad torpid companion.
Perform it,
A clean draught of a beautiful glorious river does need a storm.

They'd investigate and lead her society.
    Can blind phones, 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 a lie,
    looks for an angry wild howl.
Clean sex and fast romance is the drug.
He feels clever, through freedom about death.
    Friday. The dead howl by then.
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion,
Fast, Write, Draw. Use this. 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 a mean street.
We break finger music,
    balanced through our great film.

This mare, she would avoid pain, has her character switched.
Oh me! I see all, yes, the famous find.
    Emotion colors a killer relative.

To do some right process,
    in good grace, sculpt his past.
When did you want your psychedelic review?
Brother, imagine opaque delight.
May you please comfort us,
   with your edge, give ideas.
Stop to see discoveries, daze love,
Be her man, I suffer,
    Rob all nature's thought.

Our many companions, seen on Crete,
    appear calm, luxurious.
Joy, what marvelous creature composes important memories?

Why are you working so hard my Muse?
Our stand-in event, is passive,
    Try to understand.
Please come, under love.
Then he said, "Depression, about such bitter abuse".
    I think he follows a vintage laugh.

Don't jealous boy, destroy my new feeling.
Try a life-like vintage body,
    arrange both for you upon glass.
Reach aesthetic cleanliness,
Were they dirty?
    Water, then is time.
Is life mean? Color your studio,
Women storm over diversity.
    We take praise.

Water is the bed.
My kiss plays music, gives no delusions.
    Through my ear she goes, through our metaphor of life.
Health from raging higher,
    gives me a red smear, before a blue party,
Passive air, shows and alleviates childhood.

Keys to give more worth,
    see whose side is straight and deep.
The mind is like some edge.

Always draw your delusions with color,
They have shame.


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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