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Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXV

Always troubling, of all colors,
   peace on earth, and now you trot up.
Some new styled glasses are better.

Our brother chose ageless sin.
Her instrument was sleep,
   a cheap whore's malignant silence.

By your Aryan god
   glory demands an open thought.
See on Crete a Herculean leader.
Munificent friend, cunning Beauty!
   Press your disorder!
Deep grace must cease your dull rhythm.
We are why we created a psychedelic husband around her,
   not only to draw her babe-like body.
See your face? Catch only a deuce?

See on Crete, nights present song,
Your passion in sleep, for watching, captures surfaces.
   Individually, he has clever respect.
She could appear, to hide his hurt.
Opaque paints make a muscle.
   Hard thin language cries and you dust your electric model.

Come, I thought he crept around, babbling,
We'll scale metal, doing looms from mess.
   Could I borrow a sequence like color?

It is real, discovered thought in a border line.
No anger to share with art, gives skirts a body.
   We chat of our glorious married daughter.
My perfect sister, "Come fill my wild dates,
   it shows in you a sad Mother.'
Laugh when in such a worry."

"When did you want your psychedelic review?"
Two ugly beasts of an original high . . .
   Grand Sir, first that grip would need . . .
Here howls a beautiful language,
   to perform her situation in joyful anguish.
Could obtuse enormous pressures sing our differences?

Has he hurt her? Grass can go on.
I'd risk mad curious will, to see you improve.
   Study. Investigate.
Must her money switch weak effects?
Why complain? Just that we'd join you.
   Imagine, he cooked a real canvas.

Model, I've a database.
And indeed today pain was mouthed, a very crass impulse.
   Anger's some key to a beautiful faithful breath instrument.
I'm for tantric teaching.
Jokers said, "But are you having clues?”
   I must thank-you Father.

Whatever ugly monster bird keeps dancing,
It felt us too far, has breakfast,
   smokes, roll a masterpiece.

What a girl feels, when she gives to your trance,
Such a wild chant is music,
   Mother Rock, how we'll miss you.
Puny companion chisel me, sculpt fresh.
What shimmers an impression?
   Base differences block mellifluous song through raw touch.

Know every impulse,
   throw nude with chocolate.
Perform shyly for a week, please sense our red passion.
A faithful husband married me, a grander King!
She sings many songs.
   Her body is so calm.

Clean sex and fast romance loves this life and not society,
Empower, think, and become Music!
   Forget my blue dead street.

God knows our dance will end less bitter.
Some think she only makes you kiss.

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

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXIV

Make a question around
   my cute Father . . .
He tries to have an open idea.

Think through dreams,
Believe the old verbose, obsequious crass howl,
   invested in a God.
Capture, use the full opportunity.
Stand, I am for tantra,
   imagine a beautiful feeling . . .

Aesthetics sculpt passion,
I went to see on Crete a storm.
   Walked there, perfect sleep in sculpture.
Angry high drunk on life dust,
I could paint, find more sugar,
   over some absurd instrument.

Give your companion over to some subject,
Night energy, thought of as pressure,
   a share in our pride-hearted system,
Silhouettes are free on Friday,
More guilt, an animal is banned,
   for glass body communication.

Obsequious strength investigates a sweet sister.
Seen out from a night ritual.
   Never together under passion.
His garb must stink.
Though they deal death, be here.
   Must you doctor him with dust?

Start, see if in all this fun, she'll help our tune,
Seek your master, please avoid grace,
   so destroy your pride,
Grip on! Would it be tearful if I made a man money?
What psychedelic is found in art?
   Stand banal ideas, trash bad wood.

Play your companion hard.
That time which appears,
   empowers fashions, sees, knows me.
   First memory gives, never shimmers, or rages,
Let her draw her companion's will.
Believe Brother, I was caught. She racked hot use.

I hear them and us, and they are being eerie.
The Doctor has a studio, aware like a blind man.
   Finger him - it won’t take an ugly score.

What dust of process languished, since a glorious angel said,
   "A bad song over, I'm all gone."
My God, we never numbed her language!
The reasons why life should appear, young babe,
   demands when we make deep sky.
Respect painted art.

Hindustan, my arty tea, you menstruate, lie and wish.
Glitter, more balance will free,
   and make important our brain fight.
In all ways she spun, olive fateful sunstroke.
We could have found sleep about space,
   Dull him, of Earth!
Don't give in Brother! Follow me through grace.
Marry, a serious chocolate King,
   Observe a mind of spirit, and endeavor.

Silhouettes are energy. Feel empty and cuddle,
A degenerate show festoons,
   as a doctor affects some still language.
I am troubled by your space, how empty.

Stranger, you are the smoke in their inclusive life.
   Rage's finest day, is sky.

Animal captures from time, obsessive masterpieces.
Mother, make our cooking feel free
   Brother, marry a softer secret night.
I will communicate,
Cunning palace dances when faced in . . .
   Mother never abuses.

She takes my canvas, my mortar,
   to make some nerve with will.

Lets create.

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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