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,
   the cheapest 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 cry, we created a psychedelic husband around her,
    Naughtily to draw her babe-like body.
See your face? Catch only a deuce?

See on Crete, how nights present song,
Your passion in sleep, for watching, captured surfaces.
   Individually, he offered 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,

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

"When did you want your psychedelic review?"
   Two ugly beasts of an original high . . .
   Grand Sir, first that grip would need . . .
Howl for us a beautiful language,
   perform a situation in joyful anguish.



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



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,
    so 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.



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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