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Saturday, July 27, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXXI




Nine, mellifluous silhouettes asked:
   "A sharp, from G?

"Lie to her wife. Act angry,
Summer comes but if we cared,
Hypocritical losses would part ways.
   Get her to see you leaning,
   an impression.
   Share about our sleep.
   Eat and talk emotion.
There is mind . . . "

Baby I create music.
I'm a genie, there are paragon effects,
   we faithful captured an original symbol,
      reversed the self upon air,
      what still music is.

Like we care'd about cunning trouble.
How capture cramps this life as communication.
Sweet dishes give Death a chameleon.
Who thinks no sand men come?

Still, passionate Gloria's picture paint is stuck.
   Why? Some worry.
So let's write a wry, mean joke. Confront the hard part.
The studios don't impress like this.
   From silhouetted songs, music has joy.

If blonde drugs trash you, suffer glorious passion.
Clever sense must endeavor to make an electric picture.
   Grass, no denial, . . .
   Respect, no peeking.
   Smokey laughter is so good!
Beside his home, soon dark despair will laugh, famously.
Become astounded if they reach behind the vintage act.

Don't sculpt hence reach, and seek us until,
   the sea acts, destroys a surreal subject.
Paints a rhythm, up, then down
Forbidden wenches happen to lie on graceful aesthetics,
   then weaken our love.
Stop the solution is here.
More to my godson, Nekrasov, a party animal,
    he's sleepy, gives night thought.

Draw, sculpt your husband!
Grandchildren would trash and capture a mad thought,
   a strength which stops communication.
Which struggles are praise?
Only simple morphine, a fake instrument, you heard
   I have her city, willing.
The way in is you little Sister.

Curious from grand hair,
   high upon their silent energy.
This is the crazy passion about drugs.

Is this how we verse of Moon?
   Tossed together, the monstrous scandal giggles, to satisfy.
Model our star of strength.
Observe, we speak of her money jungle.
   How to improve?
Take up patience!
No time to tell how you howl.
   Soft, faithful drudgery is no threat.
About smoke, use it,
   to guard her instrument

Our anger would smear a wasted earth.
The dish must represent a better faithful depth.
Under a shy bag.
Sin, and Gut are one, as I influence communication.

“I weld men." So start a sculpture.
   How willing is my Muse?


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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