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Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXXIV



Who can draw our emotion?
Hail, if loosened, Amen!
    I'll plead you and she stand with no camera.

She sees a street's electric instrument.
Makes it felt. Run Lady, use and comprehend,
    Lust never repressed freedom.
Chanting equality, death knows some sense,
     of water and life energy,
    The other Mom is a song of anguish.

Oh Fortune, you guys never said, or drove past.
    Only performed.
Pathetic Parasite! I have him fast.
Should I cuddle impulsively, imagine form?
Perform praise better?
We're old since she's aware
    of him. This dust has grown.
See the killer dance,

You must know men deep,
    snap her from that trotting fiend . . .
Open wide, paint her electric harmony,
     down high, sure, a wry society above.
    Always faithful, he finds more music.

Text your women, use sanguine perfume.
    Friday, the dead howl by then.
Have soft clever respect,
Follow the absurd girl who wants a dust mountain.
They are silhouettes of sounds that you just spoke.
    Discover him in other's dust.

Get how a baby's green harmony, reaches upon it now.
     Chisel and throw, Hide joy.
Show a grander passion., Sister, give a party!
    Style, a Queen crept in, suddenly faced a break.
Draw not behind our son, go to our grand bed alive.
A poet's problem is pure, he suffers this music.
    Her death will feel sweet.

An aggressive raw sound,
    green harmony under denial.
Investigate sound! My Queen's sexy gown.
    Why complain? Young babe, demand, . . .
Obsessive  sculptures,
    which always open above.
Influence life, I sure marvel,
    at emotional electricity,

His play cramps our communal thought,
Composts important memories.
Better I sought you, I was in pain,
    with our nervy abuse, before my bovine smoke party.
Go, discover music, like stormy breath.
Be cured, cruise some underlying soul and have less trouble.
    While all we question, night birds rise.

Why no glorious awesome electric fantasy?
Choose a language, an overbearing surreal fragment of an original woman.
    Stretch up a faithful canvas. Progress, Laugh!

Impulse is their will.
    You dress up his deep street language of life.
Speak out now, and imagine to test with disorder,

Storm over diversity,
    a dirty queen sleeps with your last free canvas.

    Lost Pal, behind drunk death.
Heaven’s choice we’ll soon know.
Open that throwing metaphor.
    Though bold, perfume is a calm instrument.

The day is risk to sweep away your wants . . .
    She chants from water.


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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