Gulag hands haven’t hurt her.
Our master, please, model always above, see romance.
Look sharp, on Crete a mother of film wants luscious delusions.
Come, you and I . . .
Get how a baby's green harmony,
This mare above him, was caught.
Smother us in a black limpid experiment.
Joy is about canvas, young-headed, sleep.
Joy is about canvas, young-headed, sleep.
My mate, such a wild chant is Music.
Heal, have control over us! Patience!
No time to tell about more glorious endeavors.
If Time could think . . . our anger would have every faithful share.
Balance, cuddle with empty color. Did you die?
Shimmer about rain,
Start weak sweet Daughter, choose your subject.
A fire-eye filled in light, symbols I see, offer unity,
They wasted my other canvas.
Film my aesthetic, you can use it 'till he creeps around babbling.
Choose an old soft ritual about fresh life.
Model, play your companion hard -here howls a beautiful language,
A liar's metal instrument, is totally afraid.
May you please comfort us, you won't cover all love!
Seek your last thought in Beauty
All motion starts me questioning . . .
Sculpt Angel, fill a glorious missive . . .
March 1, 2012 w/ Kerri Taylor, 3, 4, 4-2, 5
March 1, 2012 w/ Kerri Taylor, 3, 4, 4-2, 5
The Muse Poems:
