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.
Song of 81 Poems: