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Sunday, July 14, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXVIII

"I'd attack his space and confront thy wench."
Think of pressure to give dates."
    A fit husband plays rank.

Down around her, oh we've wrecked this . . .
Composed in passion, whose studio is a super space.
   Dazzled more to suffer less opinion.
Please imagine our itch.
We observed your harmony here,
   done, like he needs a borderline film.

Oh why must we then manipulate?
   Find more sugar over some absurd instrument?
Dry rhythms mount trouble, I never could care.
He caught some bird laughing from chocolate and smoke.
   Never will I manipulate.
Can Mother's dish diagnose, which of us have nerve?

I'm jealous, absurd,
     less time up to share money and sculpt.
Oh master, please model all of us, as time pressures red paint.
I'm impressed. Kiss water, and give me tea.
Flow is harmony,
   Kate, on your next day home,

Could the old gal’s manic sculptures empty the sounds you just spoke?
Why? I am fashion. Start.Must peace, so young, paint dirty?
   Avoid negative, high art.
Neither use the young or sleep to avoid my inner form.
Give best effect. Did we care, trust?
   He'll have flown.
Do give our cast, retribution.
Respect the fast, I mean it.
   All the Muses, I see know KR.

Let her use and handle the brush.
I have an insane mother!
   Crass anger, this obsequious kid, won't sculpt me.
Who can face character? Miss, I'm about his studio.
Serious art, a rainbow-black system,
   which lets a red body perform balance.
Man I parlay, all's in pain.
   But we are like cats. . .
You won't cover all children.

Not many have love.
   See your sins apace.
Come in. You and I will teach her the Muse,
I see you Mark, take new health,
Slither, dirty scab, here's an original wall to worry.
   Girl, I see your despair.

Our rush to win chooses,
Tropical, can we find dance?
   I can suffer, try to be a girl.
Man, you do serve some fast rump . . . mellifluous . . .
How some good parts fill Mother Time,
   or stop, or have resentment, like a wild fresh solution.

Communicate intimacy,
   alleviate pain to calm a nice solution.
Chisel beauty in music.
Sky appears like home,
worried men discover about ritual,
  while gold runs back to strength by earth.

Her identity mentions no black:
My angel said:
   "Some memory thing will reverse our number."

Learn me soft sister. Talk memories.

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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