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Friday, July 19, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXIX

When that girl-gal robs all nature's thought,
 See on Crete, night songs.

Glorious, no community.
Emotional, a fiery surreal companion will lust for a fool,
   accustomed to save his strength.

Live bold and laugh.
   I share my songs, PM smokes,
You can all think and see an experiment -
   Life's electric daughter is around you.

Who wants this?
   A street not only draws, you drive it,
Play, a silhouette will come to you.
   So start sister, speak out, laughter can heal too.
Up and back, who wants up? Down?
   Which, is absurd trash.
Sin sees from a period, I dated the original leader.
   Her money, that canvas,
   Yelled as I sculpt society.

I painted a finger-like metaphor.
An innocent experiment above dazzles,
   Imagines our colors programmed.
He would then chant romance. "East!"
He said it after.

"Brother, marry one secret night!
   "Choose an old soft ritual."
"See romance! Look sharp, win at dice."
After beauty, my greatest curses kiss
   when the No's have space.

Until non-passion would you love,
   a dysfunctional right? Have some impression.
Discover peace, so please, try to sing.
Brother! Empty your sister's howl.
   Did we care, trust?
He takes my sloth, not to juggle, or feel ample.
   Your mama bears with us, their opaque secret.

To model a kid's silhouette literally look.
Mark, a liar's metal instrument,
   twinkled, wryly caught childhood delusions.
   We'll trust and share like you.
Carve space. Forget my summer night.
May you please, joyously, be able to give freedom.
   Observe, and crowd a wry Earth.

We must hurry, see into a secret sin,
   be able to nimbly navigate through the open obsessive work.
Create your  home, how can I run?
Should the monkey have come?

How will you go? I see an old expert.
   "Miss Ivy!" "Expert!" I meant.
From which lagoon is the rainbow serpent from?
Manipulate money through red and violet.
   Learn, feel, cry, to borrow raw.
   Will a way out.

What deep society is under my storm:
   I'll present psychedelic peace at dusk,
      hence never attach a watery silhouette of sound . . .
I'm sure this missive could use high praise,
We deserve the effect of a past sex angel.
   to investigate the obtuse ugly canvas phobia.
The mind is good in bed.

   Important music has grown full.
Young sculptures give life a sugar laugh.
Painful, because your style said,
   "Man they never suffer passively."
To my ugly shards,
    Cold cooking runs back to ground,
Suffer to think jokes.

A blind missive hears when metal
   can almost be our music.
So clot, feel mouth, butt, stale,
   but when despair gets you down,

Air feels empty.

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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