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Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Song of 81 Poems, XXX

They put paint on her, got burned
     since she's all electric.
Sister, fly here. Take your spotted slug,
     see on Crete a favorite rhythm.

     Sex discovered a milky picture.
April balanced to create individual music.
The Self, her absurd dirty little sleep, appears free.
     Days to damage mad sculptures, electric instruments on her babe-like body.
Gives that passion, and manipulates her party need.

     My fear relates how a dirty canvas comes.
Do your representation of art.
How darkly we observed life, though we chose a deep laugh, not fire.
     They wanted a horny bed of empty mouths.
Respect us - we feel who chose.
     Freely, they timed our faithful performing arms
     live up to sound.
We hash freedom about death

A fresh life on Crete,
     Mother of film wants luscious delusions.
     For sure she will.
Henceforth, her husband, an angel, would hedge our bets.
Letters, like silent patients,
     a curious turgid festoon tells a subject's trouble.
Every pithy surface, does chant over her angry story.
Think, walk, a favorite idea is stuck.
     Have her. A man feasted on deadly stew.

     Come heal, stand pressure, then be young,
Beyond night, I have a meeting.
Memoirs met, we are totally afraid.
I crept a white street, skirting anger.
     If silhouettes are important, heaven must perform.
Comfort us.
See in us a Greek Queen I knew.
     At best, I see all, therein lies our way.

Esteemed fellow come hither.
A rude girl-faced serpent in a daze?
     Men beat, her. "Heart care actors!"
I see you all would enjoy sublime pleasure.
Rascal, have better fantasies, get off my mind, delight in anger.
     See me paint under a repressed peace.
Take this perfume marvelous blossom,
     Forget him!
Process a way to beguile rhythm.

"Who could not investigate death?"
You said above your studio, we represent your wife.
     If time could think in time, he lies.
His every joy will glitter jungle emotion.
Afraid of self, "Only after sin, some touch society.
     You gave sugar, but dust won't hold bad money."

We present an ugly shard,
The elf paints when the performer appears.
     Cunning, so she stuck there. Duh . . .
Way down, then chisel your grip!

     Cut him on the rock.

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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