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Thursday, January 14, 2016

Song of 81 Poems - XXXVIII




True Celts, four teens now
  understand your absurd innocent wife.
Her choices slaved Gulag hands.
She heard about your lame dead Father,
    blue sculptures read as songs of anguish.

I feel her doom obsessed,
  a happy sense stops me.
So go to where dead skulls appear,
  and think, Queen Daughter,
    start inclusively, to capture on canvas.
pictures above thought,
    the freedom to paint impulsively, for a show.

"Drug my brain!"
  I may ask them for their Mom,
    if we could hear picture originals
    start to discover music,
A share in pride,
    would someday impose a rigid problem,

Guilt spaces every bitter advantage.
    avoid this enormous sibling head
Bold father, his garb must stink.
Suffer raw pain, flavorless sanity.
    in pulses, hence beauty is balanced.
  We  know our Sun God,
    Sculpt him blind.

She has the last demand,
    for psychedelics found in art.
Perfect sister see the silhouettes
    of sounds you just spoke.
Know, understand,
  Learn inclusively our dark earth.

Try to impress her!
Weren't they too bold
    to believe we can't pull.
Her faithful brains, raw partner,
  saw her stroke best.

Mister please think I present often
   a lead from above.
    Do you hurt?
Would a special Rainbow wish to beat her?
    See in front thoughts through a curious ear.

I cannot begin, these unknowns,
Varlam and Vsevolood, were mad,
   yet they performed fast and dry.
They ate the original spirit of love.
   at breakfast.
Along came opaque sanguine sleep.

Were they too bold to presume
   improvements through blue?
"Sensei, Brother . .
"Society owes me a beautiful fetus."

I need to see who you are
  as emotion makes important, a very crass impulse,
    a degenerate show.

Might I call nature sweet?
It's alive, the vaginal pink masterpiece.
Our stand-in event is passive,
  much I made thrives better
  when instruments have a new voice.

Try to flavor an unknown kindness.
  We still believe in sky,
   in a dark chocolate howl.

Chat, dress nude, intimacy,
  to try a life-like vintage body,
Together there's gold,
    the tedious weasel's secret measure
    gives past communication.

Partly green, cooking is better,
   if children grip society.

Mom, hard characters never lose.
Please sense in our red passion,
  my art river.
He and she are chanting face to body.
They want to see on Crete, shame and psychedelic passion.
"Chant" she would say,
    "I'll believe it when smoke calls."

Stay the experiment,
as you improve know her thoughts.
    "The fool's got class!" . . .
If they attack they can't hate her.

Did you die?



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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