Song of 81 Poems, XXXIV

Who draws our emotion?
Hail, if loosened, Amen!
    I'll plead to you 

    as she stand with no camera.

She sees a street's electric instrument.
    makes it of felt. 

Run Lady, use and comprehend,
    Lust never repressed freedom.
Chanting equality, death knows some sense,
     water and life energy,
    The other Mom is a song of anguish.

Oh Fortune, you guys never said, 

    or drove past.
    Only performed.
Pathetic Parasite! I have him fast.
Should I cuddle impulsively, imagine form?
Perform praise better?
We're old since she's aware
    of him. This dust has grown.
See the killer dance,

You must know men deep,
    snap her from that trotting fiend . . .
Open wide, paint her electric harmony,
     down high, sure, a wry society above.
    Always faithful, he finds more music.

Text your women your sanguine perfume.
    Friday, the dead will howl by then.
Have soft clever respect,
Follow the absurd girl who wants a dust mountain.
They are silhouettes of sounds you just spoke.
    Discover him in other's dust.

Get how the babe's green harmony, reaches.
     Now chisel and throw, hide joy.

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 38 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

Song of 81 Poems, XXXII

Tea makes spirits too rich to follow,
Cunning lunatic, I'll come to you,
   to start your body blossoming.

Start weekly, sweet daughter you must choose,
Discover the thread of memories.
   This will reach you, for my mind is in heaven.

Imagine there, absurd passions,
   influencing her watery luscious memories.

Sanguine Friday is here.
Blue maid, psychedelics for a studio head,
   He has no green to hold her, chocolate.
So guts earth?
If to compose form,
   questions are under way, more damage, oh dear.
Sanity makes a scratch part - the key is glorious women's praise.

You did dance surreal, neurotic,
Hence water lost her sanguine will,
   from damaged smoke.
That animal I saw nailed me, and oh I'm sure,
   will do some manic canvas.
He models Mama,
   Come here, I'm all about bed work.

They lost some part.

Song of 81 Poems:

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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 38 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

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, the studio is a super space.

   Dazzle more to suffer less opinions.

Please imagine our itch.

We observed your harmony here,

   done, like you need 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 serve me tea.

Song of 81 Poems:

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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 38 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

Song of 81 Poems, XXVII

"What are you on boy?
Dead beings act through night energy"
    Maybe all that talk's behind them
Harmony cured our children.
    The greater psychic Delphic husband,
        was before his time.
Confront her and soar with no guilt.

Witch, if we make a star, hold fast!
    Time will choose the cruising dude,
To the be the sweet guile of his sister.
Peace with music knows no damage.

"She's all." The rub? "Say I resented this writing,
    Emotional sex about our sleep."
Make psychedelic through time and power.
    I could learn a color language.
Angry summer competitors need a slimy,
    curvy and emotional snake.

"Know", Mother sat down and fell out,
     a glorious sanguine end.
"Temper your dysfunctional companion. Always scream ''."
    "Try our instrument work."

Need we end this dazzle?
I see a need can please me, an awesome praise.
    I won't observe death, so alleviate my sweet anger.
How mean with junk, take our old cigarettes in break.
Was empty made to sculpt facts in some way?
    Clever character! The finger, must take thee.

Sculpt him blind.
Fiery mother don’t let yourself fill our wild sky.
   Be all, Let us dance here.
I am smoke, all these words are silhouettes,
Crushed, he breaks a new bad song over it all.
    Come, I sense bed music.

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 38 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

Song of 81 Poems, XXV

Always troubling, of all colors,
   peace on earth, and now you trot up.
Some new styled glasses are better.

Our brother chose ageless sin.
Her instrument was sleep,
   the cheapest malignant silence.

By your Aryan god
   glory demands an open thought.
See on Crete a Herculean leader.
Munificent friend, cunning Beauty!
   Press your disorder!

Deep grace must cease your dull rhythm.
We cry, we created a psychedelic husband around her,
    Naughtily to draw her babe-like body.
See your face? Catch only a deuce?

See on Crete, how nights present song,
Your passion in sleep, for watching, captured surfaces.
   Individually, he offered respect.
She could appear, to hide his hurt.

Opaque paints make a muscle.
   Hard thin language cries and you dust your electric model.
Come, I thought he crept around, babbling,

It is real, discovered thought in a border line.
No anger to share with art, it gives skirts body.
   We chat of our glorious married daughter.
Perfect sister, "Come fill my wild dates,
   it shows in you a sad Mother.

"When did you want your psychedelic review?"
   Two ugly beasts of an original high . . .
   Grand Sir, first that grip would need . . .
Howl for us a beautiful language,
   perform a situation in joyful anguish.

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 38 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

Song of 81 Poems, XXIV

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,
    so 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.

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 38 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

What Tremor

What shake
what tremor,
comes after me
at night,
turning through
a dark cavern
just behind you too.

one voice away,
nearly the moment,
not quite.

who are you?

holding all my echoes
my dreams
my memories
my fears.

are you solid?
a mass of vertical rock
rising skyward
without a top?

or are you are an abyss
plunging down
without a bottom.

what are you?

are you there, or here?
or standing,
just behind?