Song of 81 Poems, XX

Infant angel, empty the gate, with sound.

See in front of you, your absurd risks,
    dazzled by a silent crowd.

Process drunk opinions like money at death,
    ages ripped by an urchin's impression.
    Sweet problems make a life in strokes.

I wish life could clean out your absurd time.
   This will reach you . . .
Approach, through your studio.

Demand a fresh new deal.
Tap death, a dry drink.
   Freedom himself, wears a scratch gown.

I may ask them Father, if the period is up.
   To intimately see and discover.

She thinks about an opening.
Tries always to have the open idea,
   a chameleon who guts earth.

Since bad aesthetics surface in gravity.

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