Tuesday, January 12, 2021

Song of 81 Poems - LXII

 


I won't stick around.
    She erred, picked an aggressive act,
        too venomous to enjoy.

Asking if guilt is abuse.
   she said I''m always fed up.'
      Sincerely said some thing,
         about a giveaway head competition.
For absurd as it sounds,
  we saw in front of the edge.

Enervate delight.
Sculptures don't mind.
  Glitter, if so, grip it.

Trust clever strength about the yard. 
    Man you can hide perfume.

Glory owed you money.
An ancient babbling sound, vaporized. 
   A palpable past of infinite idols,
      reaching for aesthetic cleanliness.

In all ways she spun a faithful breath instrument.
My happy angel broke past
   the life she formed.

I never said you are dead,
Droll-natured neighbor.
Leave blunt creativity there,
    Surreal courage glitters incarnate.

Sucker, celebrate dirty vulture breath or puke.
    A living solution's better than money.
 I'm Death. 
    Imagine sodden, trotting cuddles.
       Manipulate, empower, then delight.

Sculpt angels under observation,
   Play then work.
Let's share the dance - a symbol of space,
   to make some other place calm.
A night of motion, lost energy.

Until then I questioned,
   tried to play mellifluously.
My daughter wrote, "Dazzle, cook . ."

I'll suffer peace at dusk.



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

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