Sunday, January 17, 2021

Song of 81 Poems - LXIX




If blondes and drugs trash,
   you suffer.

Glorious passion, clever bits,
   make the electric picture.
Grass, without denial, respect, no peeking.
   Smoke upstairs is so good.

Beside his home, his son, dark, desperate.
    Famous, he was astounded, 
    He reached the vintage act.

Don't sculpt, reach. Seek us until
   the sea destroys your surreal subject.

Paint the rhythm, up, then down,
    forbidden watchers lie about.

Graceful aesthetics weaken love.
    stop, the solution is here.
More to my godson, Nekrasov.
A party animal,
    he's sleepy, he's right though.

Draw, sculpt your husband.
Grandchildren trash and capture mad thoughts,
   strengths stop communication.
Whose struggles are praise?
Only simple morphine, 
   Fake instruments are heard.
   I have her city, willing.

The way in is you little Sister,
    Curious from grand hair, 
    She is high on silent energy.
This is the hazy passion of drugs.

How to improve?  Take up patience!
No time to tell you to howl.
   Soft, faithful drudgery is no threat.
   About smoke, use it to guard her insulin.

Anger smears a wasted earth, 
His dish a batter, faithful at depth,
    cowered under a shy bag.

“I weld men." 
 So start sculpting.
   How willing is my Muse?


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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