Aug 2019
In the sibilant
Sound of dark and tainted painted sky
In back, murmurs jousting with themselves in the prying eye
The horror of the malleable man in the unyielding indigo cued
Indifferent to the blue, of the youthful red earth, that are our foes shed clued
Bled on the midsummer's numinous blue, mouth to the mouth that beds at the midnight, **** killing people in the hue oft' clueless again
Often, o'er in o'er in my murmur, someone else writes the remembrances in newspapers, purposes in the promise
This other punishment is daft and promising, promising promiscuous scions on starry minutes of miniature minimalistic wary of the remanded the ****** of the ornate jazz saxophone in an acolyte, and I say that many of them said they what's up
Remember, the ****** emanating witless and tesla innovations, isomers of electric molecules chutzpah oboe
Transcendence, slowly slip in the round mines around the aphrodisiac powerful sadness, held in the wild microphones mating in the free utilitarian economy playing in jazz bands in lines
Silence, in the lines of the musical ears, held their hazelnuts and chewed up the muzak, and spilled more music from their ferries
Down and out, lungs bell, the water smelled like beer, and beer poetry kept me at the break of dawn, when the snorers find dilapidated in missionary fixes, and affixing the dawn once again paddling themselves to the shore,
Then they went, time aged shushing us at the break of shining dawn crummy, ******* and rapscallions hushing the crowd
Dour, ****** plastered ceiling, and antediluvian, dormant
Barking Doolittle, amen to the lord's shadowy wretch
The dogs run out, on the charming the neighborhood with its afternoon
Change in the staid small things, we say
We starry loud dynamo, cloudless climes, do you know that we are short-handed on the stars
But, we can count them in the near future, when they die by the Butch Cassady run on the money, and the Will Durant books
Lie over on the oven in the sonny, listen to that roe often
One and one, no brown eyes left
And no blue eyes left us in rueful dark
Its afternoon, Wednesday and yesterday run, in the sun, bleeding brighter than the stars. saving us from the darkness
Pushing us into the light of a thousand roman wunderkind, kindred spirit in the life of the
Larks that sing in the stile on the stolid, so remember us in this jasmine from the World without words, so it's blue
What's up to blue, excuse me while I kiss the sky?
What's up to?
What's for the run?
What's a fine and rib-tickling poem?
I hate these things
What's right and wrong, and this is forfeiting the captain's joke, and jocular nature, as we survived the time we lost Detroit dreaming up Arkansas, dreaming of you in a different wilting hand, it's on my head
And sinful romance lends your hand to the crime
It's punishing, that you have left us without a starry place not talking of the pejorative
Sound of dark and tainted painted sky
In back, murmurs jousting with themselves in the prying eye
The horror of the malleable man in the unyielding indigo cued
Indifferent to the blue, of the youthful red earth, that are our foes shed clued
Bled on the midsummer's numinous blue, mouth to the mouth that beds at the midnight, **** killing people in the hue oft' clueless again
Often, o'er in o'er in my murmur, someone else writes the remembrances in newspapers, purposes in the promise
This other punishment is daft and promising, promising promiscuous scions on starry minutes of miniature minimalistic wary of the remanded the ****** of the ornate jazz saxophone in an acolyte, and I say that many of them said they what's up
Remember, the ****** emanating witless and tesla innovations, isomers of electric molecules chutzpah oboe
Transcendence, slowly slip in the round mines around the aphrodisiac powerful sadness, held in the wild microphones mating in the free utilitarian economy playing in jazz bands in lines
Silence, in the lines of the musical ears, held their hazelnuts and chewed up the muzak, and spilled more music from their ferries
Down and out, lungs bell, the water smelled like beer, and beer poetry kept me at the break of dawn, when the snorers find dilapidated in missionary fixes, and affixing the dawn once again paddling themselves to the shore,
Then they went, time aged shushing us at the break of shining dawn crummy, ******* and rapscallions hushing the crowd
Dour, ****** plastered ceiling, and antediluvian, dormant
Barking Doolittle, amen to the lord's shadowy wretch
The dogs run out, on the charming the neighborhood with its afternoon
Change in the staid small things, we say
We starry loud dynamo, cloudless climes, do you know that we are short-handed on the stars
But, we can count them in the near future, when they die by the Butch Cassady run on the money, and the Will Durant books
Lie over on the oven in the sonny, listen to that roe often
One and one, no brown eyes left
And no blue eyes left us in rueful dark
Its afternoon, Wednesday and yesterday run, in the sun, bleeding brighter than the stars. saving us from the darkness
Pushing us into the light of a thousand roman wunderkind, kindred spirit in the life of the
Larks that sing in the stile on the stolid, so remember us in this jasmine from the World without words, so it's blue
What's up to blue, excuse me while I kiss the sky?
What's up to?
What's for the run?
What's a fine and rib-tickling poem?
I hate these things
What's right and wrong, and this is forfeiting the captain's joke, and jocular nature, as we survived the time we lost Detroit dreaming up Arkansas, dreaming of you in a different wilting hand, it's on my head
And sinful romance lends your hand to the crime
It's punishing, that you have left us without a starry place not talking of the pejorative
