In New York In the Bronx There was a street fighting Punk rocker of a young men Who was attracted And eyed An female martial artist No older Nor younger than him When she was walking home she Noticed him Not afraid She approached him And took his hand And the two went into an Alley where they make out When they kissed The street punk Soon realized That he was in something he never Knew existed In love Her as well.
Love is strange One in the remote mountains Lived an a evil Tibetan Lama Who was exiled from The monastery For practicing Tantric necromancy So he can bring His lover A younger woman Still a girl Who died a year ago The he practiced Buddhism And his evil ways Until he started Vision being back With his lover She came back Body mind and spirit When the Lama Saw her at the door way He heart rejoiced And he was both Enlightened and fall Back in love. She was as beautiful As the day he met her After hearing her sweet voice They kissed Their tounges meet and dance The Lama god between his Undead lover’s legs They coupled Tenderly and passionately So he wouldn’t hurt her. For he did not want to hurt her Or break His heart again.
A garden planted at the height of spring, Growing aching for sunlight, The sun blesses the crops, The farmer harvests, The world goes round, And society sits, Forgetting the arts that fed them so well, Now being reduced to babes being bottle fed.
What a dream of writers, Upon its grand galore? Lifting hands upon Poe, To ask forever more? An Ernest near his sea, Of Dante’s own heaven. Fun to see Angelou, With The loved Whitman be. My dear Plath of saving, Nestled on her pillows. So pleased to see the Frost, Odd this time of willows. Pleased my own time of miles, A spirit dream of Niles.
The artist knows how to play a poor hand well. In utter style, causing envy. On rainbow edge. Knowing truth beyond illusion. The surface mingles along painting colours, wishing it would drop and fall over this earth's surface. Moan and sigh. Existing art, modern magic. (knowledge Variable)