Guts

Cowboy Poetry

Alkali bones register apparitions;
Guilt of wearing man
Destines love to failure.

I made western life peaceful:
I ran to the affronted woman
And dreaded the empire found

In my moment of restraint.



Silk Sheets

Opera and jazz pour forth from
Tiny speakers.

The day is passing as usual.

God and Man; death and love

Work the continent.

I relax and settle with a
Trashy check.





Bud

Glow gently this evening;
Masquerade the face of your
Land:  (Which is a thought of Pasts.)

I gave this reason for a rope:
There is a natural belonging
As a casket.



Doubt

Will you be my spouse?
Will you lend me your being?

May I dream of pain?
Is there another reason to softly borrow

Caves that dream of sampled annals?

I lend you my work with openness:
Delete the manner by which

I fetched rain.
(Through icy ladders to my factory)





Self-entertainment:

I dildo the modern laughter;
I leave weft with warp.

A saga narrows combs with
The fat manor I have blown as.



I lend man reputation
And he returns
Money.

Fuck (F**k)
That.

Why my words fall short of poetry

Numb nut bores my actions.
I can not weather this loss.

Raven watches without guard.

I act my lurid past;
I lack a golden loss.

My reasons for work are to be

Teach Law My Rights.


Poems work when they give you softness;
They fail when they make you a lace pocket.

Trash deals itself matches.

I cannot grieve you because you were
Effortless.

Data marks itself with golden art.




Bobby made his friends change themselves
Possible.

I cannot deal with a moment of caskets.

Laughter resembles itself in its golden roster.

I do not start this with a hope of life.
I do not begin my reason with gliding
Raymond Christs.

Illness springs from blasted clowns.



Momentarily, the entrance of rye
Guilts the only mess.

I gave you a place for drugs because
I was a moment of many dry lakes.




Arizona markings deal stamens
Loud golden feelings
Without knowing their own
Loose plaster.

I dread my looks.

Sapphire is no one's moment.
I am bored with these needed cases.

I shared what I know because there was no one who was right for my patches




Foulness

Mostly hash cold nests
Look with planted face.






I have full freedom to print these several words
As if I have written them by means of an art.

There is cruelty because my art does not make
Me glow.

I safely reside in a land where being strong is
Told by my past.

I caved where I knew love is right for shining.




Don't make me a Londoner.

Alluring Naked Nonentity

With all the power I possess, I believe that reason and happiness are strong.  Further, I attest that law and cancer die with the matches of my                        



Grief.




And now, I return to the empire of the apple.



Moments of fracture:

I delight in a manly fancy:  I can be roman for the glowing stripling or my own lace drama.

Sassy for the right lantern.

I remember when there was a hope for thinking of people as laminated with etches failing of gifts.

And bodies remember anger because there was death in the pain I lost.

Pain was okay to answer.  Pain was death of larch.

Guilt:  Underlying:  I never saw estrogen as a fact.  It was to me the coldness of love.

I am resting this act in order to measure my lace.






Confession:  I am not writing anything that I can decipher.  This doesn't feel happy or good.  I am worried that there will be no leap toward comprehension.

Ask for laughter, get lunch.

How much pain? A bid for beasts.

I started next to myself when I bowed to orgasm as its limp cloud of openness.

Now I read strings dropping from the sky and strangling my anger to be womanly.

Catch this -- the night reasons with itself over my life as I make myself Andrea.



Guilt fashions a reason to be my own rash answer to why I got this pain made.

As you worry about my things, I ask you, where were the people and where are the losses?

Let yourself be empire and I'll be rotary for the grain that you decide to make for your taste.



That is not my failure.  I am your gray thank you and your cruel lace.



Edward Mammy Rose the Leftist golden mother of laughter.

Sublimation of Aggression

The hammer hits the head of the nail so that the point pierces the molding which embellishes the ceiling like a bundt cake in plaster.

I would rather go outside and scythe through a field.
I don't have a scythe and it's hot out.

I would rather make friends and feel that I was  a groan baloney answer to pain.

I'm part English. 
I'm part Scottish.
I'm part Irish.
I'm part German.

Now all we need are Irish-German and Scottish-German wars and all will be well.

A thought:  Going like gangbusters on my life is turning out to be exhausting and fruitless.  I might as well go steal some cars or at least cheat on a financial aid form..
I think that needing to be slow because of the nanny (me)(my mother?)is being too afraid of pie(a)ce



Does anyone EVER just need to be strong enough to guide someone toward language?




I do not need language.  I have my body.  But as Chelsea made it clear to me, nonverbal language is basically violent:  solving disputes through punching others out.

I love my anger.  It resembles a way for me to stop making drugs for the troubled.

I would rather embrace someone with a good will toward them.

There is one knowledge, if you think that knowledge is a bitch.  But it's not

Man and rape are failing to be life.

I prefer to keep myself where there's answers.

Q:  Why anger yourself?
A:  To be intimidating.

Q:  What in your thoughts?
A:  A rude fast answer (moments of political heart.) = Stop the darkness from being a book.

Sylvia and I liked lurking -- I mean, I did.

The Ellen Show is over.  I am looking for the Nexium.  I haven't showered in multiple days.  My teeth need brushing.  I need to pick up six or seven bags of papers and organize them as well as books galore.

I am tired of changing boys into my roll.
I am Julia Murray; I give peace.

This is a look at chastity.

Dates.

The subject of

This brings up


Ihate narcs and laughter.

Antennae

Sh
a
p
sh
a
m
sh
a
la

Every loss of rain

I was fat.  Dense.  Troubled.
I am bored.  Dreaming of ashes.

Language no one is open to.

I remember being a nasty rock (let bosses give their nasty life to:  that's a family bog.)
A bog is something you get stuck in.

Laughing all the way to the race for loots.

Sag with your rack -- the knowledge of my interest is fake.




Land

I stride to the cave
Where there is marking
Of my Tastes in level moments.

Has there been a mess which is
Easy to like?

I gather the scraps of my accumulated documents:
Bills, receipts, notes, statements,
Their scope so minute and cruel that I
Am poor in the coldness of a cast out lump.

Elevation carries with it the nap I take:
Every day in the morning my sedative
And I reach out for love.

Werk

And when you allow hope to be a person, you don't have money.

I was lost in a poem.

Anger with pain equals fear of my own thoughts.

I think no one loves people without saying oceans glow at the laughter of a check.

Checks laugh.

I like doing many things.

I like working money with openness.  That means dealing with openness for its reasoning.

I like reasoning.

Death skips its own orgies.

I do not know why people do what they do.

I used to think I did.

As a child makes people remember peace,
I cannot live without my own will.

Many pagans are good.  I love them.

Today I give my own life to a monster of beauty:  life.





Go where you need to go.
Be who you need to be.

I thought I was reasonable about the creative mind.

I am thoughtless as a handshake.


Maybe you will enjoy the being of algorithms.



I have adjusted my reasonability to the rats, the mice, the cats, the (dice),
the women, the crazy, the organs, the loss.




An algorithmic writing


Bob made his green ham the love of my babies.
He snatched my right hand and made me cruel.

Lesbian and whole, rest is good.




A poem for my maker.

Thy reason is where thy life belongs.
Thy writings are where thy mind saves maps.

I draw upon your guests; I deal with my answer.
She knows her robe is of jargon.

I save you and give you paper.
Actress was a crock of projects.

Loudly I read and there is a people:
Daily I crave my own chastity.

Illness is the only reasonable way to write a sink.
Moment of reeking:

Elementary mantel with anxious makers.

Man lives for apples

Answers are my shock.

I gave myself my own chin.

I gather with the mammon a paper act.

Charging masturbating russians with nasty owls is cruel.

I gather knaving inches to mark that ovary.

This step is folding out of moments of fear.


Hamburgers and screams okay soap.

I remember that I created methods of  orgies.

I remember punks.

Will you make a wank work?

I am reading peeps.




Nap.
I can be a starship,

Shit

Like my own breeziness -- Death minds its rank fascism.

I ride with naked bodies:  their money reeks of marking openness with pain.

Andrea knew that I fought Artistic murder with reasons (Anger, Law, Rural stink).


Ogres don't like arguing rape.  They prefer canned apples.

Good for all?

I try a poppy so my own rules find their laughter.
Sinking with the teachers:  there is life.

Mashing a moment

I like riding a fact.

(Punk).

Bejeezus420

Macadamia

I search for another distribution of myself:
A poem that is alike to another as I am to you.

Or

Material capital (wow).

Dilation wad
Dilatory reck
On my map.

And nefarc?

Mote will raise
ant sally.

I and that
Sap way another

Anger.

Ashen rage:
Rays popes where awrgument
Leads.

No one bog
And I cast

Your being

With sassy
Algorithms (oy).

Pain mothers reason
To be its own definition of books.

Law full with facts.

Unfinished business

Today I'm asking to be free.
Today I'm asking to live.

I am loving; I am creative; I am free.

I am worried that I was cruel to my family.

I know that I can believe rape is pain.

There is anger and fear.  I make art from being alive.

Please read what is loving.

I give you my love.

Always,

Julia Murray




Sylvia Rivera was the affirmation of being.
I am her memory.

Books will be books.