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.