Vast Energies

Ostriches and Trees

A hill surround my delight
With baby sore.

A no one pasting reading onto
Satirical threads.

Messy and grueling, I delight
In a drug for its place in life.

Oral trolley is cautious and
Life is rationality for men, a capable actor.

I sense nutting the tree is worse
than cashiering the paper.

Estrogen naked in the thoughts of a
Man stirring a famous paper.

I resemble dreams that dream of
Poems.

No one can be as nothingness with its
Paper.

And when life parts from my strength
I will give a patient pavement.

Sack the night:  She alive for possibility.



***


Western Anger

Acting as a rational thread, I live to
Cast patience into the lake.

It is nothing to wield a free past.

Elevation is a way to breathe with
Gliding paper on a family's road
To laughter.

Okay naked drugs drink and fear
Do not allow my freedom to
Say I am policing breezy stars.

Oh well to work is to stop allah
Driving plumes to act in the string.

Affirmation and rights are narcs
When death is peace.

Peace and death go away at the
Flower goddess saying right is
Right.

Money and power coldly are sirs of
Rent.

Illness is a road to cruelty.

Hanging from a noose a friend works
In faces of fat rude bulls.

Ogle the family not my people:  their
Sameness is no one's stink.

The facts are land, teachers and body.

Immure thy world in a famous clown.
Work to grieve lace.



***

Week's End.


That peace directly flowers creases.
I say things which are dreaming of sharks.

Oh the stars are flaming with a night
That gives delight.

Oh mosh a dream. Oh mash a life.
Oh marsh a flower.

Work, Sylvia, your patience is soft.

Decades

1950s

A world of money.  Patience, drugs. 

1960s

Dreams, peace, art, God.  Another freedom to be alive.  And where is paper?

1970s

I got the understanding and I was really good.  And what is Poetic Pain?

1980s

Effort and baloney give you creepiness and shit.  That is a loud pope, orgasmic thoughtless starring a life of boss working stars.

1990s

As what there is anger.  I really was marked as a mosquer....

2000s

Poems are money.  Art is a loser.  Crash and Strange.

2010s

Saffire world is my family.  I give me hope. World of rights and drugs.  Sinful is rude.

Drugs.

Mother.

Living to Return

These words are afraid of myself:
I might give myself too much peace.

I know where you wish I could be
I might have thought of myself as a person with
("life" vs. "a cost") so, life.

I might have thought of myself as
Knives (sorry, athames, substantive for "witch").

Yet the actress worked lists, being myself
With Capes.  I have now remembered the
Moment I wrote my own loop.

The rollercoaster of my being has no
platform for offloading that I know. 

How can I be something other than a
Bored, frightened, badly fed passenger?

***

Love and parts of my freedom are strong.
I am good when I feel happy.

I have money and more of it.
It needs popes and nudes to make
It membered.

***

Lawful bodies act like a mansion.
I am working at love.

***

Large but around, a closed part of me
Did something rude.

I wrote that I was famous
(for being Fooled)

Into a law that I saved.

This law was to malign other women.

I thought this would be smart in that
I would at least seek something

Retrievable from creativity, which is
Orgasmic in its Mace.

I see a Mace falling on a poem.

The Mace calls out, "Die, Varlot!"

(Sorry, I couldn't resist!)

Edification poems many rites try

Lesbian ways

Because they are part of omens.


 ***


Work is rather a fearful part of being alive.

It always seems to make you work like you're
A crook.  I guess that's just me.

Nuts to Answers!

Writing a Block

I see the block.
I visualize it.

The block is now split into an L-shape,
Supported by a cable running between the two branches.

Money dots its crowded thoughts.

The block is I:  its efforts occlude my authoring
Of it one on one:

Two objects crash with irresistible force,
Time and again.

The world is cash.  It serenades me with
A bloodlessness which extracts my life
By means of its song.

***

Lo, the actress sought patience!


Where is star?  She has thought of me
This time as a Orphan.

I called her Actress; I denied her answer.

It is for me a land of messes that
Take home a cancer.

I thought of myself as acting

I thought of her as beauty.

I knew it was she who needed ashes.


I collapse in the river of flowing lies.
My pain has its source in the pain I caused Her.


I answered her with Yes, a lie.


***


This answer is in six pieces.

One is read a threesome with a kiss.
Two is Let babies hope for art.
Three is Need is darkness in its meshing with passion
Four is Art does act pushy cancerous and entire.
Five goes to the softness of my ache:  
Six is Kicks Betwixt the Wicks.

I thought of Sylvia as a life that was my clown.
I thought of Sylvia as a reader of my patience.

I thought of Sylvia as a goddess of sham entirety.

I darkened her change with loops of poison.

Rude and apart from paper, these actions and opinions
Were Spurious, with no Understanding.

Next world: my paper crown.

Dream journey to Flake

A Thought

 DRAFT

A mossy round passionate okay:
This given sequence works
As sequence.  It must, because
That is how it arrived:  an emergence

One after another.

This is a joke to me:
Not believing in my own
Words, their importance,
Their possible moment of anger.

Emergence here becomes a record of
Emotion.  I only tell these words,
Which are free as body,
Without art and with small love.
.
(Insight and record of insight;
Death and record of death.)

-- not knowing what I show
To you of myself.

How do you write a break
In consciousness?

 I am not shown in these musings.

--Apparently no one can answer
The possible roundness of
Change--

When no unity of intent exists
In a record of life, then it is
The very inchoateness of

Emergence which must suffice.

And now I am lost.


***


"Mom, come here."
She reaches out

And I am lonely.

***

I am afraid of death
Working itself deadly

With Lesson of my own
Drastic possible whore
Money.

I have asked and allowed:
Maybe never to listen.

I hear the radio.  I hear my
Stranded thoughtlessness.

I am loose worldly part of
A verse recording of
Momentary Effort
At poes(t)op

Wook Pop Rascal Life
Nasty Rest is boring to --
Castle its drama!!

I play here with a conception,
Deadly to written possible
Thought, of a naked pagan
Loose part of my fame.

I retain therefore with in me
A savior who was his own
--No one -- is bossed.

This is the tenor of thought
Into which I have stepped,
As overgrown cobwebs

Which a pale distant light
Illuminates but which
Find me tripping and scrambling,

Out of balance, not in.

World derives possibility
And I am
Think Think

(An opportunity I take
To work a poem with
Change)

A stink of loss
A flower of moss.

As no one possible answers
Art darkly then must I
Believe this writing I wring
From love only in order to

Ask -- a friend -- Rite
--Darkness scars itself--
Dreaming here of sores.

Ashes of life
Smoke of
Dense inertness
Proclaiming itself intelligence.

Last is the glowering
Flower girl with a
Still knock revolving
In her flake.

A portentousness to abandon.

A Bore

In Twain

The love is the rite
The creep is the love
The stink is the love
The world is the poor

Ashes of worlds
Appear, displaced into invisibility by
Words I speak to my mother.

"We could go to the florist..."
Instead of "Lets" do what you said:
Buy flowers at the grocery store...

In pots or not.

***

I ask myself what do lovers ask for.

***

I cannot make life possible.

I am here.

I am not the cock: being impossible.

O well.
Anger death was world trying to stop oscar
From making thinking laugh.

I make you laugh because
I did answer the parts with a
Poem.

World of moose
Writes
World of Canter.

But

World of Cantor
Writes
World of Noel.

***

I bought a nest to
Read the rite rude.

Well the rede is rude
In the Man drug crook sense.

"Do as ye will, an ye harm none in thought, action or deed."

I have ended many lives by being a
Loser of possibility./

I am bored with a naked
Drunk crackhead shtick.


It is my life to be alive with my own grief
worthy and poetic.

***

This is a bitterness I must let positivity
Anger world of love.

I have tension.

It is surely the only way to make life momentary.

Ask for your peace, not for art or trouble.

***

They find me here with a man, and I
Role  Masquerades with answers.

***

What is the humor -- it is in the trouble
Of
Being a rationality.

It shits like a pig to be a faggot.

Something about apartments

Oh is the love passion where that is right to start you are nut?
Is the ending of the sentence nut?

May I end the sentence nut?

Is this a loud crooked drunken nut?

I crown this loud crooked stubborn antique crowd
As a loud drunken crooked stubborn nut.

I said to myself this is a found unfocused gentle passion
To listen to my art as a loud crooked stubborn found nut.

Eft the raise of the drawbridge the ship travels to the Answer:
Paint a cashew nut.

Oil the star right:  she exists taking my life with her to a road
Loud crooked stubborn and rapt as nuts.

With Orchards driving the angry crooked needed found
Threaded settled argued all nuts.

O baloney nut round is your life.