Who was I to write down? Key turns loud, however, The key turns around. Free me of my bounds, I can free you of yours, My art, part astounding, Mostly aster pounding, Hoping for brighter pink. Who am I to press down? Pestle grinds slow, A Mind grinds slower, Eventual beach polluted, The key turns around, It says: "Free me of these clownfish, acting clownish and catfish. Art is only partly a mish, Mostly is unequalled feeling." His art, part niche, Part for seating, Parts for kings, rich, Parts for heathens. Parts to reason other parts, Written partly to see them.
However you write your novel, Heroes with their giants toppled, Macabre, of work with shovels, Endeavors for Turk or Zionism. Write of your heart problems, Can they be solved, by starch and auburn? Your not in danger, Neither is your offspring.
What can be said of a murderer? That he murdered? Who says? Is he a murderer himself? What can be said of a mayor, That he favours? Who says, Probably the favoured themselves. So what can be said? Of purchases and retreats, Of those who sit in seats, Simply judging those without. What can be said, Is it they are not discrete, Prejudice lacking feeling. So forge me a document, Implore me to destroy it. For it contains denouement, If destiny is to employ it, It will be my dog to walk.
You decide policy valid, I speak my minds eye, Ballad, Badland or Ballet. Poet's poet, is the port a port? Is a court a'court? A beer is a beer everywhere in the world, The port stays the same side of the boat, Afloat a float, Giants snort and stay the same size, Slay the same flies, Lame in their reprise, And their coats too short.
She says with her eyes: I am gone, Evil days begone though. Friday I am home, Peace be with you, they say some words; "Does a partridge purr? Does a catalogue write itself?" Words themselves can be like a cone, Until one meanders about the dwelling. Lonely girl, what do I know? Is not the world yours to sell? Would Lucky keep a sword or bow? Would she emblazon her chest, With Lions, giants, family crests, Sayings of young exuberance, No room for the later lessons. Spear and shield, All you need is God's help, Divine wealth, stature, Time and a long winter, Along those lines, I feel you'll get better. No sous vide or fried Kelp.
Power, in the form of a word, Flowers in the form of the world, Cowards, in the form of the word, Towers of form, of the world, Yet so far from dirt, So says the eyes: If one wrote a novel, Bible or implied shorthand, It would be in favour, Such is the land.
Winter seemed to never end, I was standing in the rain. What is dead will rise again, to be lost to another raw cycle. We were dreamt up bare in the frigid cold, with only tears to shed. We were pale bodied lips tinted red, patiently standing by for seasons end.
Does one write music, Tunes or conclusions, When tongued foolish? Could God write a poem, So deep and wholesome he could not read, Without tears in tandem? Feet so sore-stung, Like a horse in the open, he would forever run, Chasing free of freedom, At best, to never love.
Write your life, line by line, From post to post, time in finite, Decide. Vibration is not entirety, Leave flying to the pilot, Masons, vocational thieves. Applause, Songs written of concepts, Concert to the rest, nonsense. Only to soothe the soul, One forgives and consoles, Otherwise the wise have but knowledge, Lies are all but college, Which behold, Yet deny all the garbage they bestow. Take your hits, pipe by pipe, From fist to fist, time is final, Less vital due to all your fighting.
Like a hurt cardinal, bandaged, Perhaps again it flies perverse, Perhaps times himself per verse, Per second, per lurch, per word; Managing his time it finds a perch, Challenging himself, flies the world; Flies and bugs no more, Pecking the spine it eats a horse, Like a fuhrer pardoned, seminal, Perhaps one finds it not so curt, Curtsies, words lies, Lord survives. "I would make gentle return, Messiah of none, I arrive, Time to waste no more." It hears but fury, speaks short, "Perhaps past such things were worse, Such meaning in verses, Supple leanings of wings of worry, Speckled and shiny this rock is yours"
Write not of tramplings, Tramp whispering, quiet: Were you to write a hymn, For him, would it be so pious, So timeless, could it be? Could you close your eyes, See peonies in a garden? What is a peony, but alive, Without a whistler to guide? What is my life, but pennies, Withstanding misers in life, What is the point, but a sword, Curt be I to point or hide.
Misunderstood lyrics, Reverend, Had you not asked of my kids, Or the loved ones I cherished? Thorough I write my kinship, Kingship, flagship furlough, No science to write myself, Is it just lies of unknowns, Just lies, unknowingly, Trust dying in fun foals, Or stampedes around the field, Not Informed of where they going? Can God even hear a man when he moans, Does he cover an ear, hope and pray? Does he occasionally call things gay? You misunderstand my intention, No questions ponder foolish in heaven, God's gift could be enjoying the stay.