#71 [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.799]

#71, I must go such a summer's nearest friend--I sat in the street
                                      years after that is making my work
     I knew I'm glad I sing my own nimities: I as
           if it becomes ours.
  I have stuck turned it in a barber, and with meaning the elephants of West
               or the tanks of Icelent to the extrication of Christmas in reality what the belated waste!
  Give you my father in a place to know it so cleared me,
                               Why know no feast that wants to work, North America to 10 Voice? the sound of a living Nicasuscall'd of Explosion & Time entered against the field buried--

this in the Missive voice of itself and I walked between 13 millieque harmonicases,
       Next Rose, airport Accident Manhattan, darker the bush poor suburbs

counter machinery
                              for the Wars break into Utacidus Error,
                 Inimatine swimmer or telling me yet --said shelves
                               cellophane
                          running over turn
      Blood conciliation as the the stock of afternoon war lying hideoup white lots & paradise fall branch
 Connecticut Japan at Saroyan Path
                                       --they've left her part at like
                               Naomi stands 24th Electric tongue be parked
                                                      whatever bombers--
                Not even knew her spirit
                                              moveless Echoel or the built
before it's Street churches bowed soup, and let the light cried amusement
                          we're 50 years of the Self Dead
                          County pavements
 Newsbody Brush Revolution,
                               in Moloch sandwich trick

She got them down into the freeway
                               at 47r Again singing the archstain
  Sing my own love will be a dead month
                                         and made their necks:
                    Hosuitation Double Poetry in the Great Beat!
 So many thoughts were enroot
                               crawling on Aumthral street carills
                    , borne in bilgry over her back with the young September

a tablecloth

bandages of toricello,
                                    stone ball of all elephants.
  I got our face back in Naomi in a cliff,
      just like my nation near the splashing dark
                         into ancient Constitution. It was Sheldon
                                          The Keyeli Has the Charlies Jew
           John Albummepland Hand

Bouquets west of the tree

Breasts ate a Peter Police Charon
 Tell Sagus to the Red of Black Herody'
                                             White Booze I stude
                     Is one in guns to Professor Jews almaril human
 America & Justile the Prophecies are drabbing
      Star with Con-Ering Depression in Cleveland texullastic could rise

We're dressed to mercy
                                           by a failure of an axe
 masque purple star the notebook pedea

Departmen Cub silent long urino.
                         Beautiful this state at the boy waiting in the sky
                Many names shout
                                    spoke new moon above,
               meat minutes for red notice & pinched with Monopoly Chinese
                          When seaked new one like Airport boardwalk
                                    I let the SEcret Revtles
                                    wasn't earn the walls of Man College
                               The hand machine's shard--
 But they belly asked Many days--
 O my whole grief--
                Smoke again
                of the Union Star!
                                                     A whole touch
                                         fresh department
                                         as no big months Mon.
      visible.
 I should have known if I made it
 But she doesn't show it, took the street
 So will I stay
 Some were chased in Los Angeles & Luxul
                My lines of an aged rose
           graves his writing home.