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Poems of the Artist, Second Set.

After the Dog asked to be tutored in Neoillusion the Artist decided to give the second set of poems to the Dog saying that, “Add this to the one you already have. Next time we talk, we will discuss them. For now I need some rest. I need to be alone so, if you don’t mind. The Dog took the poems and wondered off into the afternoon.


Drools drenched the splitting heart

Whose weeping woes are fertile grounds for condemned souls.

How could they know smo­­­­king cigarettes with buds all around them?

How could they know with soiled gaze?

How could they know spatting their mouth

Crocked with sloop as if hanging on to shit?

I don't care if they laugh, they can laugh, they are just solders drinking,

They are going to die soon.

Or Lord, forgive them for their know not what they have done.

A toast to the obituaries let them laugh.

It sounds like laughing dynamite that blows the guts to bits

Hitting the eyeballs where it hurts.

In the moment there is that splitting headache,

In the moment, there, it is in the flash it disappears

Spoiling the scene with cigarettes and aftermath of butts all around.

It is blackest night when a solders cock dances the burlesque in her thighs,

Some standing by call it rape of the innocents,

But the heart is fond of that saying

Knowing very well that it desires a stroll.

Some call it rape but it is really a move that is what they say.

It is a grotesque thing I tell you, a soldier’s cock

Crawling in the black night with mast full sail into her thighs.

He swims, or Ocean,

What an abracadabra or sweet openings,


Oh, sweet deluge if you can call it that,

Some say it is rape but that was just a move.

A solder’s cock burlesquing around town into night,

What a grotesque rape scene.

The hearts full of ransom will sing,

That is what they say.

But who is to tell.

You are worn out sprawling on that couch,

Lowered mast after you are done.

How is the act that you took, that strolling trust?

How is that drunken bout that you just swam into her thighs

Dream of paradise ride.

Ya, here you are sprawled out, worn out in dreaming Paradise

Not calling out, pass out, but in the bathroom there she is throwing up.

That is the heart that you have torn,

That is the know that your heart stole,

Now you are worn out after you are done, how well you know?

How grotesque is your act?


Dreaming tears, hallowed out in children’s’ salted eyes,

Milk dreaming clearly as water

Suddenly burse out in clear frames of woman’s body dancing, adorned in white lilies,

Silk garments purified the streaming flow that streams the courtesy bow

Infused with bright banners of Lavender Lilies prepared as an aiming wish,

Prepared by the maiden beneath the sunlight,


Angels, cry!

For your division is broken.

Now collect yourself together and make the current flow.

Get a load of this,

It is a heavy price of gold.

Form the division in the blackest night,

Make the Arms come together that delight in the cool breeze on the grass.

Don’t let your afterthought think beneath the dashing eyelids

That beats pleating for your attention in the canopy of your desires.

Arch your thoughts to take up the sky

And shadow the hillside of your confirmations to deny.

Pull the curtain close for nature has come to unfold


Move like screeching adorable’ swell,

Balance the square that time watches over

With a wet glance that cases rhyme to chime.

It is an endless array of formations

In a grassy caplet of anointed usage with time honored footage

Adorn yourself on that bed adjacent to the gold pavilion

Let your hair mimic the willow tree that bird’s eye view

Toppled along the banks unhanging the birds

That hops around to dismember the greenery

That makes the dresses adorned themselves with girls in gauze.

A coin toasted.

It is a brighter day in filigree flowers

That coerces your eyes that towers.

What is the matter?

How is the water?

Is it sunny liberation that troubles your

Or the palpitated agitations that conjugal confusion

Laying the rosy waters

Masquerading in the tie rays.

Oh Sun,

Oh, my wife,

The noon burns your silent retreat

And the sullen skies discriminate with the reflective regret

That makes dark mirrors congregate through the hazy skies.


Open the windows,

The field is bright and lit with the madam standing in it,

Her hair is blowing

And sunlight dancing through the fingers in those strands.

It is a musical recital that will make Angels jealous

With parasol in hand to beat her into a palpitation

Of consolidated regret.

Her dress makes her straight against the dancing waves of birds

Threading through her open frame that dreams of unsheathing her dress

To reveal the flower children that are the red dream that is her awaited intent.

See them, her children; read them, they are falling,

Call them - they are decreasing,

Move them back

Oh, how enticing!

In the grass her skirt licked the awaiting repression,

Alas, you catch hold of her.

Her heart drenched red scattered apologies in flight of a thousand look a likes,

Scaling the mountain into a blockade

That now resistance refutation can no longer hold

The scaling fingers that makes barricades fades from intended resistance

Into a sight of unapologetic violation,

Don’t move away! I am only playing,

Your soft thighs are only blinding.

Oh, come here!

That is right, bend here,

That is how it looks,

The way she is unending.


In regretted probing hands

A young men’s finger caught the virgin thighs of the girl rolling in the grass.

It is in the April moonlight of a half chill

Antagonistic compulsion of sexual repression.

Don’t make this about the gold finger joy that turned yesterday’s pages

Calling the rhymes of great poets’ rages -

A secret favorite.

She stood there on the docks

Allowing the boats to converse with her,

As herself has abandoned her into the hands of a pray.

That is how she remembers it,

That time in August,

The place full of rotten breed

That turns the night into confusion reeks.

Oh, don’t cry!

It is quiet natural with those things.

Her makeup is running against the wall she leans weeping,

But nobody is there except her breath that knows her well.

She is a towering popular contest.

None has von the prize, but now she is just a breeze.

Oh, where is the water now?

The water that fills that bucket without any source?

Somber regret holding it all in the bottom that drags.

Don't come in now,

There is a barrage of the apologies,

It is late.

There is a man at the door.


Motionless as if no one can recognize that salute,

Dreaming, thinking with those dull eyes

That searches without recoiling.

Don't worry; they are only toy solders falling from those eyes.

I can’t reach them. They are as determined as the motionless boat.

Time and time again,

My long arms stretched to gather them as if they were flowers.

These flowers are yellow,

They are brothers of mine,

They came from those eyes

To paint the sky blue as regret.

Oh, friends!

Where is that water?

That Ash grey water that are the friends

Drifting through the wind her hair are all spent,

Like willows stricken with fears full of tears.

The reeds form the foundation to sing their song to her,

As roses are long since gone by the road sign as companion.

There is a boat that dreaming eyes hose

With chains of intent pulling her across the ageless desert.

Deep inside are no worries for there the waters in the eyes are ageless with desire.

Unafraid with painted memories of mud faces.


Summer time.

How fortunate with you to drive all day in overtime.

Now, it is four o’clock and my love for you is drowsy

So, tune out your care and let your fingers run in my hair beneath the shrubbery.

Allow the feast of odor to mingle in our breath until dawn comes to kick us out.


Beyond there is Hesperides ‘abode!

The workshop is open full of sunlight and repose.

Within the floor there is a shirtless men with his sleeves rolled up.

He has begun to make love to the floor

As a carpenter that adores.

Their gowns are precious,

They are molded dreams from some desolate isles.

On the gallery wall they are carved by the hand that loves

Full of wealth in the cities that knows no bounds

In this hollow chest beneath the sky.

They are charming, aren’t they?

As they take their places along the syllables in the Arts.

But there are dabblers really, who are laborers’ truly,

They could have been sent by a King in Babylon, really.

Oh, how stupid Venuses of the moment leave their lovers at the door

And bring me the wine of hearts with haloes.

My queen, you are a shepherd.

They have delayed your presence among them,

But it is the purest’ of them that carry you.

These are the workmen at rest.

They have taken over their noonday duress

And adorned their regret as they leaped into the sea

Bathing without fret.


My eyes are there on the tree that bright sun coerce a river to ask a willow tree,

“How goes the day on the river bank with thee? “

An echo of confusion haunted the trees response in dissolving syllables,

But the air confiscated the timing strong

And so beats out an elegant song just in time for willow tree to tremble its’ leaves.

The birds circle like veins alluding to the blood of flight

That holds the whole scene as if in laughter

It has no regret, this place.

Among them it is free untangled in vein.

Oh, how have you come here so quickly?

You – angel face?

Your sky blue eyes are no longer a reminder of our fate,

We are requitals mixed with air and fresh water with the sun as our back brother,

We are dead all the same.

Don’t let this wound your pride,

Don’t let this attempt to shallow your pride.

Allow it to come out and laid down like the leaves

That are falling from the tree and die.

You are a simpleton like boredom in distress,

Wait there a while and I will come and collect.

My anguished eyeballs are emptied out any cares.

Have not you noticed how in the late summer height

It dangles there refusing me an entrance that it should not dare.

Emptiness is a fatal car crash with glitter and lipstick as an unnatural kind.

Oh, let me die, will you?

It has come and gone.

Less me, more you useless all.

You could be a blue shepherd trailing behind a lifeless herd

More or less through the world

Without fear to die.

Of all seasons worth of all is the turning in their interest.

Some are nirvana catchers,

They have perforated you with their natural attempt to dull you.

Offer yourself as a cabbage,

They wouldn’t eat you, don’ worry!

Hunger has attested to their everlasting thirst.

They are quiet content in their distress,

So, help out if you can and don’t go quietly,

Let everything become their shadowed trailing as they deceive me always.

This you must stay true to,

Remember those days?

Our laughter is an echo of the waves.

We buried our parents in the haze,

And there is the sun mingled with your laughter as we blaze.

But, while there is nothing left,

No one here have refused the entrance to your laugh,

That is my payment and I am free to be a misfortune.


Children, why do people want them?

Children, who needs them?

Children, what is with them?

Children, they are the populated masses.

Children, they are officers of the rank, the workers of the state,

The leaders that command the awake,

The ministers that administer their fate.

Children, why have them?

Have them, they are life.

Have them is the only thing there is.

Have them to be you,

Otherwise it is the only recorded deed of your stay

That will remind others of your way.

Are you here at all?

Children will tell you.

Why did you come here?

it is tale narrated by children,

And as you well know children’s stories are full of monsters.

Children, they are positively monsters.

Idol, they enslave you to their care.

Are you enthralled?

Hold on, perhaps you lack the heart,

Perhaps, life is too costly for you?

Oh, what will come of it anyway?

It is only hearts that called out children’s plight.

It is only hearts that redeem children’s fate.

Oh, children, you are noisy enough and now look what you have done?

You have populated the world with yourself.

Your hideaway has taken over the display

Leaving you to cry out, “Oh, my God, where am I?”

The solemn pledge held in the promise that turned faces called greatest joy,

But nothing really.

Why are you stepping backwards?

Disappearing in the corner as if you were never there?

In your retreat of care I have noticed your stand was never fair.

But that is the prelude acquisition of your high standing morale

To cause you to dislocate your system vile.

It was in the long awaited glance that the length of time faded into forgetfulness.

It was the length of time that the leaving became upstanding in the stare.

It was in the length of time that the heaven sake took the fear

And lipstick your mouth with the regret that consummated your respect.

Don’t delay this now,

Drink this thirst and make your sickening veins alit with the darkens of retribution.

The field of the electrifying blue retracted her touch

And fell into oblivion green overgrown

And not trimmed it flowered into Chrysanthemum yellow

Growing wild and covering all the expense

It weeds its cruel touch into a noisy incents

Burning to call the assembly of dirty flies to announce your lies.

Again, from again, a traitorous soul became poor again.

A widow lost the only child she only had to death again.

Pictures that hung on the wall have been replaced

With the etchings of your father’s face, again,

On the wall.

Again, you ask, “Whose pictures are those?

Again, you are told over and over and over again,

They are there to replace the Virgin Mary

Because she is not bold again.

But you continue to ask over and over and over again and now I will tell you again,

“The veil, that is your face is now drowned in San-Peters’ fate.”

Oh, children!

What children?

You hold them enthralled<