The Dog

by

Billy McBride

A collection of 48 Sections of a Poem, "The Dog." It was

written by me, but I am giving my Angel-Muses the credit for
helping me.

Section 1.

His ancient horrible bush

That thou did not lawfully, but by a code,
Speed-reread by memory

From her every-year lovesick scars She got me into those best waves;
The lilacs all were so still,
Never again to be better.
I too strive not for knowledge but to be loved,
Though this is not wise,
Milady, to whom I recite, flitters on her own
As jolly as the seasick sea
Not even thoughtful clarity
Betters all of thy unscientific miracles.
I would run to catch thee, but I am only driven now;
Thou art doom-eager to combat,
Which is the way things must be,
What thou in your imagination art,
By fatality itself, though never dead, shipwrecked
Until thy forbidden-to-view stars call thee back again.

- Angel Arielle

Section 2.

Necessary Beauty's angry-noted margin,

O, how fortunate! Not the poor!

Friendship with Angels now,
No testimony nor forbidden-to-see stars,
The aging but lucky flower-fellow
In delusive non-social prime,
With gold to widen the needle's eye,
For some heroic but unseen violent news.
A merciful weather is all that exists
But the writer-reader-teacher is on strike,
The daily hill's blundering throne way up is set,
On its high horse of "Do unto others, etc..."
Temperatures very best, death's finality, please!
Lively given plants lifting your land which betrayed you,
Garments over a bed, behold what thou art.
The foolish lover's acts, the rosy worn flowers flare,
And pussy-cat children swoon like Caesar.

- Angel Kabbalah

Section 3.

An angelic muse going away forever

Leaves poised
An annoying light house
Shot into the dark of God
The stars show
Though you were asked not to look at them.
Next home, where you have lived your whole life,
The rest of the pioneers, how you would wince!
The forms all last though our vocabularies cannot,
Our mighty matter we hate
The far-off past forms
American mind at war
A winter wild, not a desert,
My enemy, the trying-always Morning, drops.
Tip of the watch, my foe,
A safe part, symbolic and aggressive,
Our gift of Life's blade that has many meanings
The powerful poet's ground should be of no ground
The stuff of the space fought for.
You look at your weak age, and your school,
The forms over the enemy years;
Draw your circle around another's circle.

- Angel Arielle

Section 4.

Talking for days, a French person,

Warring without a book to read, instead with sound,
At your glad-featured God-sunset and shore with Walt,
A monumental shoot, not at the piano-player,
We are where no road works, you fail on,
Improbable Eternity's soul-as-the-body's door.

- Angel Arielle

Section 5.

A wise but low-hearted yearly rollick,

A talker lit up a conversation for a schizophrenic,

Sailing to the hills, into the divine fire,
Paradises we cannot stand for long
Turn away from violence to your fear of sick love;
The loved bright colors, the banal just with money and love,
The fate of influenza, of sinking down the middle of life.

- Angel Ora Ora Tiferetot

Section 6.

For every answer from Hamlet born,

The hopeful speedy foolish tear
Does flash all white, or pink and grey, in winter crafty style,
Surface the polluted earth while meaning retreats,
Telling us nothing, from nothing cannot come,
In a free-to-be-your-own-artist attitude,
You troop your own objection,
Meaning to give offense, I suppose, like a wind
That rocks us all into late old age,

Too sharp as the love of all for you.

- Angel Thrikbot

Section 7.

Divided by enemy minutes on the favorite measured steep,

Down which you are afraid of falling,
Wishy greatness for only a decade to peak and explore,
Blithe intermit to splash when bored with the law,
A strangeness of what you mean
When wasting in silent certainties, which none of us need,
Limber it strong as a table, protect thy song by reading,
An elaborate ship of your progress quick as lover's fire,
Yours less retrospective when those forbidden stars emerge.

- Angel Penelope

Section 8.

Sleep won't enter the unloved-by-God,

You droopy long watched animal.
That mountain to which God is a God,
Is secured, an underworld questionable grass
Has lots of answers but no single answer,
No visible sky where God is not,
No fought-for space holder
For your own national all-foolish voyage to discover,
Which should be dropped, or to believe,
Since beliefs are more interesting than truth,
And unfold from your early youth what on earth.

- Angel Thrikbot

Section 9.

You are irony-spaced, meaning the opposite,

With assurances dear as any lady,

The resonance penetrates cautioned
By trembling fingers that weakly dream
Beauty's crown of nothing
For an all-provoking truly uneducated darkness of God
Roaming fathoms in a music to your damnation and peace,
Sunny God's psychic payments sport it side by side
A President comprehending half a fertile valley.

- Angel Elaine

Section 10.

Patrol globally another weak century,

More poet-destroying mobs receive, traditionally,
With vast Internet passions
That dazzle and deconstruct in place
For enemy midnight and recitative
Which attends your own damnation.
In green enemy months unwise we scatter for grain

In the annoying light flung down,

All public, best separated from the private,
With what? Victory! Who cares for generals?
Toss them aside.
Bravo! Pray, whisper it! My origin exalt;
But do not make an object,
Generals ignored of the weary age point the world,
Leaving you alone finally as we all end up,
To more unwise love, less to loathe as conservatism.

- Angel Thrikbot

Section 11.

Who has seen when they began?

Probably far off like youth in antique transparence,
Seeing all in foamy miracles as waves together come
To a general reader and common mouth worth any crowd.
I will labor, not hard,
Since God hates those who labor hard,

For a day for love, though the daytime is a foe,

An old house to bend in dryad song
That leads one to Hell,
As I stop by, not understanding, nor should I seek that,
In that swiftest hopeful one
Struggled, not that lucky, by the trees somehow.

- Angel Lizbeph

Section 12.

It offers unsolicited no threat

No lifted hand to strike you, Walt's shore,
To be sand-sparkled back to your glory,
Though I say not what I mean,
The daybreak that does not kill you
Was ribbed in bold brightest response
To which you cannot write back
Since it would make your work impossible,
After helpless twilights without a guide,

And the God-distant main

Blunting all your useless hates
That madly gun for green.
To end, though there is no end to the questioning,
The paradox which is thrown out the window,
You give up your paradise for your child's future-wave,
Creature of another's art-historical jealousy,
Her wandering off sail-less in Philosopher's suspense.

- Angel Penelope

Section 13.

Terminator-muscles of the staged world

With the ironic super-curves you formate,
The archer's jolt - save that odd ball poem
To which staged shadows
Must adjust, since it is cold, over spotty soils,
Over a man-rock all foreign and pulsing for you
To embrace best, in a canonical way,

Its rhythm-making argument.

The metaphysic, like your passion,

Had burnt up in a density of the voice that is image,
It would serve boldly the Demiurge's harmonized throat,
But all his scorched evil matter to twist it back home,
Where you will return no more,
And all the four-or-less seasons,
Depending on where you live,
And the coherent globe in maddening breeze and buzz
Made thousands more vague
To break the tally of the hold
Of ceaseless Babylonian earthling buildings
Which none of your gang at all wickedly outlawed.

- Angel Amy

Section 14.

A friendly Red is the Sierra,

The lust in your eyes of a vacuum

Cohering, one way in your bag of tricks,
To the all-indicative, with entrance
And light beams from every side.
Your unheard conquering name
Is what we all need to know
In order to quench other enemy morns ahead,
To penetrate until wise with a music
Leading us to our doom,
To the last identity of our loved neighbors.
Into the elements of temperature, your old old body,
Your oceanic leap into the best sea,
That worst cruel forgery into your single most vital body,
Its destroyed command by Time.
The beheading soldiers challenge you to float the day
With comfortable objects to sink into, outlined by smoke:
The city's collapse, you upon your throne, wreck and moan These are more themes that matter
To explore without knowledge, but with hope instead,
Our blameworthy ignorance of trade,
My dear boy, our conquer,
Because we listened to others, for urge.

- Angel Arielle

Section 15.

Serpentine, but not Satanic in fact,

That open portal of your own Teaching
And of your own guilt, like Moses's own,
Complete, but never to finish,
Desolate as a beggar's, Law-dull,
Unexcellent eyes that see all,
Forgetting of the earth
Since your own muses play tricks on you,
Going down and outward the great neck longer,
Our wish, since the food tastes so good,
Our well-lit pathway, hindered not, though immature.

- Angel Elaine

Section 16.

Past this place which will know you no more,

Undaunted by fame as an anti-romantic,
Sweet, like a good walking companion,
Like life turned to a light that was thrown out by God,
Your important step is not to fall down,
No purpose to alarm, unless it be your critical vocation,
The breast's own wall's upright
To which, when humiliated, you walk close,
For some fought-for space to weep,
As if your friend decided to write
A history of consciousness,
Your prone spirit, perhaps real,
And its animal sublime heights
Beside the stream you sit with your pumpernickel bread
With more faint shrieks of joy in your now-old neighborhood.

- Angel Yafah

Section 17.

"The Dog"

Since all extremes meet, since they are so heavy

And instantly haunted, possessed like the memory
Except amid your miserable fear of stairs,
You pace back and forth
In the fresh air soul-body-like towers
Over the tainted wood standing the tradition of enemy night.
Wandering lost when reading, thank God,
Underneath an overpass and more territory,
Your barking face, which this place knows not,
A reason more-than-rational
For the relief any intoxication brings,
Blessed with more life to be together
With betraying Nature's own wells,
At her center, like the Self, or farther off
Whence the weird letters come,
To where you or her disconsolate speed with your book,
And your profound shame unfreed
By Pragmatism, by William James.

- Angel Bertha

Section 18.

Powerful veins are poetry's,

They had to sting the love-sick heart
With Victory's guide, your Teacher,
A sudden surprising visual company,
The forbidden fruit of flags,
That fearsome lofty canonical rank,
The Gnostic valley's canopy
And unlikely heaven's own spread
Had proposed another Tempest,
Not really a real event being an illusion,
To so thin out from the thickness the morn, your foe,
To ice over your Genius, little one wanting a big one!,
In intellectual Shakespearian death,
Yours not to worry about,
Falling, as if in love, into a chasm

Which is the only existence along with yourself

It was known unfortunately to be, ironically,
The summit of all joy and fork-splintered seasick sea.

- Angel Yafah

Section 19.

The enemy morning stopped being significant,

But it told us nothing,
And its wall-yellow old spectacle,
A spot in its spiral, outwards and downwards
Squeezed the sky where no God is found,
Not that we should be looking,
Its human-made hieroglyphic kindness
At brilliant thoughtful sublime heights,
With no other company, specified
With what life is for, as wise or beautiful or powerful;
Like my hollow body collapsing into a sunken Socialist chair,
The atmospheric aura

And its deficiency balanced as always with gain,

And damning tones to realize, without knowing it,
Have dressed up like in a nightmare the enemy years.
You were impatient, and being so,
Yours was a sinful act when the water which is best
Had shut you down after a good decade,
To rise up with all again in glory
With a servitude you will not stand for now, by God,
Relaxed and finally sleeping because of its famous motion.

- Angel Penelope

Section 20.

A gentleness in pixie-gusts,
The disliked flowers are fronted,
That thoughtful memorable curtain
To whirl, thus making it mad, the ground,
Which we do not need to use,
Depriving your almost spiritual spirit,

Wild and unfortunately still sure.

Faintest Roman guides

When sensing you will apprehend
Your endless radiance, Ha-Zohar,
They will return alien, unfair as flies' appetites,
Their death-gathered life-work enterprise,
The subjects, which matter, that they brood,
Over early breakfast,
An unhappy world all solid,
Standing on good legs,
But rude and bullying.

- Angel Elaine

Section 21.

The bad-time present fiery wheel,

Blind, Satanic and rounded,
Makes an ugly-glassy similitude

Of either contemplation or love,

Both are unwise.
Parents who love God,
Who have scattered like feathers in the wind
That drives us mad,
Flood your whimsical solitude neglecting long
The home-stream of your empty-full reign
As you sit on your own rear.
Dark as God and mild
Is the rebellious-light way of the suicidal fleet,
Intricacy's ascent back to an unfallen state,
That bends up with mercy for all Yet, does anyone really love their enemies? An attractive song unto your doom
Of surviving all our common fall
Of which higher Angels,
On higher rungs, we are not.

- Angel Diana

Section 22.

Scarcely soiled, Desdemona-like,

The excellent dawn, watched over tea,
Shines lower from black on high like God
Whose non-social flame wanders, rightly lost
As in the labyrinth whence reading a book,
From our unlikely eternal frame that is the soul
Till change, which only the very best do love,
Does proceed my easy praise
For what is less original than I thought,
Pleasureful non-sexual judgments,
Which have their blind spots on any spectrum,
In structural damning tunes
The people, whose poetry is religion,
Remove, excelling in a poet-killing mass,
Since they listened,
Their manners were all vanquished
By the tribal emblem, the cipher,
Deathly turned away in that world to come.

- Angel Teresa

Section 23.

Off the job, seldom was present

Necessary Memory's blundering chief,
Pierced by a gentleness of sufficient silence,
The kind at which I wince,
It made a twisty circle,
A circle around your own best circle,
In ancient modulated speech
Of enemy Time's litany and shapeless battle-force.
Unfruitful city, metaphor for the sexual-partner-as-place,
It was expressing institutional establishment
With death-fearful tumult and chosen sound
To further accompany your damnation,
Fierce straits to commanding mountains ran,
As if to Lucifer, that shining light,
A brother not a plant nor a mineral
Shifted his distribution of miracle
Towards a kind region
Under that speckled abyss

Where you with it alone exist.

- Angel Marilyn

Section 24.

We wait or else we are impatient, that great sin,

To view the thread, or have it read to us,
Its angles, math, not something I am good at doing,
I am full of all the strange distant limits
Of actual mankind, the imagination, unfortunately now.
The battle accepted, steady as a table's legs,
With the ruthless past, its horror,
Our bad present beat some a mild joy
When one settles down to read several books,
Claims it to wonder painfully, a crisis in fresh glimpses
Of our million steps down which we are afraid to fall,
The edifying of the material, a cultural provocation,
Of beautiful-intelligent-wise waters best
To little pussy-cat persons in heaven now.

- Angel Jennifer

Section 25.

You pass all others because they have no wisdom,

What you secretly love in your heart: continuous flame,
The luminous romantic symbol and sign.
To face the waves, your axis of perception aligned,
No end to describe since re-description is all,
The remaining facts of what you stick close to on the page.
So jubilant, a rare holiday feast,
The super-rich with the strength great poems have,
With a sterility, that sick purity
That we all of us were warned about,
That ancient old house, its terrible historical customs,
And cautious rebellion, not revolutionary, to finish arriving
With the happy prophet, playing a mug's game, a game,
To shout from out the memory, and to engage
In common general draughts

And paint over and over again the same spot over,
High on his Golden Rule horse,
Who can deepen, since down is up,
With only a curiosity to publish
In a barren and banal justice
That shines from within, haughty.

- Angel Diana

Section 26.

The twist of the spheres of a friend

Who is sailing in his space
Which he fought from his master,
Snow-soldier, and pointed critical winter,
You both drink cognac together
Where few are, high up, with wheezy language,
A language that was invented by humans,
One that does not think by itself without them.
An engagement at shore with Walt

Where you feel the scorn of the unknown,

But are happy to be ambivalent with all its mysteries,
Feelings that the body-as-soul,
Who is without its quested object
To have in a single flame dalliance:
Celebratory cold words, the soul-body's theater
Not its revenge, that matters more than a bit,
An ancient mention, let us read
Its standard beautiful fit
With all your personal, not public, deathly desire,
When number-tied, knowing all of the people's ages,
With some land-crowd fought for unjustly
That National solitary romance made Babylonian proud.

- Angel Arielle

Section 27.

That furious gun-mad maiden,

Anonymous Gravity's own strong poem,

Which arrogant sailors in mute wise contempt

Of her have nothing more to say
Since in their hearts their speech is already dead,
Yet will follow her spread and haunt her,
As if possessed in their memory by a great poem,
Their most consistently loved mate,
Not knowing to be silent, a fence for wisdom,
For precious grace,
Which they themselves cannot hold onto for long,
Its garnered ill-health, no more alcohol or caffeine,
Its strange beautiful poetic enlargements,
The fullest perfection of a damned song unwise but amorous
Relate the enemy afternoon to the idiotically questioned
form
Of imperfect lands that betray those who love them,
The disheveled old homes
And their message of otherness rejected by a screen.

- Angel Ora Ora Tiferetot

Section 28.

Loftiest Universe unfair to us all,

Whose deepest ground opens
Knowledge-filled hopeless but joyful companions
Walking and chanting together poems of Whitman,
Stretch sublime heights in enemy afternoon's road Fly to another planet, glorious, hauled by the body-as-soul,
Littlest heart operated upon, unstinted by the night-as-foe,
Refreshed with yummy cake,
Lucifer irresistibly yearning to star,
Corrupted as a text by moments of epiphany
As the feared steps of the day-as-foe,
To shift the axis of sight of our orb to islands
Where nothing happens, islands eternal,
Past me as are all of your cold pragmatic vows.

- Angel Arielle

Section 29.

In calmest foolish devotion we quit our days,

Though nobody knows why,
Wreck as Time does our lives, efforts of little use,
The doom-attending-music,
The interviewer guests, and rhythm hushed and delicate
Often happy, which is not what I can say, hourly reel
Substantial chances to sinfully wait or lose like a friend,
Even though there are no accidents in life.
The delicious foe-as-midnight's God-darkest wheel-phases
Steady, like good table-legs strong as any good poem,
The foe-as-summer's passion
For more life and hand-tremble,
Answer not the idiot to bind the thousand roots
That were researched proving your suspicions,
Inseparably, unnecessarily certainly blinded
Like a deliberate judge by dooming chords.

- Angel Arielle

Section 30.

More life patches in God's sunlight prime

Return with the many-meanings of the grass
On the Mind's green vacancy, off the job.
Glacier-melting Earth is as distant as God,
Stormy heads will talk and you shall turn away,
Cold specters up North have an undemanded beauty
That muffle tillage like the grey Internet does those
Who have no guide to steer them
Through its world-wide-webbed sea.

Over our enemy that is Time itself,

Lovers pale in a wise attitude
From reading many different kinds of books.
There is the star-perfect near-death-experienced
Annoying light immersing.
You select nothing about but only the best water
Impalpably reaching out, a trembling hand,
The garden of Eden disappearing Though we can return,
Dying, but not dead, on law - rather code,
No trees instantly ripen content. The Daemon:

"And how long do you mean to be content

Without experience, which is what you must use
In order to make the distinction?"

- Angel Arielle

Section 31.

With young pussy-cats invincible,

Families dear, but not talked about,
Shall customize life by reading,
By life-judging and by unwise love,
And doubt is immense, thank God,
Their bedrooms, the only places they swear,
Are vast as that Internet in which ocean people are sinking,
Making room because they are poetical
And late on the scene,
For something more whole,
A bigger picture, that Romantic goal,
Their inevitable destiny to attract.

Gathering canonical mechanics

Of the best art and family-shunning peace
To simply illuminate with a song to violet faces,
Whose place knows them less and less with each day,
What teachers, whom we are lucky to find,
Know in curious cities-as-sexual-experience,
Already widest and peaceful, good places to read,
Angelic messages of that friend whom you still have
Or stormy lid's natural citizen who is at odds with God.

- Angel Amy

Section 32.

Jazzy are the sounds you hear yet your audience was lost,
They openly whisper of mug-game prophecies.
Nightly, up in bed, droop hourly words
Of your favorite poets, their lines,
They extend you to sleep finally, when God loves you again,
They edge out to outer space where God is wandering.

Earth bunches bounties of the farmer The scene of instruction and lucky-named flower,
Satisfactory visitors bring you videos to watch
Like shapes that rule over the forest A shadowy stage without transparence
Because you cannot see all without the Alph.
Swiftest foolishly journey graver phantoms
From the North. Dangerous as a role-model,
Awareness itself answers plainly the idiot
About some thoughtfully clear but loathed dweller
Who passed by Walt at the seashore again.

- Angel Amy

Section 33.

My health is key, to ride the exercise bike,

More tender-shadowed than ever,
Though I do not go out at night.

And though they should be more domestic,

A grand site's lights have crashed into each other,
They have been detached from the divine names,
And from open streets, as openings suggest love,
And from that ancient transference,
Though there was none actually, just payments,
Which is our forever assembled
In the vessels that contain us,
To make for the pleasure, which comes from deep reading,
That we - many of us and not just a selfish individual Can praise within our own souls,
Which are the homes of God,
As this world's meaning comes to a stop.
Windows in a line - pits of time - but only for the very worst,
And only for a year until Paradise comes,
They do freshen indeed one who never rushes his verse,
Especially when one is angry or sick,
Never to feel empty, because charity is a pillar of the earth,
Some glorious frequency, its splendor next to God's victory,
Rising your spark with the promised fields
That there must be for all.

- Angel Elaine

Section 34.

When the illustrious, who read, connect with you

On the mannerisms you dread as much as evil,
Your rejection of contradiction may take supreme struggles,
It may make you look intellectually schizophrenic,
In a happiness of words better than the truth,
Whose Temple architecture waits,
Like you, it would be your sin not to.
And you announce to your neighborhood
Your theories of compassionate power,
Swelling pleased, foolish from talking too much,
As populous as the crazy-creating wind itself
Of counter-beaches, water by the Temple.
Your worthy dedication to the Muses of Love
Silently, and so being, wisely, is perceived,
And the Earth in lust, though not a Paradise,
Remaining in human history, in that divine horror story,

Not always with any right perspective,

Becomes another place of beauty between extremes.

- Angel Ora

Section 35.

Shadows have the power to fake demonic messages,

Those varied divorced words from precipitating sources.
The breadth of a thing of idol-worship,
The solid law, or rather a code,
To ship off after being banished
Is what a righteous visionary will collect with the sparks left.
His distant soul reminiscences for the dead of his family,
In the aesthetics of music of a wind-swept harp
Of some days to improvise. His studied book blossoms
Within his heart where it is repeated often,
Where it does not tear up obscured as the first heavens.
And since he is mastering the whole, little by little,
The book is significant, and as silent as that future

For our children, and as ripe as our reading became.

- Angel Diana

Section 36.

None of the bravest yield up their life

To be controlled by relentless
Foul winter - instead the season is praised,
The light that is within, the God within has misted,
There was no rise in revolt yet, falling in degrees.
The strong enemy summer instead would punish or pardon
Orderly, fit, trustworthy cities - Laziness is great
To avoid being that it is close to death,
Yet sturdier reasons, more-than-rational beam plain To make, as long as you are not forbidden to make,
Dispatched speeches to the congregation,
Triumphant greetings as you open with another conversation
Creating conferences about the important subjects you read,
Not trying to change your neighbor by what you read.

- Angel Elaine

Section 37.

An ignorant flight can be blamed,

For all of the problems of the world,
It fills you full of limitations of disgrace
For the breath, which is life,
Of a sympathy that grapples
Gaining and losing for book-rewards,
So you donate all your money to charity,
The open and essential - love itself, the greatest house
Of the censored blood of the wretch
In a storm who married you to her,
To have made dangerous role-model signs
Was the troubling part - part of a bigger whole,
A well-meaning quarrel with God - suddenly early And original, all thought-out,
The imposter's false case has had always to keep in time

With the stormy realms of heavenly dwelling Not a God of the sky, but of the mountains and terrain,
Wandering over them as the emptying continues.

- Angel Amy

Section 38.

Thousands are thinking well because they read.

How loud the places are that are unfit for reading,
A good life is restless for charities perpetually safe A force by a giant from the past,
A presence, sometimes present,
Is proof to protect, with psychic defenses, your tomorrow,
Or your favorite entertainment, a game
Of the baseball team, you know every stat,
Or the happy parts of life, though the word "happy"
Is not in your vocabulary.
Another pussy-cat child is annoyed
By the light at the end of the tunnel in a sorry way.

Forcing nothing like a dainty Winter,

But in mutual fashion as sex
As my own, our ancient sadness, as if from sex,
The discovery, we need not discovery, alas,
Of a peaceful world-to-come, yet broken tally of a watch.

- Angel Marion

Section 39.

A causeless Quixotic fault and a dying friend's hand

Close an argument, a subject in natural Gnostic kindness.
The leveling of the sea by more guilty enemy days
Did unloose some knowledge not opinion
Loyal to your own prophecy-mug-game
That good deliberate judges over their white radiant ground
Would so aim powerfully to pause,
Whose opinion not knowledge must outlive
All holy creatures on the plains
Since our God-begun breaths cannot be joined.

Those forthcoming conscious failures

Cannot be reported with joy - we grieve your usual loss.

- Angel Arielle

Section 40.

Even at the wrong house,

Jealous, my failure is as triumphant
As the consciousness-changing stuff over the years.
My forgotten tired old figure still
Finds its schools of the ages to create in crisis
As the streets' faces proclaim their care,
As a windy sweep colors my oaths
To talk to the schizophrenic.
The gentlest sight for a place to dissolve, not to fix Soul-body note angrily in the margin
This commonplace country with ugly glass buildings.
Wonder caused your hurt so accept its narrow terms,
Or reject them, your choice as always.

The beautiful charge of Walt over the sea, to chase

Festivals, blessed with more life,
Entertained by a mad preacher as by a thing.

- Angel Arielle

Section 41.

Like the Mind, the colorful sea's business

My Boy, is to waste away because it was used up.
It is a good and so useful mix, its action is to compel,
Against any kind of contemplation,
The odd planet Lucifer to apprehend eternity.
The general tossed away sea on a distressful morning
When you groggily eat your breakfast
Is a surge of sexual-sadness for worse fellows
Receiving the divine name,
Their access to my enemy Time,
No occasion for dancing with the wise-fool Savior,
Nor for safely reading quietly in a corner,

When Fortune's instruction provokes you.

She must practice without preparation her function
By furnishing proofs, the facts upon the page.

- Angel Honey

Section 42.

Birds follow a purposeful way, so does everything else.

It is what is needed to be given to us,
When the cloudy lands
Where God first appears, clear up,
Slow pulses shake them as if from early childhood
Demanding they begin at the beginning a campaign
To make their powerful and so poetic damning melody
Rise up and oversee the enemy day.
Then their exalted current blasts,
Making it harder to read in quiet,
Breaking the tally, the light, into happy image-voices
Speeding each hour in thousands and soaring cheerfully

As the God-solemn sunshine

Sinks down on the shore in large offering
Not separated anymore from the Ocean's pour
But Monotheistic, unfortunately rushing
And negligently continuing on
As the next generation does reading their own books.

- Angel Diana

Section 43.
Measureless science, only good for prediction and control,
has a muscular condition, a tremor;
And being old, old and divine, your endless conversation and
unsentimental feelings for it
Have their beautiful strange strengths to return you, like
your thoughts, to needed doubt,
In broader words, our charities, its sensitive vegetable
amplitude.
Again your fascination gleaming for the fierce transendental
land
Of an illiterate noisy yard comes back for the beauty wanted,
though undesirable.

With a breeze of admiration, not of mimesis, substance

waves
Lightly over time its own good useful but annoying moment
Coming again to summon its friend who will be missed
everyday.
- Angel Kathleen

Section 44.
The black bread morning unfolds but does not develop its
heavenly huge, Falstaffian
Serene clouds that thoughtfully clear the ground.
And the distant firmament is our unlose-able fresh residence,
It bares the unforgettable shade, is self-ordained, self-made,
Unquiet sounds in the air make unprepared words as deeds
Circle in courses, drawn to no end, much like our all-toohuman caresses.
Deep-instructed, with experience from reading more books
than others, here we stand in doubt, we are okay with that,
In our spots reserving for its hopeful fruits, which never were
apples.
- Angel Ora Ora Tiferetot

Section 45.
The lucky-to-be-named-so flower-seasons throw up and out
their softest undemanded beauty
In vacant ages like schools of years remembered,
Which cannot be stressed enough,
Their consciousness-changing secrets to transform all in an
annoying light provided and traditional,
And remaining strength to follow nasty fortune's useful gifts
having now badly come,
Pussy-cat youth's advantage found, or not, yielding promised
imaginative futures
Where longer walking sands of ancient places full stretched
out too long, but not for their plots to be read,
To a choice location, a foolish journey as all journeys are, will
fix, like a devil, their courses,
Effortless, like selections of the early evening when we go to
bed.
- Angel Ora

Section 46.
Our necessary medicated phrenzied reasons, more-thanrational, like to guess at heaven,
Peaceful spaces high and terrible, tossed in golden Ruler
shapings,
Dawns outspreading which do not kill us, the skies in a silent
wonder which is painful for space,
Words, as deeds, unheard, not so powerful harmonics but I
am not a music critic.
In my feeble eyeballs which only look feeble, they are not,
and forehead softer with a box,
Is rev'rence fallen out the awful glaring of a near-deathexperience,
Is simple gloom around us, morning tea and pumpernickel,
now making, a catastrophe itself, turns to wander, like the
ancient sailor,
For solace o'er earth's own from bright and so liked apparel.
- Angel Kabbalah

Section 47.
The cat-creeping summer has spirits untranscendental and
beautiful-strange,
A bothering blushing blossom, a grief resolved by reciting

poems,
The sleek and bright sunny fantasy which is crucial
From solitary unpresidentlike elements.
A Mother's bliss, her feet to touch,
Her sweetest narcissistic echoes, the divinity is precious but
not three,
A million guesses are heavy windy for only madmen,
Eternities and homes and our listening assemblies to which
we do not listen,
Powers unchristianlike of all, mysterious unhappiness.
- Angel Yafah

Section 48.
Hope-flowers are unnesessary, and she too abandoned the
brown-shaded mountainsides, like poets do their poems,
In motion delicate as I for the dark serene of God,
That wide secret should be told, it is only a shapeless beauty
better than any kind we have today
A heaven for the sky-youth whom I find gentle for tomorrow.
Into the streams of echoes go things of victory, only good for
ignorant generals,

Yet, other thoughts of the minds we do have inhabit all our

hours in the vale,
So good with answers and fighting that to my own love-star
unwisely
I too must go forth, to where the cheeks of memory are
checked.
- Angel Elaine

FINIS