girl necks feel like real smooth
under fingers a gentle spindle
a cool pillar of lust when you
creep up them into those tiniest
beginning hairs(at the starting
scalp a little bit courser than the
tousled ocean of finer silken rills
which pour fiercely from)and
you eat the completely small
and unserious round nub of the
back of their head and you pull
the whole teeming perfect sad
sphere into yours

                                and an entire
                                garden of
                                kissing erupts

                                          !

Waiting For Oblivion
in a frock of wrinkles sits
wearing through silently
minutes
toward
forever

i wish i could talk to you

at a set low evening

                                    (longlean evening)

                                     the city is let out
                                                                  
                                     a distilled yowl

                                     frothing neon
      
                                     glib determined

                                     for skin and the svelte curl of a girl's lips
                                     as i pass her on the street and my lids
                                     flick a smart wink on every inch of
                                     legs sprouted of a waist curved
                                     right at the nicest angle
                                     carving the pallid air
                                     in a short skirt
                                     and has a
                                     mouth
                                     i'd like to get inside of curling on my asIpass wink

hand which by is felt the stem
is set crimson at thorned *****
red so like the rose suddenly at
lips gleaming supping feverishly
at pains sorest pleasure(the palm
who riven draws even deeper the
pointed inch of agony to bone fine
white as a silk worm skin) like a
lily stupid with *** the comparable
hurt of which a hand that likes to
bleed

cool you
feel like drunk
with poppies air
and you crawl up
into fathomless miles
of Summer mornings you
creep with vine and thistle
you latticed with ivy groan
with young muscles tight against
bone and joint you ceaseless merry
golden and rough silken breaths of
dawn you are fine and pale and you
have nice shoulders and feel like Spring
inside you feel like wet and perfectly fits
me inside of you there is just enough room for me

dawn immortal dying invulnerabley fragile dawn
that comes an immense fragrant bloom foisted
spontaneously mountains briefly with flowers over
a slow lake glassed in certain unmoving tranquil
colours