some hot ugly between nothing
and nothing goes life
its arms perspiring longways
and shortways
its blab
and
meter

smoking with a short
jeer between its legs
hurt in the dark grass of Spring
is all around it(and

Something is large

and

Something is small

inside it
there are many insides
)and there is a wet
girl around a dry glass
long fingers apart the nape
of its sloping droop
the earth comes undone

and there is a girl
and there is a hot blab
and there is the great red reeling rictus

of a far drop from a near pier(

   )it can see and can you see

The how longshort of the hot blab ugly
between the red reeling jeer of the some
ugly life there is a goes

.




















                                           ­                                                                 ­                






                                          ­                is this real






















                                      ­                    (am i really alive)






























.

.    my soul effuses, and things even drunker than Spring have emerged   .































































­










                                                                 ,

how dose you think a day begins? its
little teeth
smally thin
(as grass between)
the throats of men?

does you think it green as blades of thinness wide
,sprouted mutely?

does you go out to fields and collect it?
in your hands do it shake and quivers?
(does you bring it up to your mouth,
and does you kiss it?
entering the thick copseness of your pallet?)

who many days you been in hurt verdant roughness of coarse forests?
(you been amongst em sleeping the hot hair is full of drowsy longness
and your muscles slackly follow into deeep chambers of distilled nuthing?

you been out back? by the glade brush and the doe mouths
are white with steep petals of lingering health?

"take itup your mouth," goes the drawn trees, drawing even deeplyer
into the quant tussle of wakeless hours where a twitch don't and not
even a cat.

)the forest goes and does you ever think how those thighs
combed with coarse wreaking of bleeding youth
tasted like copper tastes hot at your tongue climbing your whole mouth
into its neat dumbness?

(the Summers there are millions of Summers left and does you think
how

a    day


begins
?

.






































                                                " This has got to stop. "


                                                " I know.                        "

















































.

the"fu"ck(U
                     )17

whyn't.let's

cuz yerI'm A **** "we"re
hangin by
a long fingernail,nail
,nailin U
withaaa
finger(tasteit)
don'*** taste?                                                               Good

i feel (body)
the way it
between my hands

performs the youth thing: life. The

                   uncouth thing, life. The

body way it
needs between hands
its.

the inexorable flinchless hurt of its marching finitely
--into bruises of hands--
its own hands.

that they might make
,by the coming together of palms

,a softness more supple than sleep
(a finite more extending than

                                    infinites deep,