.

























                              "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

  
  
                            


                              "Taking pictures of naked girls."






























.

some girls taste like all girls taste like
every girl, differently, the same;

each smells the least exactly like the last,
smells swelling with a pinch of brine
between hot breaths of a Summer ocean;

and how good the ocean feels running
faster than curved orangeness of pinched
pinking hotness down your chin while it
rustles jook quivers and sighs heaping
one exquisite leap of its spine into each;

(let's say basically i've been a lot myself
on my knees at the edges of beds eating.)

your way the who the body
swells the
lifts the
prurient
skirt

of my thoughts
with
the niggling
wafer of
your thighs

feel better than
my cheeks
can feel the air
(and i can only breath when)
they are untogether together.

feeling–and your back does–how
do you feel
about how
feelingly it

musters razors
in my skin when
your *** also?      (and how can i
                                describe how it
                                feels like joy
                                made some
                                supple real of
                                realness in two
                                halves of a broken
                                perfect?                      )


it defies words.

there is no cheap no word no sentence
made that by does not at describing it
become.

i am myself, and can i say how much
that is a better thing when i am between you? are

And how can describe it?

the way it turns so deeply into creases
of divinest flesh;

half feet
half knees

upon who hurts to pray inside you
my love fist?

it cannot be said nor sung nor anything
but tasted into one swoon of many tongues
upon it–

my mouth has lived whole years not so pleasant as five minutes between your hips.

At a quarter past eleven AM Charles took the stairs down to the lobby. Spare, yet stridently attired, he moved with the august vigor of a man only a third of his sixty-two years. Smart shoes, brimming smile and shoulders laden in the heavy weave of his sharp overcoat, Charles exchanged a quick wink with the precisely groomed lobby girl.

"Always a pleasure." He quipped.

"Always." She replied.

Drawing a deep breath of the frigid air, Charles paused as he pressed his shining wingtips into the undisturbed palate of that previous night's latest snowfall. Looking around excitedly, admiring the deep shimmer of that brisk morning:

Charles was struck down immediately by a large volume public transport–moving at an unusually high velocity.

.




























                "I love you."



                "If only it were that simple."
























.

.




















































" your poetry *****.

it's like you're trying not to make sense on purpose."














































.

some girls are like
the uncoming together
of deep mountains

(there are where

occaissionly it's been


flowers.          ) their hips



that part

at the parting

of boy ribs—




.