it is dark beyond which
to breath in
the mute foils
of night

churning with
constant cicada–

the vibrating of
two membranes–

i am not lost nor wonder;

i know this moment:



it is time to be the person you were always supposed to be.

.





































"                                                  You're a monster                                               ."





                                                          



                                                             "Maybe"

























































­
















.

this world alive with night
tinly bruised by
chimes seems to
wither seems to

hold the ready mystery of
life between its hips mouth
full of lips steaming up one
spectral flower of luminous self;

(i wander and suddenly am)

the garden is rough
momentarily i make a fist
of five fingers

somewhere there is a sound
a totally superfluous noise

i yawn and turn through clouds
of just spring air towards the
bashful eclipse of silence

i count my fingers and there is my hand
i mark it and pleasantly ingest the pale
twinkling swaddled of the wide sky;

how many days are there?
how many nights(and a petal
catches in the groove of my palm)?

it's thick
i'm drunk
the night is alive with
world is tinly
bruised by chimes


(And purple easily conquers the horizon

have you ever seen or felt
or pressed apart the lips
of dying girls who
23 years less of life
split tenderly–
wetly caving
into

         eyes
hair mouth
shoulders spine
a tiny breath
fluttering lids
tense cording of
sinew

dancing sharply
pulled sternly after
wrist
hands onto
scalp

the buzzing
of coarse
tightness
against lips(mylips)

and dies
one dying
final revolution
of ecstatic
breathing

(who
in her mounded purse

tastes of salt
sweet and

                              earths




?

the house is quiet the light is bedside
warm outside the sound is barely of
chimes (i can hear) i can feel the hot
coil of your leg snaring the almost not
groan of the big room is dusty with the
whisker of a cat shifts your hips (into
my hips) inching slumber deeply into
heat of closeness to body white and
shoulders cut curved of alabaster
grooving into the pale basin of your
chest at the base end of your neat neck
almost like talcum like light powder of
dusting the immense club of sleep is
your wrists are a tiny potion of
thousands of years of silence only to
live through 23 years a girl sleeping
enormously the room doesn't change
doesn't move barely a bit or budge
even more than slightly than a mote at
a time (4:00am) i kiss i cull i cup your
shoulders drinking the burning wine
of your heaped hips into mine
knowing someday you will be dead.

.




















                                                         "So,                                                         what

kind                       of                                                ****

              are                                       you


                                into


                                                                                                          ?"





                                                




                                                 "Consensual ****."

little blue pale who
hurt knees(              )inside
slightly of
purple feels alone
sitting slightly
knocked,


mouth doing
the totally brutal
girl thing:  

                      your estuary

in which sleeps titanic dreams
of glaring night
****** summer
and unkempt
                sprin
                         G


shines so easily
with heavy beauty


and tinily utters
each new careful star of eve :                          (your hair is a deep mystery;
                                                        ­                       like the sea–
                                                            ­                   shook,
                                                          ­                     folding
                                                         ­                    )(endlessly
                                                     ­                           into folded
                                                          ­                      coils o' gold stuff made         )





tucked
suddenly
into
the
quiet
crook
of
a
book
store



                                       ,"I like your nose ring."