taste feels to reach to
tongue
deeply between kiss

      (lipsnotlips)

where least sleeps spring
and calls by mouth

your hips to sing,

                              ,

                              ,

                              ,

                              .

One dumb ******* mouth speaks
does eat
the face by

two thin chords
of pink sweating
easily .

it yammers it says
something about
the weather whether

or not
it might rain

heaping into
the pinched
nooseness

the fat trill
thinness of
its head:


sleeeeeep.

i have always loved the summer who
walks through white splendor the hot
looseness of rough *** in a cheap motel
somewhere in Oregon.

feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.

(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )

to break and to be broken by–

upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–

(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them

where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)

But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with

the uncertain darkness
of life:

girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean

poem,

              


                  i
                   t






seems to
bright seems to
trill with–

poem and
a little song;

often and curiously to struggle beneath
the wide sound of its voice:

its own letter,

its own verse.

each eye precise;
each eye cut with
the dull rub of
sharp blackness

(eats the skin overunder)

the pale chip of cheeks
peppered and kissed
with freckles the mute
bruise of youth and
21 years of girlness

(it smooth lips rubs over the teeth
and says,

        "I really like your tattoos."

i love you there is
something undark

more

unseemingly possible
to speak which
makes your soul–

it the
noose which
hangs by all the nights and days

to be rough
to be wholly of
hard and unhard made;

it want it to touch
(as inside touches)

each small and trembling
****** of me;

and i want it to feel
(as valkyries feel)

hurt beautiful ugly and strong.