i love to die because
i love to kiss
in you where

(death sleeps)

wide and white and waiting

to kiss me

because but i
love to kiss you into
which sleeps summer and dying

(who autumn shall meet–dying)

cannot go but goes
anyway (the tacit
ripple of sublime time)

from whence the corded
bullet of your mouth
screams chocking with
poppies and crocuses

streams a dark and fathomless lips—

(i would like to part.i would like to enter)

darling
i
Love You

some field full of grass
grass leaping
and spits from the
soil

          (or)

which hurts to least
to see and fold
within sight

the curt splinter
of girl hips and
wider than death

they eat the spring
into which becomes
Summer by

the scrape and spark
of their tuff
tinder.

your mouth is nice.

it spills

(deepeasy)

over the evening

and feels as

moonjerked nightjabbed

with wide dust of

warm fingers.


its curt;
its cut

of sunspear

drinksleeping

and magic hurt

pulls over kiss

pushes through

starsabled and winged

dreaming of nightfist.


it does the moon thing
and curls with
bright rushes
of lip.

its splendor is cool mute
and filled with
lavender.

c'est;
c'est saison;
c'est saison du veux.

and where it sleeps,
my mouth sleeps too.

"because those who worship weakness should never be surprised they serve those who do not."

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.