i am dead tomorrow
i wonder will i
live again the next day
or the night beyond perhaps?where

there is a silver stair
reaches through cloud
and shevel of
moonlight

up into a garden
of lilacs sleeping
betwixt a girl
and her thighs

a song will start
of dawn over the
valley of her
hips springing

into each lifeless
trestle of flower
the shaking lurch
of life to live

through jerking
happenstance of
body and make
in some other

garden between
the hips of
girl flowers
and down by

the lewd shoot
of stem
their seed to break
and life to end.

your lips



             (the word)






are the smoothless mastery
of the sea breaking
into silence constantly
their loud sharpness;

quaking with rush of
moon hush, the fierce
treble of wave and
night beam

–glow broken
through unmute
shoveling of
lip;

and feel (where deep)
of green darkness
and the silver plucking
of woken thread.

"where were you?" i was the cooly over of mouth–the wind–
that beneath which chants of ***
incessantly

the world

in pink creases of easy Spring.

makes me to lay down
in waters of thistle
and hollyhock

the crude and sinuous
vehicle of sing.

edges just something
from under darkness
where over it wears
a girl in 22 years of
****** by brutal slender
beauty:

words and with lips
mouth around thick
and says,"

I want you to *** on my face
and make me pretty                               ."

it hurts to be loved.
it hurts to be, loved
it hurts, to be loved
it, hurts to be loved
.it loves to be hurt

turns leaf over who through rain divides the world into muster and bluster of almost autumn nights thick with near darkness; it cannot feel to shift or move a muscle only to roll under the deep muzzle of rain and stem.

"You're not what I expected."






















"What should I have been like?"