.




























                                        Pleasure is the church of slaves.





                                          Church is the pleasure of slaves.
































.

"I am alive,"
says the
tiny
rapid poem
of your wrists;

fair and not fair alike–
both soft
and hard with
beating
inconstantly
heart,

      (you will i will)

which won't but briefly
kiss perhaps
**** perhaps

saying lewd thing of
mouth through ear
to air;

art which
must have both
light and darkness–paired,

speak again sea
the ears inside
cannot hear
the certain dark sound

within you
(almost)

as shifts
almost

the air of your lungs
to rise through
dusted night of sleep

and

in certain care
the darkness of your spoken–keep

sweep of swept
in doze'n lair,
where ice is free
and snow has care

in coldest cool,
of chip alive with face   ,ice wears
a short


                (eyes)


blue skirt nudely
implying lips

of chaste laughter
crisp with hurtling
twinge of Spring

dead between
two pillars of
nice femurs

stiff with
stuff of newly
braiding autumn air

"Nobody will ever really love you,
because people really only love
themselves."

flower the hands and lips cannot
contain the pistil always running
red over the cusp of your budding
blossom,
              .

Even in notSpring,
when it shouldn't be full of pollen;
but little bee by mind of flesh
reminds your pricking to always
burn a little needling with
incessant urge to fill the
dark space between thigh:

(there is something slendersmooth
and easy to be inside of–

                    (like the earth)––

                             ( like death)–––