.






















































"I write all this beautiful **** about love but really I just want to ****."








































.

(i see you)
this old
unawkward
lady of
sagging *******

who , "you'd think"

i

"would" know "better."

seeing this boy:
gets naked
with the hands of
drink.

drooling, vomits
              ––

into nothing

sinks.

who am i
that i have been
my own self

in dark rooms
,perhaps,
reading

or

in silence
only

but

wanting to


SPEAK

"In most people all I find is as sense of vacancy–a vapid emptiness. To call them stupid would a be gross exaggeration. Many of the most intelligent people I've ever met display this same quality. Simple would be a better term–they lack substance, complexity.

I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to meet a person of real substance."

.




























                                        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,