likes to be under,
O which
rough hands

grow thicker
more with

hair and fiber
of health

parting within darkness
its plait;

divulging

                      1

effulgent shard
of cheek

(


          through which
          heart and
          flower

                           speak
                                       ))

simple is works hard
and stupidly grins
at little this joke and
little that story of
fishing or going to
the zoo one summer
with his kids–

breathing and is
alive he (simply)

smiles and knows
without knowing

it is good to live

my alive:

   this awakeness seems to breathe

of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked

by peach parted
over pit stinging;

the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:

has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,

lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;

whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva

–throat can't

               but to

                    unkeep

"enjoy what you can," says some curly headed mouth
open over the hard shaft of her camera
a thousand times a day
snapping
some
lookatme's:

                                    




                                         (and never stops *******.)

"*******," this if not alive if not dying of each buzzed ripple
of breath which tensely erupts
into uncoiling fold of morning
over the silent chord of sunrise

seems if not speaking seems
to eternally youth, breaching
the seamless cording of
a short girl's throat–says,

"alright,"

and
        "i
wish you
l o v  e   d

    me."

"I don't know how much longer I can do this."

who forgot a word their lips trying to
find stumble stiffly up into the mouth
of a gun's barrel saying,

"Someday you'll see it."

"I'm not always very nice."

eating you out in the back seat of my car
your strum stinging
from where your voice
is quickly singing

i pluck and seem
– i reach and touch
– i, still and clean,

finger the itch stitching
of your corded and
dasmer throat .

i hurt with
knees to
garble an' streak;

to make in mouth
(where all sound i' meek)

my fingers
(as deep
in your throat)

as you can keep        .

"Maybe someday I'll find someone that actually cares about me."

these things are my house, the
house of my body and my flesh
swing singing
singed and swaying
over grass cut freshly short

the knots and roots
of who trees blister
through the soil and meet
with feet
their rough and earthen body.

there is a light piercing the dull
night crisply hurt with twinging
of star song shaking and excellent
inside the smooth nearness
of its dark skin;

my hands make quick fingers
into nice fists of daylight
catching the strummed humming
of its string sound–borne over
the mouth of a mountain–
vibrates and intense.

i walk and the chilled asphalt
is the tiny sound of my feet,,
these halls of night
a rembrancer
and so newly full of nothing
stink with rose and thyme.

i am alive–
i hurt to love and to love
is hurting; my dear i love you
i told you a thousand times
(and a ****)

i'm sorry because both.

i will live
–i guess maybe–
or i will die becoming
worm pursued eating
the earth as eating becomes
me

the            new          grass

which
(freshly cut)
grows under
the house

of your body.

I will not die.

My hands will go out from me
into dark waters becoming
two rays of piercing light;

They will dance electrically as
unbreakable columns of smoothness
sing saying,
“though love be a day, do not fear,
we will go amaying.”

"The only reason I haven't committed suicide is because I'm terrified of death."

"There's nothing wrong with a ****–
just don't fall in love with one."

pallid makes her love fist open
steaming up from the hips
with milk and a little red hair;

jaw distending on rapid
convulsions of white chest

turning to suddenly drink
her own blood from
your

h i p s.

each new kissing makes two new fists of brutal night alive and hurrying
with the hustle bustle of dying brains wistfully drunk and full of nothing
but how many lurid drips of some dumb ******* **** or if she'll swallow
later tonight when you're alone and her hair makes a mess of the starlight
quickly between the **** ******* of night and you're trying to sleep
but outside it's a city
and the sun is almost.

"I feel like I've been waiting my whole life just to hear somebody say, 'I can't wait to see you tonight.'"

somewhere (
quietly)
there is a suicide,

the doors won't open,

and everywhere

it is raining.

to beingly is
to dyingly make of
white flesh

a most brutal mute song–

arms and hands behind
music of throat
–full of fingers–

pushed fingers into short throat,
deeply;

trying to
and openly
needs of, spit

where unsoftly comes
and fingers fit.

"Unfortunately, in reality, it doesn't really matter how you feel on the inside; it's what you project outwardly that has meaning. No one can look inside you. They cannot see or hear what you do not divulge. You are entirely in control of the way people perceive you.

Speaking and giving off of yourself is the most powerful mechanism you have in your hands. You can get the things you want and control your life simply by adjusting what's on the edifice.

You can be a ****** up wreck on the inside, but as long as you do not let this out, as long as it is not perceivable in your character, no one can know.  

In fact, to the contrary, you can, despite these feelings, build an image of confidence and power. This is what others come to know, and this becomes the shared reality."

"Goodnight."

(i am alive)there are three
thick fingers of dawn
pushing into the throat of
dawn gags on the spending
of a stream

          –steaming–

profuse
and

        Red.

"The making of anything beautiful is always accompanied by a lot of difficulty, ugliness and pain."

i shall love you
that you have been
after my own heart
as the tatse of the sea:

easy and deep beyond words;

laughing in shoals and
turgid in memory.

you are light
and beyond most things
you are the smooth
incomparable
disaster of 23 years
of screaming girlness.

you are my own,
and my flesh–
you make me.

waiting for listens to hear,
for her quick feet–a doe
in white skin

thinks it's
pretty to be
choked and

loves
t   o
sw al l o w

"No one really wants to be in love. They don't really want someone to care about them and think about them. Most people prefer disinterest.

Make somone the focus of your attention and attend to their feelings and needs–they will be terrified of you.

Nothing frightens a person more than the feeling of being the true center of attention.

The feeling of having somone really looking at, observing, them.

No, they would prefer someone who has their own life. Somone who makes the perfunctory gesture of love. Some flowers here, a compliment there; but real, true attention–no one wants that.

To those who are true lovers this is a painful reality we encounter with each new love. We must re-learn restraint. To control our desire to shower another with affection and attention. For as surely as we do, as surely they will turn away from us.

No one wants love–really."

t

                                                                                                                                h




i
     s





                                                           O




hh
o                                                          w



aboutof



                                                                  (half-





)s



                     t

  a
                   r
                                                    edmadlywhichsky



is

2nite


                  ,





                              i wonder carefully with heart


if its

                              most chaste



                                                                   own eyes





might pierce the
veil of youth


and bring where sin is rash
the touch of death

–the dust of ash.

.






























                                      "I will be great."










































.

i am my own hands,

only when they are alive with you.

"You did this little thing, when I kissed
you after I had gone down on you,
where you ****** your juices off the
tip of my nose. It was one of the most
****** things I've ever experienced."

Stupid:

the raw and beautifully dumb

      (i want to hurt you)

    .A flower that's
a lot like
your mouth
and throat
choking on me;

my pistil and thread
pulling into
which heart tries to make
love from–
                     hips and head.

.






















































"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,

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)–––

this moment is drunk
and occasionally says
dark things of remembering

about pushed apart legs
in April when it was alive
and something loved it more
than living–cooing even

into its soft ear vaguely
promises of forever and
keeping through death
its hands and lips and feet

     (whoosh)

but goes through the mouth
and nose hot dollops of dreamless
wine occluding speech, taking

tightness and smashing it over
the head with a memory of
a coy poem that tasted like the
sea in your mouth when

it sat on your face and
it was the only time it was ever
–truly–
                

                Alive.

each noon sleeps through drowsy
and sharp autumn with its hair
in manifolds bright steaming with
chirps of tiny color

thin listening
(the moon is
thinner than)

       A blade

turned whitely through ending
air of night upon its sharp shaft,

only to deflate
in beginning which
erects the dawn by

its own most thinness
of a blade of light
light that cuts the top

of trees into day and
                                     Night
                                    (night)

some kissing,
of flesh parts
under my tongue

–finger fulll–

tastes something
salty a little
musk and slick
through curtain
of sharply

tiny, cut
closely to skin

and rubs my cheeks raw.

i love you
And

(after ******* your throat)

you are so pretty
in short dark
hair eyes
cut by running

with little
rills of
eyeliner
and sweat;

cheaks alive with
glowing of
luster and fair
youth–perfuse;

firm and supple
through the
hip and belly:

i want to be
always kissing
and tasting
deeper
into your thighs.

you speak
says the rain
very heavy
out of the north
over the tops of
trees into the
forest becomes
the soil filled
with nostril
of pine,

and the street goes
merry outside
the classroom
the wind and pane
groaning with
rain

a single tiny
figure crosses quickly
into the warm
hands of laughter
coat filled with
themselves

and outside
Autumn is constantly
dying constantly
pushing into
glade and fen

her colorful
mouth and
long thinness
of day.

let me think,


you are flesh
not flesh as
blood or
bone entwined

by limb, but
flesh as soul
through body
and lips–

i still shall repeat
(which is my cheeks)
through this cold
night, where rain is,

if even though

       (here)

is where only
the cold rain is


kiss
.