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.

feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.

(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )

to break and to be broken by–

upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–

(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them

where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)

But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with

the uncertain darkness
of life:

girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean

poem,

              


                  i
                   t






seems to
bright seems to
trill with–

poem and
a little song;

often and curiously to struggle beneath
the wide sound of its voice:

its own letter,

its own verse.

each eye precise;
each eye cut with
the dull rub of
sharp blackness

(eats the skin overunder)

the pale chip of cheeks
peppered and kissed
with freckles the mute
bruise of youth and
21 years of girlness

(it smooth lips rubs over the teeth
and says,

        "I really like your tattoos."

i love you there is
something undark

more

unseemingly possible
to speak which
makes your soul–

it the
noose which
hangs by all the nights and days

to be rough
to be wholly of
hard and unhard made;

it want it to touch
(as inside touches)

each small and trembling
****** of me;

and i want it to feel
(as valkyries feel)

hurt beautiful ugly and strong.

"You've done a lot of terrible **** to me."


"Oh really, like what?"
















"Telling me you love me."

3 loves because
you are not one body
single hands or
two lips only;

you are(perhaps)

a multitude.

perhaps a gallon o
of incredulous which
i become by

each tremendous
drove of your hips
that eat like snow

my figure to become still.

more still than to live and that
i shall lay forever as a flake as like
to melt upon and be the new old soil
between each pressed sole of boys and girls
in love they make the curious racket

of life. i would like to make in you
before turns my hands to ash and
not even one of your bodies

can h(old

"Because nobody really loves anyone.

       We love the idea of the person.

                        The actual person

                                  just gets

                                     in the

                                       wa

                                        y

                                          ."

there is laughter a girl fills the naked silence with her shoulders through
the angled tress of her white flower (a rose that) whose mouth speak
saying to live through careless moments of hurt sunlight: SUMMER the
curling sigh of ******* **** fingers between where sleeps her sonnet and
her hair.

that winter kills a flower
(there is a song bird
                ) it  


loves(somewhere in the
darkness ) only

purer only fleeter with
(whose beak snares upon)
snowfingers pressed with              (silence)

white lips around
the thick pistil                                                    (and calls Spring)




                                              To Die

                                           (               )

"I want you to know: I never forgot."






                                               "I know."
                                                            ,
                                                            .

                                                            '







                                                            .

this new
the slim body of
thorough unbroken
tremors

seems


it

itseems

like as like
unseemly
coils of
brute laughter
the languid burst
after *******

and

serene pitches of
in the winter when
first grows
first fingers
into tense coldness
of taught muscles

the love fist

       (uncurling)

through stark air,

A rose.

comes not this, my dear because
like my dear because
as like rain as like
sheets of trembling
morning push over press
between pages of lilies
your white body of because

(i live) .

sleep this most and Spring to lie
with tired tress and awkward thigh
apart that bit where winter slept
but now where stock and petals kept

a garden small and fragile sleeps
a'tween the hull and meadows deep
tha' bumbles bri' wi' nettled buzz
an' blooms with light an' shocks o' fuzz

a little rill there constant speaks
of need to want for constant peaks
(as like the bee that tends to pistil
the water feels to drink of thistle)

and feel the full when sharply stuck
by root and stem of urgent pluck

two or three cheap men sit saying
about one night
******* some old
sunburnt gal

says one long thought
of an old man
murdered by
two white lips

chapped lips on the
spit of the world his
hands were young once

nice once on the young necks
of girls made by long drinks
brandy wine and copper blood

(and the shrill wisp of a flower
is in his hair as
he
the old man who
murdered by
two lips

gets up from drunk and goes
to  the withered primrose of some
summer ago when his long

and cool muscles blossomed
amongst tired evenings and
almost night was quick with
hot music of stars and brilliant trifles

. And looks he the old white
who man by lips
murders

into the distinct crow
of his shrunken
face a mirror

a mirror that
his face

does a single
supple


tear,

               .


  

        ,

2wo deep thighs of night
hold in their crest
my mouth to instantly linger
less than to leave
only

of lust which
to taste
i

(healthless droll and constantly)

am my lips
between secret folds
of darkness
hung with

a crisp shingle
of Spring light
(whom Shakespeare
might said, "A
star danced,
and under that wuz I born.")

tasting as to taste what flavor that
what tastes like sea on scorch'd flat.

.















































"It's so hard because I've loved so many people, so intensely.

And not one of them ever really loved me back."
















































.

what could be more ridiculous than

this moment?the

sunmoon bloodfingers and

fucklovely

spate of effulgent  starlight; Darling that

your lips suddenly
seem to do? (my hands

the curling
of a cute cut
in clear water

a slendering
band of crimson

tracing the arcuate heap
of life's reeling–

caving to fill
in blistering flens
of brilliant
dying
instants–

,"I love you." the sand
a beach occasionally
the back seat of an old
car the sleep fitfully
morning of rising
too early into your mouth
a flower gleams by
broken of silence
sunburnt and smelling
of aloe rubs
with the cool rub of
coiled muscles , . ;                            (my Dear
                                                                  w
                                                                      e will die)
                                                            the night will
                                                            trun upon a blade
                                                            of light; our
                                                            skin will bunch
                                                            into delicate
                                                            rills of dry
                                                            coils and
                                                            dust become.    .          .                   .









                                                      BUT,

dear i will hold (you) that impossible violence of the first quiet moment of
your lips that i held slightly in my own i will hold it in my heart that
unbroken stem of your frail laughter of supple vibrance made my dear i will recall the hurt wildness of your eyes and bruise of your soft voice
my dear i will hold in my tiny hands the vast pulpit of your hairsong
and bloodpoem my dear i will forget not the dull and moments each
i will remember the early mornings and lashed travail of each lashing
voice.


                                   (My Dear I Will Hold You.
                                    I Will Carry You.
                                    INTO THAT NEAT DARKNESS
                                    . i will cup the serene mystery
                                     of every stupid minute of our
                                     body and dear
                                     i
                                     w
             i
              l        
                l

.

"It hurts."





            "Do you want me to stop?"









                             "No."

there is nothing. And the wide night seems to toil outward into dark space of cut with just a strand of light it peers gauntly through rain up climbing with difficult precise silence seems to wander into the nooks and crooks its deep blanket of void stirs from which not a whisker or a claw of the fast cat sleep into nighting with deep purring of smooth body.

(how many more totally unimportant ultimately priceless nights will pass like from me out of lips and fingers into nothing without random seeming jounce of colorless minutes?

i can't know wouldn't want to even if tomorrow was the last sublime gasping of complete mundanity.

washing a dish is like that.

flush with hot hands in water drinks around fingers and lather coils in blossoms of vibrant tininess.

i cannot say i love Anyone or Anything perhaps i can love the rust of an old dying city the gable of a church girl and the collapsed rushing of immanent life.

or maybe i'll press into days and nights my body to be of some excellent stuff most economic.

nots now the time to think of such a thing two hours to wake from going work in a boring old amazing flash of perhaps the last moment you will live.

a poem doesn't mean a **** thing and

inside this face the body soft
the whiteness almost of
rose crismon
nearly drunk
and swinging




           (i can see stars)




two lewd random lips
part on kiss of taste like,
"do I like an ashtray?"

"No."

(rushing like steep twinkling of sleeping light–

how many more nights

i wonder )

you are like ( how can i say  )

a sliver of warmth made skin
of blood and bone between
**** shoulders of night.

i do not
know too much
or how shall i say

you are beyond words to speak

of a more nicely arcuate
a more darling
hips.

i think
(will not)
more or less of this
moment than
of your cheeks
apart against
mine in a stupid old
park i'm too drunk to
make your
cleft
stinging
kiss impossible to

my face by little flecks of
embrace by
warm wetness.

and steeply wonder on the rush of
a nimbly
stumbling darkness
rife with
too many stumbles of
rushing lightness–

i want to love you that–

i am dying this earth the stars and every

breath between;

we shall make of this
not anything particular
a shining instant
of touch

(to touch within )

some lewd of unimportant
totally

               Is.

.








































                "Where are you?"



































.

1 hill
wide up the ways
from the foot
in a dark wood

there is a mangy
old leopard blocks
my path to make

up into where there
from which
all surrenders come

and hand not makes
but breaks;
and all lips are lovely dumb

. (i wonder where not which
this glad and homely even stitch
such rouge perhaps to be
in golden morn and noontide's lee)

for there is borne upon its breast
that wager which we all must test;
not known but leapt
–from where within–
the leaping that old Denmark guessed.

and walked by nine for harsh travail
rings that cut at entered nail;

O this guide is poet made
who meets me in that sullen glade
and pulls me forth towar' deeper paths
where life is still and sin is paid.

thyme is a mint julep stirring
in my deep hand between
heat and laughter and the cool
                      
                                              
                 ­                             cool


                                              
               ­                                cool                                                          pen­umbra




of the enormous stiff
hot softly becoming
loose with Spring

C   I   T   Y,


carrying a warm shawl
a vapor like
breath of smoothly etherizing
evening coils around
limb and throat
neatly;

the alleys are alive with
old dirt
bent through
a thousand years of sifting
and grip thrifty of
bums

doused in becoming
night (they grouse
and grumble to
find some body
of shelter ,

stealing into the
weave of
can-liners
old breath and
stale coffee            );


life is drunk a little
me with remembering

remembering the
sudden coo of
the city to watch
it grow dark and
ribbed in shadows;

i am a splinter in the quick of the night.

burning with just the tonic
of vital nothing to be between
grass and dirt forever worm
pursued and forgotten of
lip and finger

(it makes me alive to know i will be dead ) someday.

my hands mix and jingle – i feel their blood and course with them.

And the City
is big
it
feels
like
so many daughters
apart and full of
my tongue:
i eat
and
become it;

my mouth is a silent crescent,
it eclipses sound
and does not say a thing.

i sip of the body of my hand

(who is thyme;

who is a mint julep;


deeply                        )


                 .

it's still moonlight–


pushing over a             "Yes"

into "baby please

**** me




harder


                    "

remember, ,Dear
my always
fingers

through tousled
coils of sunhair
rainlight and
damp moonmusic

fold foiling
with heart
to imbue
each crisp
limit of your
breast with
darkness–caving

(in even hollow stress
wear my ardorous dress
though my neat closings near
as like even's purpl'd tress;

moves mouth:
A song through silence peer
immutable sound by guide
to ship of cloaken choler steer
toward harbors safe an' placid tides )

–i shall that lives though but only an instant of bright health
live by light that speaks
sing saying

a chord struck
by divinest stroke

resonating through all your earthly sphere

that and though
i shall die
in your chest
my immortal pulse

will ever lie

i love you that you are like your body;
the hair between lips quick
with thighs around

folded

folding inside–to be

inside of folding lips
upon slick freakness
of dark soul

(the fragment of your mouth does
inescapably the totally arduous
fist of its bulb to spread comely
each instant of pulsing life
with brutal health    .                     )

i love and i wonder
(approximately)
half dead into your
muzzle the painful spurring
of my love root

;

and your neck reaches
,hurting, to your chin
with limbic sweat ;

i love it
and it is like your body
you are

the coiled foiling of death
to remind through immutable pressure
its constant grasp.


i love it
and that occasionally
i am the body

you like to be.

.
























                                       ­                                          t
                                                               ­                as
                                                              ­               t
                                                               ­                 EE
                                             ­                              a
                                                               ­                 C
                                              ­                         h
                                                               ­  feels as shape
                                                           ­    like shape does:
                                                           ­  as like winter fist;
                                                           a juniper wi' holly kisst
            
                                                                ­         Acurled
                                                         ­                w
                                                               ­               i
                                                ­                    th
                                          ­                                i
                               ­                                              n
                                                               ­ a    curl'd   sphere
                                                          ­                   t
                                                               ­          he
                                                              ­   locke o' love
                                                            ­            an'
                                                 ­                         f
                                      ­                                       u

                                                              ­           r
                                                               ­             l
                                                  ­                      e
                                         ­                                       d
                        ­                                                            fear
­                                  

                                                               ­                        et, un deux du pleure fus

                                                            ­ that hands should hurt
  
                                  where love is new














































.

To know life is to understand that we, each of us, is a lover, selfless, kind, demure–but also that we are, simultaneously, haters, selfish, cruel, avaricious; and that in that very contradiction, is life.

it is dark beyond which
to breath in
the mute foils
of night

churning with
constant cicada–

the vibrating of
two membranes–

i am not lost nor wonder;

i know this moment:



it is time to be the person you were always supposed to be.

.





































"                                                  You're a monster                                               ."





                                                          



                                                             "Maybe"

























































­
















.

this world alive with night
tinly bruised by
chimes seems to
wither seems to

hold the ready mystery of
life between its hips mouth
full of lips steaming up one
spectral flower of luminous self;

(i wander and suddenly am)

the garden is rough
momentarily i make a fist
of five fingers

somewhere there is a sound
a totally superfluous noise

i yawn and turn through clouds
of just spring air towards the
bashful eclipse of silence

i count my fingers and there is my hand
i mark it and pleasantly ingest the pale
twinkling swaddled of the wide sky;

how many days are there?
how many nights(and a petal
catches in the groove of my palm)?

it's thick
i'm drunk
the night is alive with
world is tinly
bruised by chimes


(And purple easily conquers the horizon

have you ever seen or felt
or pressed apart the lips
of dying girls who
23 years less of life
split tenderly–
wetly caving
into

         eyes
hair mouth
shoulders spine
a tiny breath
fluttering lids
tense cording of
sinew

dancing sharply
pulled sternly after
wrist
hands onto
scalp

the buzzing
of coarse
tightness
against lips(mylips)

and dies
one dying
final revolution
of ecstatic
breathing

(who
in her mounded purse

tastes of salt
sweet and

                              earths




?

the house is quiet the light is bedside
warm outside the sound is barely of
chimes (i can hear) i can feel the hot
coil of your leg snaring the almost not
groan of the big room is dusty with the
whisker of a cat shifts your hips (into
my hips) inching slumber deeply into
heat of closeness to body white and
shoulders cut curved of alabaster
grooving into the pale basin of your
chest at the base end of your neat neck
almost like talcum like light powder of
dusting the immense club of sleep is
your wrists are a tiny potion of
thousands of years of silence only to
live through 23 years a girl sleeping
enormously the room doesn't change
doesn't move barely a bit or budge
even more than slightly than a mote at
a time (4:00am) i kiss i cull i cup your
shoulders drinking the burning wine
of your heaped hips into mine
knowing someday you will be dead.

.




















                                                         "So,                                                         what

kind                       of                                                ****

              are                                       you


                                into


                                                                                                          ?"





                                                




                                                 "Consensual ****."

little blue pale who
hurt knees(              )inside
slightly of
purple feels alone
sitting slightly
knocked,


mouth doing
the totally brutal
girl thing:  

                      your estuary

in which sleeps titanic dreams
of glaring night
****** summer
and unkempt
                sprin
                         G


shines so easily
with heavy beauty


and tinily utters
each new careful star of eve :                          (your hair is a deep mystery;
                                                        ­                       like the sea–
                                                            ­                   shook,
                                                          ­                     folding
                                                         ­                    )(endlessly
                                                     ­                           into folded
                                                          ­                      coils o' gold stuff made         )





tucked
suddenly
into
the
quiet
crook
of
a
book
store



                                       ,"I like your nose ring."

glory is to suddenly
hands drunk with
sunlight mingle
moted through
errant beams of
almost spring light

(the steering wheel tears laughing and enormously

    into


                the infinitely splayed
                thighs of flower



                a Pale hand waits
                to ***** the flourishing stem


                and drink through
                near darkness
                the excellent body of Spring,

                                      
                                                           '



                                                             ­         ,


  
                                        '





                 ­                                                  ,


.) Chaste–
doe ears leaf cotton
the twill of starlight
rough kissing between
forced lips of stiff youth:




                                                      ­   i
                                                    rid
       ­                                     iculous
                    ­                      ly that a
                                      m of freck
                                  led shoulde
                              rs lead through
                              by the parting
                               of naked health
                                 bright forests of
                                   dark trees
                                 whose black
                                wood hides in
                             who the always
                           sinking cur of
                      dumbest youth) let me speak and i will tell you a day:

.
























































        "Why are you crying?"


         "Because you're so beatiful–
           and someday I will never be
           be able to touch you again."

























































­



.

say numbers the little white toothed
sliver of a grin
hair breathlessly tousled
about fingers stairs
(winding)
upwards constantly
tall moments of absolute singleness

into 4 hands
2 fingers inside
lips strictly around
to eat 2 lips
30 minutes of
ultra caressed
hyper scrupulous
tense heaving                      ;


say numbers
7,205 seconds
until reaches
the startling pinnacle
of über sensuous
gangling drugged
with blonde milk
suddenly supple
between, "my dear,"

count as to count
by more than 20
digits to feverishly
blunder through
hurried wanting
to crush,

( say numbers and speak not numbly
  of the nimble bumbling of thy pale
  fracas an earth will be born from
  within wishing will to will unworried
  a fraction cut beneath the navel by
  a tremendously incalculable urging
  to rush              

                                            )

oh little you,
much of glory
and downy dew,

do break the chasm:
darkness' fauld;
igniting passion
in cannies auld;

thy bitter petals
coalesced o' fear
that sting as nettle
when hand is near:

release as doe,
thy urgent bride–
to flowers shew;
in crimson dyed.

T'what

death do i owe this living:
hot kissed sweating backs of knees the lick of tired grass drab waves of summer moonlight laughing outside a bar hands full of mouth eyes ******* and constantly the droll hammer of absurd youth


                             ?



(Portland was like that)


hung flesh
with the hot flush
of freshly ******
girllips

;

because i don't know why, the stars.
purred furiously with sky
deep with purple and ambrosia

came the licked in dawn
of orange and white husk
split at the collar–
leaking black wine
rain and occasionally


love

my almost body does
through nearly hands which
deep reeds–the naked bottoms of rivers;

wide spans eagerly of ***
wist twisting
the curv'd blade
of their
hot in June mouth's
(legs arms)

occaissionly
sweating
swept in
the resin
of warm rain;

(a universe is here between
the hairless bulb of every fertile's
crescent )

a dangerous slenderly perhaps
of open lips
reeling furiously
with starlight

(outside summer is a hot blab
on the pavement can be heard
the clip-clap of a horse goes
lathered in tremendous dew)

a crocus riding
the small spring hour
of a lady

in tooo many clothes

eyes big love crumbs
the delicate thrill
of quite so new
You;

stroking by
the coarse fuzz
of electric fur:

i like it

more my fingers when
drunk with monthly blood are in.

the dark thing that you are inside:

                
                    i love it


that it is
salt thin
blood wonderful
to press apart

as like to press apart
the darling stocks
of naked flowers


                    And,

it is like
it likes to be
hushed
handled
flush

within hand
to uncurl
the little strange song
of its **** throat

(and i love it
its quiet
and small intensity

burning 'gainst palm
the enormously delicate flicker
of its rough flame)

my dear
(and i love you that)
you are
(inside)
dark

horrible to touch
and painful

to release,

        .

  ,

        .


                ,



        .

unto to this day(–drugged
as which with
the sonorous
pull of jazz                            )

a dream is born
of coiffed in sighs
of drunken fuzz

the hurl burl
clap trap
of Paris ,

occasionally a girl mouth;
tongues; the
divine laughter
deep

within thighs(

where lays
a flower of April

                         (

giddy young and tight

)

immortaly dying

)

and serene

girlsome that immortal which
by vibrant edge of slivered day

         (    stops suddenly   )

the miraculous bulge and clumsy twitch
o' sweetly crimsoned even's fay

doing just the body lips
girl full of sits
short skirt barely
inches into
smooth mile
becomes

hands neatly
collapsed in
perfect house of
curled beauty

from which
twitch

two spates
of fragile wrist
twist upon

eery limb
of excellent
arm

metting
just clasp
of shoulder

under
which fits

over
cleat of
marble neck

holding hover
of heaven's
strand:

a face like
she so
April
drunk inside with
flowers Spring

and everywhere

  (constantly)


    MUSiC

silently,
the tress
the marigold
the bumbling of
unkempt bees between
green and green

(a whole forest accidentally
in cool shadows etherize by
pools of mostly light darkness
the tall body of mouth        )

not a sound or not a little
hist wist
escapes(breaks)
the tulle

(and it can't be heard
or said how
deeply loose and warm
it is to be
inside the chilled vambrace
of this big forest everywhere)


                             somewhere


a


                 bird



      is,

it's time


       to sleep



i guess

tomorrow

i'll love you



forever



Christ.