i wonder what death i'll wear when the soft scalpel of flaying darkness visits the veneer of my stocky bones. i maybe think i'll touch the vale and tear an onyx breath by cleverly decaying lungs, who by swift retracting fascia i'm a pulsing ***** of health. We'll all go there, lay in her soil bed, and unmotion unfinite..
                                            .

i my lips have been

    (to fling across impossible darkness)



A kiss


a curling
a soft
a mouth
a such achingly
a stupid and.


Across feeble immortal night
a blade of light
might that it would
its cut to part
that inken hood


to sleeps where curl'd
in girlish winking pearl'd
your heart's body
to cup it in my pinken furl

and a bit of sting
by Spring of pollen
your comely wisp
deepishly to imbibe


lifting thy swollen stupor

(press back the leaden lid
  )

.

































                              ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­            ar

e


                                             ­                                                                 ­                              




                                                            ­                                                                 ­                               















                                                                                                                                                                  you awa








ke?

















































­














                                                  ­                          wake up.










































                   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                          .

penny copper skinned waist thin girl as a
wrists
           that hidden
                                tiny trembling

                                                               : a river

blue
purpled

                   and really

        more

                          notcold

                          hot

                          that's

                          got
                          skin over it
                          golden brown
                          which tastes like
                          sunscreen
                          glitter
                          and a bit too much
                          hairspray
                          running
                          in fast rills
                          down your neckintomymouth

you

put your

tongue

in
all
my

cuts

lick

some weird lonely
you're all skinyy
except a blossom that is rough as red
and you stood right by the
refrigerator all night
and didn't say a thing

That I was alive: I suppose,

there was a certain eager meaning to
these moments–wide and short–these
hours–fat and narrow–these years
long and deep–

the stars, the lunging of my breast, the
turned curving of a sunrise, the rapid
expulsion of blood, tunneling suddenly through artery and vein;
I guess.

Looking and wondering; I turn my
hand over in a spent beam of sunlight. Its span tumbling with that heavy glow–it iridesces.

(I love you.

Knowing I will die–I love you.)

I am walking in some hall. There is the fast purring of a cat. Easily my breath inhumes and exhumes the space within my chest. Heart beating. Air and flesh exchange.

How easily it is to be–it seems these
hands are mine over your *******. I put
my fingers in your mouth. Your tongue
tousles their fiber. I make and unmake
myself in your hips.

The thick leaning of this chair into my back–where are you?

(Reading this perhaps.

And am I alive? And where?

Or dead?

Could be.)

And what is death?

Dying after all, it is, I guess, what I am.


There was the forest today. And five minutes ago I kissed you.


I am incomplete–I can feel
the way this shirt turns over the skin of
my arm. Somebody is speaking French on the radio.


"I will be dead someday." I want to whisper.


(I will be dead someday.


I love you.)

a tree'd grow
youth slapping
by my garage
and howl green
every noonight
i sleep awake the stars cuddling
                                         furiously
w
    i t
         h         my dreams

,only don't hurt   me)  
                                          
please cuz          you  
even still                  i
                                      
though for        ages            
                                        
and for         though    
                                            
cuz                 please        
a year and almostA
                                      
since felt you          i        
                                      
little and          small              
                                      
even                  many
black with   cropped      
thousands        softly
coiled in my  handss
you                       cuz
a year almost it  was
cold like        outside
novembering     Rain
now though cuz      a
year             ALMOST
octobering           and  
                                        
even                though
a year almost       still
lingers (though now)
small                 many
still                  lingers
your smell in       my
nostrils
                     instantly
recalling           when
(outside        juneing)
sun you me         and
Oregon  every  night
drank plum       wine
and                  ******
(I'm writing to    you

erupt gradually a forest
of my limp and eager throat
green ponders waifish

Therewasthesoundlike(
even though you just broke her)
stillsmiling(and your fingers            R

blud                               ugly

and smelling like                                       )


the sea;

bREaKin,G

on rocks

in the hot Summer

when the tide runs out

anditlaysflat

hot on its stomach

(with its *** in the air
                                       )

theslowlybeginstorot

seaweed and gurgling

butstillsmiles(a very meek


                            rill (one only)



runs down its thigh

Rightbehindtheknee)collectsinto
a shoal



                                     and



                                                 "morePlease"

when and used to sleep i'd dream
nary none now though i don't with
serious fantastical clouds of junipers
fast through summer like colours
through wind rush to meet the girls
in little bits of nothing next to a lake

                         and

throttled by a light breeze hair(brunettes
and blonds both)prattle and mingling
with it i when i used to dream cooly
of arms drunk with sun and pressed
with fashionable cotton and sugar(and sweat)
and little shining drops either on their
shoulders and napes and the backs of
their knees and when i used to dream
such things i didn't even because it
wasn't dreaming it was living

that fragile instant dream
of when your body smallest
and supple pleasing nooks and
those 2 fierce shinning sharpest
spheres of green languid violent puddles
(of your eyes dear)
across from me spent into
the daft shaven molecule
of my stingingonyourbreasts head
a lean sensual evening
and you let me put my hand
up your skirt in that
stuffy cafe littlest cramped space
in the corner(in a secret tight space)
you let me purr wetness into
your softly cloven pile
andbut we just went on talking like i wasn't

listen to the night i do listen to it drench me in it's very softest fibers consume me
into the rough cuddle of it's violent toes treading up my spine electric it
snares my bones and hair and eyes and draw my lithe littles over
the laughing velvet of it's thigh and falling into
it's cute neon lips
i

it was so unbright yesternight in the closed nook of a pale painted swinging
swung tight, tightly swinging, quickly singing, breath of fast hair
from the timid article of light uncorking from thy precious bowl:
your remarkably hips. i quipped a sonnet on the marble jelly of your
cresting gluttonous *******; with my hands between the stocky virulent
oaks of your frail gently thighs. and your eyes were scorching, and the
breadth of hours tumbled open and wee

who is more nothing
his hands in weakness(halfsmall grinning)
slightly

parting on a cigarette
brinded by
a tree shade

he skinny
his arms
toyish
mewling
to cup in
their crooks
a drop
of the sun

and
be

        warm


     againitisWINTER)

incidentally it was night 2 lasts i
                                                   was
wearing the wriggling organism of your lips
                                            (
    and cradled in the dripping chasm of your slight grinning pocket
i nestled specifically in y
         our iron stallion
       in the eyelet of the small strangled heap of quiet
by the new carcass of
        the posthumous day
                                               and waited
         for the first gargle
                                               of gnashing pink
              to canter
                                           across
          the  prose
                                   of rocky protrusions stinking
on the horizon
                                    )?

of such it is to dream,
more dreamless nights to become

that fleeting which
like a breath escapes

into crystalline diminishing
and the loose tightness
of October.

see it's like nothing how unfrail the wrist
**** pale with a couple of tan lines where
a used to bracelet
                                  gold probably

flickers a hand
in out of an open window

                             i beneath

pass the spontaneous words of a mother
said by his father
and the whole vague riot of boyness
incised in bones
                                that wear eyes

                                       that look up
                
            and wonder
what kind of girl is on the other
end of a flickering hand
on a pale wrist
                                                       withtanlines

i have tasted the earth
who was a girl
whose body tasted of apple and spice
whose hair was the sea
whose lips smelled of frankincense and thyme
whose hips were a bay
flush with the wisp of spring
which are a tonic
that i am habitually to eat

life, all you hint at is quietly secret 'neath
killing roses(freshly

deep )

                 and miles


                              and miles

of summer.
                     Life
                             you seem
                             slightly
                             rude nice
                             smiling
                             while you
                             place between
                             ribs short
                             pretty metal
                             gleaming like rivers gleam hot in your folds
                           shimmering steeply run frigidly quivering
                            through miles and miles of suddenly hills
                           invented thrilling sinuous bones of earth
                            wreathed in snow: grow more beautiful murdering



                                                  )b;yWinter's song(


                              through miles
                                                            and

                      
                                                   miles.
                                                           .

                                                              .


                                                          .



                                                                   .




                                                     .

                  


                                                                             ,

i were left to impress upon myself the medium of hips
where in was yours, the aptest sliver of
feminine hotting spark
                                                 and after
in rigid slumbers mortar
she was more astonishing
than gods first light
he said
once
(and it was
) so?

amiably staggers
with neon a street
diminutively
creased with
laughter
and the common
blood of youth
whose vague
aptitude for
lust is always

shade in spring, shakes,
dance, quivers
shivers a little bit
between your shoulder
blades touches
real light
its lips
where
draws a nice
beautiful ecstasy
and an
apple
red
eaten lays
destroyed
at the pretty
pastel flakes
of your toenails

iwasrapt
in violet awe
                                                   at
the shedding of her:
                                      careful skin
precise ellipses
                        p                 e
                           u         l
                              dd
                    in my rapacious palms
a fissure fractures ****** features
            (she:
the sweetest 20
                          i,ve
ever tasted)

muscles slung blonde strands
tawny straights snuggling
against your *******(like me
on the clump of your
unrigid stomach taught
over your creeping)

           I hast spake
           with thy timidest
           notion
           briefly
           small pouncing
           wrists
           on your hands
           supple so
           chambers
           flung wide
          
your bones
          are the words
of every poem
                         i have
                                     writ
                                                                                                                                 (not even the wind
                                                                                                                                   has such soft

toothick
a( song of roses bustled from her throat
                                                                     )
       sort of dangerous song
the sort of thickly dangerous music
that accompanies pianos
(and thighS
                  and *******) on saturDays
when you don't expect at all to find at all that sort of skinny innocent danger
thickly burnished sheets of heaven
in your b     e      d
               (H     A)!

little enough world how up Up UP
in your frail face is a pair of slick
rinds coloured in the drowsy dream
of being,

a forest that perhaps
is filled with sunset being sheathed
in rain

its voice that
tinly crawls
on tremendous legs of pale wind

a fine club
is wield by
enormous strength of drunk hands

drunk with vine and pistil
(poppy and thistle)

that ***** ***** *****
the alabaster hull of cloud

(a single star emits
and dances upon fall
all the deadness who
turn their cheecks up

         –even their cheecks up–

at this death more,
bright

more




vital

closedness
the
tighly
opening of
your
fist is


                   SPRINGwarm

                            wetwarmSPRING

                             cloaked in flowers
                             and reeling
                             with tough ***** tinder
                             to splay as girl lips

                              and




                               r       l
                                  e          ea       s       e

i

i'd

like to (touch)

I i'd like to get 2 get (you)

i would, i,'d like to (touch);(you)

to k(no)w you
in a cotton land

white ground
white sky
strange
l-a-n-d-

you took me there and tore out my nos
but it's ok
i wasn't gonna
use
them
any
way

a miracle is the smoothest purr
of night's frail wrists
producing hands
pronouncing digits
adeptly who flutter
with pale and sharp
colours
              coiled in
                               a
warm limpsey
wind
          that shakes the boughs
          of a long tree
          straight
          and titanic

when such love as roses have been
in the feet mountains
does and stags went together

up the rain and sun lashed hills
to walk amongst the mile of bulbs

and pluck from them their stems
and make with them their bodies.

there is a man in a small voice with a tight hallway

he is waiting

he is waiting, his boy like dolleyes watering
in his tight voice
is small hallway

he is waiting

this rough sometimes of a star
within the grit of wind
moves all scepters to still

the stirring of their grip to seize

and make loose their hands.

(that they might hold
the cupping of that final flint

where from which a spark shall new
and in colors bright, a morning do.)

giving up of cent;
and bills no more their fists to clench.

(my dear there is world within this kiss;
this breath and dew.

i live; shall feel;
have of body been and went
into fields alive with colors bent.)

make this thy cheek to speak:
this single promise of the earth to break

beneath the tread of stars,
where grass and flower coo–

and with the rain
a tiny song of evening make,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

but rivers(like children laugh and run
the whole earth over)they are a smarting
riots of purest fornicating waters
they with the land do
they push into the
dark rich earth
their awl
and
they sigh
at the nape of
my yard i hear
them back there
and they have so little
perfect whispers and secrets
they tell them to me and i get into
the smallest parts of them and they
make me more than the imperfect changing
spit and blood
                          those rivers
                                                are
                                                      beautiful

in all of me there is you dying
and in you dying there is me

dying though less perfectly more

frailing ugly than.                                                          (I

like all are who
each less day
than more
darkness becoming.                                                                     Up

do you and think do you
me a bit of nothing want
to briefly more in kissing
have my body as your own?                                                                Shoulders have

in me where keep your lips
your heart and fingers too?                                                                        Prevailed

perhaps or instead
the wetness of your dew?                                                                      Lips

i think i think
i think i want that too.                                                                    Ecstatically

so please the dying more
of perfectly you                                                                         Ineloquent

the less of me to frail so ugly
a tender sprig of blue                                                           To

of common sky to enter
the dying perfect you                                                                          Eat)

do corpses ever(inboxesdeeply              )
long for smelling roses
or the wiggling light of
saturday afternoons
when their lover came
early a bit unexpectedly
fantastically finding them
nothing doing and took
their body in softly hands
shaking perfectly the morsels
of their flesh on top of the
kitchen counter gruffly
gentle
             ?

these hands of mine

so much strength

these hands of mine

create?
destroy?

these hands of mine

this green dream,
of which i think too much,
marked of dint and lurid scar
whose cloven cheek
is comely seamed:

bares the hurt of boyish touch
where felt too full the words they speak,
now lies in frost–winter ajar.

but if could i
return to shoots
the forest where in snow is kept

your ice'n heart, my heat accept,
i'twould not despair to die:

But–

alas,

"pity is praised as the virtue of prostitutes."

Luv all
love all
all things
all things neatly
all things neatly ugly;Love

all you are

you are ugly and



                            Y
                               o

                          u

                                    

                                              're


pretty nice
between your thighs
wettimes someand

easy nothing sublime                           ) you '  re

the winking
of a lash'd eye
wearing a girl
in boots.her
neck stands beneath
and her body does
a young hurting
of beautiful pain

which i like like i like
the way she
hands and her
mouth uses
her fingers
and her tongue(feelso good)

and love's her
in the morning when
i wander from nothing
and out a dream i stumble
naked into her lips a kiss      (        i

)the world
and fiercely in limpid orange
limps through 'er
into the sky
and darkness

a bit,


       .

i feel it. beating just behind that sheet. that sheet of light. that skin of time and flavor. i want to taste it. put my hands to it. but i never can. at the edges of perception. its silence is the loudest quiet.

the not body of Spring feels like
girlhood stroked fur purring
wet between April and May
slicked rain of coming flowers:

                   Not easy
                   Not hard
                   nor needing

for kneadfuly clutch of loosed steam
who makes tearfully joy by within
forests loops of the curling stuff
her own not body

by warmth
by wet
decay of young
foals white petals parting showers of chaste rain and the

tight
tight
tight

emulsion of pushing through
the supple cloud of morning:

                    SUN,

i got so many beautiful

   (words and Dear
          hands, Baby)

they just want to breaking
leap across the chaste ugly
winter a sting of poppies
into her steep heart bury
their roots and climbing
them shout from clenched
colours warmth as you
have next to a sweating
Summer lake been curiously full of

lay in me your heart and
i will lay in yours mine i
will take yours and part
the petite strain of your
song and put in it the
sound of my finite kiss
i will carry you in my
kiss and i will imp
its fluttering cure to
your slender back i'll
put under your wings
the hot breath of my
heart will lift with each
pulse it will raise you
up to my mouth and i
will coddle the blithe
splendor of your wan
tousled comely fragrance

(you are like forest in Spring
you are full of magic and
you are young new fragile
between a Saturday and a
Sunday you laid sleeping
and you laid in my heart

         yours

activating the simple
motion of her hips
she divulges the
languid perspicuous rivulets
of her sensual
into the immaculate ocean
of this infinitely crisp
winter city

there will be a movie in it there will be you and me and a young house and laughter painted walls
and there will be ladybugs and kittens and children and board games
and long sleepless tedious nights when you and me can't

and there will be hot stupid moments when we feverishly devour the other
      and there will be perhaps Spring and winter won't care because she never did
            and your family sometimes will be there and they will
laugh with us
                          hard at how pretty we
                             are in our young house
                              in a pretty little neighborhood
                            ******* sometimes
                           in the kitchen
              or
                         the couch
                                               or the
                                       back porch beneath the sabled rush
                                           of infinitely cute little spangles
                                                like the cute little indents you got
                                                   over your ***
                                                     deep and shallow
                                 and
                   tiny
                           kissing
                                             them
                                       in our
                                    pretty shiny house
                                 new
                      young
                                 and
                             with kittens
                           and laughter
            

     there will be a movie in it there will be me and you and a young house and there we'll call it

                   life

.                                                                              i)know(you
                                                                          
                                                                                      )are hands gently
                                                        
                                                                  buckles and zippers
                      
                                                                                                      gniodnu(them
                                                                           and me
                                                                                                 you're
                                                                       )brusque pink
              
                                                                                                     (rinds
                                                                        slippery
                                                                       d
                                                                       o
                                                                       w
                                                                       n
                                                                            my chest
                                                                            
                                                                                                             and
                                                                                   they
                                                                    
                                                                                                        part over
            
                                                                                             em)and i
                                                                      
                                                                                                    !

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.”

nigh the eve is drawing clumsy blue fingers on the tired hills
                          
                 and           the

sun frails as the large serious night propels suddenly
slowly over the horizion her hair
drowning the ember of light in

ardent inky                                                       blood

came thee by thee came
a posthumous day
(the fold most grand and eloquent
the lancing fragrance)
i,m uncareful lucid cadaver
of sensible powder    
crimped finely
so in the clarity of feverish dawn i drew and bent the notch
a shady dappled riot
       where i wait for some madly gabbing burst
of wet unkempt






                                  S
                                    P
                                  R
                                 I
                                   n
                                         g .