all my arms waking
(swimming 'bout
your minute sleeping)
tighten across meadows of dreaming flesh

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)

I shall live;
not the world
or my body,
but I

beyond dying
will leap freshness
and taste deeply the health of everything

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

with gentle flakes of summer's snow
a drowsy path does pinkly grow
A drowsy path i think i know
through dale and copse it lightly flows
littered slightly from stems and boughs
with the downy flakes of summer's snow

from off its blade i hear a crow
whose throat is telling through the boughs
and twilight's swelling deeply grows
and over mountain tops it flows
To fill the path with fading glow
this drowsy path i think i know

it imagines all come new rise
girlsun precious absolute
just brightly ****** your hips
full and glowing intensely
they shall knees aching scraped
tumble wider infinitely than
echoing will from them by
knocking escape briefly sighs
that mingle in lace and velvet
wreathed in body young ready
wanting for destroyer creeping
to uncreep quicker into naked
blissful immediate rare ***

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

i like the see feel needs
the hands and
the **** maybe.

i like the sun you hot river a.

i like the by your bank cheeks,
tween the fists of Spring an' Summmer.

i like the to hold your mouth
closely tight
with my hands
and in your hair playsome
grasping an' pull.

i like the splitting of your flower to bleed.

and i like how when stillness completely is your body.

i like(and i like you)and i, like you, am

love.

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

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

today i listen farther to music almost nearer
at the sickled median
of fluff and ice
and
"shhh",

when into deepest rushing
a nightingale would sing
temporary blundering
into softest frailing
day

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,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

in your bright house is whiteness
in your pert immaculate body
is
        stately ivory wings

who tread the air to heaven
(upon whose breath
trembles the serious
anger of your blonde
hair)with which is days drunken
and marvelous with thy
prim bulbous laughter

the most common drive of human expression is arrogance

newly first pressing flesh
your firmly enamor
(thighs and cheeks)
you dangerous and
clean beveled dainty
stuff
        
         you're the very
eatage o' devils and
god

i see i
seeing i
seeing me
my sight sees my me
being me sighting in on i

huh
sure
what

_rapture(

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

colours

                                lurid skeehc era uoy
                                and you are gnillaf
                                of boughs bent
                                (in wind writhing)

you are lovely
little dead things
         littler perfect cluttered
                   dead things

                                                 suoroloc  R U
                              gnittor esool fo bits ni
                        sretnilps

you amble the earth
        calmly exploding
                     (and you crunch
                              so distinctly
                                   under my patient tread
                                               ing soles)
                            


i mark them
and i proceed
living and dying
(like you colours)
die like living
i live like dying

like broken hearts

aching saw dust

there is no glue

if so ever is turned
the porcelain ardor
of your smile to
anothers. so shall i
know that if but
only a flicker you    were:

    mine
                my own

                                  my only

      my

                       lady

it breaks
(just so
like a skinned knee
gently lapping
cool
       s
          t
                ing
             i
               n
         g
laden BreaTHS                                                 ,                                                  )

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

some indefinite shape
some formless form
some quintessential essence
always urging
always yearning
always procreating
                                                                 some always

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."

i love also
some golden light
pierceth and burning
the earth
who lays
in tremendous sighs o
                                                         Du
                   f                                      sT.

)it all hangs in a rough instant

     between your mother's hips

        a nice rectangle of pine

             and a long night

                                           (Life

be more in your lacking
than in your pro

-fusion

for all blooms

wither thus

dreaming you, have you been sleeping when you've been dreaming?
in nooks quietly smeared cooly draped in shadows mostly
from hidden the arduous sun you lovely dreaming you
(crawling from your softness breathing does
small lunges of your chest
and your risenfalling *******)
i just took a shower and your open laying frame lays in coiling sinuous ruffles
and i trundling under the sheets and about your smallness close and we, just

?never was beauty so in what eyes
as in this pair of face just equally as
contained with fair immortal pretty
flowers somewhat are like it only
they're jealous at the immaculate
stem thorned pleasurable to pierce
on which aloft sits the head perfectly
of 2 unequally beautiful eyes always

she,s a livid verB
of pure distilled
filthy l!ghtn!ng    and
                                               she makes me wanna

she makes me wanna

                   sh       e            m
                                       a
                                                                      kes
me


                      want to...
                                  (   !

that first which out of nothing comes
warmly steep and comely dripping
in easily breaking and confused hands
(but though which are still are aching
needed to have on lipskinand) LOVE

                                                           ­         

                                                               ­                    is dear I


                                                             ­                           Have some i

                                                              ­  
                                                              ­                i have some



                                                         ­                                 dear of my




                                                          ­                    love in hands




                                                       ­                                       though which are



                                                          ­                   breaking easily





                                                     ­                                                   still needed





                                                     ­                                and aching






                                                    ­                                                           dear





                                                       ­                               too of mine






                                                      ­                                                  "please"





 ­                                                                 ­                     dear





          

                                           ­                                                             have­some

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 .

when you come:

                                           (youare1elatedquiver
                                                                                )
rushing through flesh
breath sharply and
,mouth usually
arrives to an IMMENSE electric
contracting spinal erectors        (and i,m down
                                                        ,coddling sternly
                                                        ,your wetly savage
                                                         by tongue mostly
                                                         creeping fastly
                                                         in your lips nestled
                                                         jolting delicate pearl
                                                                      a
                                                                 n       d
                                                         begin, from 'neath U  ,
                                                         your ecstatic writhing thing

holland was a pretty colour
wriggling in my veins
her languid golden
worms, freshly
elegant
dirt

sun)

                 y
                         o
                                        
                                      u rising fallen set
                                          on the crust of
                                          cherry dirt
                                          and charge
                                          over mountains
                                          some splinters
                                          of your failing
                                          face)
                                                                       each finer than
                                                                    ,  duller  ,      last
                                                                       arrives a fuller
                                                                       needle in through
                                                                       cool glass(mywindo)w
                                                                       and finals on toes
                                                                                                                     just sticking into your grave

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              

                                            )

school, you're gettn so young
so gettn so soft and firmly gettn
(with legs all in tightness clothing
them and skirts shortly) so i'll get
my hand down your stomach
into your fluff and
                                   oh
                                     !

like behind mountains
summer slowly Falls
one colour of its face
runs with original
gorgeous irrelevant
and too becomes
cooler slowly ( each new whim of cheeks brinded
                           crisply utters leaves about the rust
                           failing light which gathers 'bout
                           the nape of columns against the
                           moon they grumble with the fresh
                           dithering stammers of Autumn, "you
                           little death i think you look so much
                           better in your cadaver" to which i
                           climb the air to stars a filigree of
                           nubile clinging darkness

never originally I
borrow myself
from minds

             friendsor

notfriends even
I get me
                      from

                               not me

                               but from what they

                                                think

                                                   I

                                             only
                                                         i

                                                            am

WHI
te, ....       your waiting hands are so

     like shins gently bruised

         a pressure of lovely bedded ladies

what else? he's a war of nice arrogance. a boy like
          purple
and he's me. we, we're we,re i; i'm he and we sweat with a demon
in the spiraling helix of our
       dna
how can i **** this kind ******?my desire for some other fruit.

          it's esoteric

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.)

pink
that immured
betwixt chaste
cleats of girly leg

the hard ardor
of boyly prism
to wantonly beg

it by pale scythe
of membranous ***** reap

the clean growing
of all tall cane
where reason keep

the unsweet substance
of cool and pensive mind

(but by blood and hot lather
in stupid gouts of
scarlet
needing
bind ).      .              .                      .                           .                                            .

cut that face pretty
stealing
                 between
aisles glossy thick
with starkest sharper
lighting catching on
the edges of heaped
organized rows and
rows
and rows of
cans(quickly splinters
a fairy pale smile)just
pink and little and
painful pretty smile
by the frozen goods
(i think i'll say

                       "hello"

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.

dawn immortal dying invulnerabley fragile dawn
that comes an immense fragrant bloom foisted
spontaneously mountains briefly with flowers over
a slow lake glassed in certain unmoving tranquil
colours

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

.































                                ­                                          *** UGLY


               your cheeks are rosy splotched itchy with a bit of seeming lovely "please put
               your fingers inside me"

                                                          ivy and flat

                                                         green long  
                                                         snare shining
      
                                                         and thickly lush


               (you "ooh" is "baby, please" my fingers are "ah" while your tongue is "don't stop)"

                and, baby, you smile like you want me to hurt you like you want me to hurt you

               like hurting is pretty bleed a little, baby, and **** sticky with your thighs and sweety

               you look so nice when i'm wearing you between the sound of a train outside my

               bed shakes you're sleeping and i lean over you and kiss your shoulder              .

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