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.
some girls taste like all girls taste like every girl, differently, the same;
each smells the least exactly like the last, smells swelling with a pinch of brine between hot breaths of a Summer ocean;
and how good the ocean feels running faster than curved orangeness of pinched pinking hotness down your chin while it rustles jook quivers and sighs heaping one exquisite leap of its spine into each;
(let's say basically i've been a lot myself on my knees at the edges of beds eating.)
something leafs (inforestsdarker ) quietly of nosnow but even paler with ... moon light and between columns waxy with beginning night there accurately i am doused wonderful human arms in youth gorgeous of health and wishing playfully for hair body naked giddy feminine
& who o sh slippery bunting breath god softly numbed ardent sickly tongues a night ambrosia all the world was nestled senseless meat but higglywiggly the wind went slumping over ever dreaming brow
you look at nice at body baby not mind dear but you look like fast in lacey nothing baby you have eyes like you've seen ******* you but and baby i like might also to see in you me dear your straight short creaseless hips skinny broken are whole angels of nouns where i'd like to put a comma
There's some sense of things, how do I say, I don't know--I feel it uniquely. As when I have been my self, alone in a car, watching streetlights wash over my hands. As when I a have been amongst the stark folds of almost winter nights. As when I have been pressed suddenly from unkissed, into, kissed.
And how do I describe it? Maybe I don't need to. Maybe you already know.
i have fallen through all beauty(till eagerly met i this moment)
when shrugging elegant words eased from the cream of colorless pages a purely growing perfection
into my soul the inconcise mess of edward's dumb fingers and his most dead mind
the confusion of all instantly wondrous splendor (and edward, did you suppose that caught as if by filaments dying immortal threaded into woven hanging letters the gush of when you rused up the best hill driven by black wine that i would laying amongst pale cotton come alive in you)?
there is only one and still there is only one. it beats and stutters and there is only one and in the open breathing pasture of my palm infinite and only one. it smiles it is. it is clever and warm and gentle or. it is the only pulse strong pumping trembling tremendous heart blooming staggering incredibly exploding scarlet. it's it is... the one. the only one. it is mine
my mind again returns to these thoughts of mouth: the parting of seaways; the excellent bridge of its voice; the smothering intonation of its warm and bossom cloister.
i remember it in the new morning; naked and shifting of limbs. it kissed down the back and tasted between its thighs of sighing and saltsea–cheek and blushing.
i remember and i move: the winsome drove of its dull dream catch and habituate me. i am alone in its fingers; and even from which other kisses cannot wake.
occasionally there is laughter–i can hear–from way off.
there was unfat, a face with a grin, that wears a body like a man without hope next to the grocers yesterday skin and bones, a face that wears a man like a body without food, veins clearly and muscles also, from a body with a face that wears a man without hope or food
"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.
little pools completely of ink your shoulders are laughing trembles of over my desk eating the grain your miraculously pale splinter divided divides body from mind
to add sin the former removing the latter
i climb your mostly fragile completely of sweat arching spine's cute minute valley cut softly from skin and imbued most ardently by hands insatiably to eat the webbed writhing of neatly bunching muscles
I find my pen in whate'er words encompass I when i lay it to the page. stark and stretching 'neath my pen, writhing 'neath my pen The words i find my pen to encompass it: The page beneath my pen
will you get inside me hot and press against my heart your heart?
and will you, magic, dearly touch and burn me singeing with your velvet lips, magic, my skin?
magic, i, would kiss thee each portion each parcel of thy body i would imbue with the unstern soft rub of my mouth magic
i would give you all the perfect mess of my soul and i would sing a forest for thee
i would say a season (like Spring) i would say a small warm day next to the vibrant quiver of a lake i would take you in my heart i would carry you in every scarlet pulse of it
there is a man waiting a man waiting in short arms small round, round round cheeks gaunt cheeks in fat eyes with a hard nose a smart mouth a quick unspeaking mouth a tense hurtles fist of lips and teeth not moving doesn't say a word and he is waiting in his short arms fat eyes and quiet mouth at the quiet mouth of every little dark half empty half full glass of night and day at the end of the night when you pull your lids tight and he is waiting with his sharp hands his ludicrous expected hands of your waiting your whole life for them when your walking down down down in the little quiet dark of a half empty street he's waiting at the end his lips pulled back over the tight loosest grin of fleshless fat teeth tickling teeth at the back of your neck at the back of your neck tingling faster and faster at the same exact pace of your whole life waiting.
how like night does the intense wiggle of your hips enamor me sweet and steeply leaning 'gainst your stomach they're some violently perched *** ontop of your thighs like razors keen and pretty
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.
Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves (or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really ******* ******* that can't Kant a **** thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying **** too many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing made of its own ******* will "you **** me or what)"?
how dose you think a day begins? its little teeth smally thin (as grass between) the throats of men?
does you think it green as blades of thinness wide ,sprouted mutely?
does you go out to fields and collect it? in your hands do it shake and quivers? (does you bring it up to your mouth, and does you kiss it? entering the thick copseness of your pallet?)
who many days you been in hurt verdant roughness of coarse forests? (you been amongst em sleeping the hot hair is full of drowsy longness and your muscles slackly follow into deeep chambers of distilled nuthing?
you been out back? by the glade brush and the doe mouths are white with steep petals of lingering health?
"take itup your mouth," goes the drawn trees, drawing even deeplyer into the quant tussle of wakeless hours where a twitch don't and not even a cat.
)the forest goes and does you ever think how those thighs combed with coarse wreaking of bleeding youth tasted like copper tastes hot at your tongue climbing your whole mouth into its neat dumbness?
(the Summers there are millions of Summers left and does you think how
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
her sitting through such drunk din poked quietly from between the pages of a book (a little in hand which)"what's it about?"not shyly"post-war France."