a branch sways it
bends
supplely it

folds

not an
inch

only

to
break

i feel (body)
the way it
between my hands

performs the youth thing: life. The

                   uncouth thing, life. The

body way it
needs between hands
its.

the inexorable flinchless hurt of its marching finitely
--into bruises of hands--
its own hands.

that they might make
,by the coming together of palms

,a softness more supple than sleep
(a finite more extending than

                                    infinites deep,

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




?

i (flower) who god

                 blundering


staggered light full

bursting 'tween ribs

blossom quickly faster immortal wilting

                       (petal from stem from petal)


                                                           slough




                                                                            lilt







                                                                                             REst

quiet


























Rising
             thru

hard
  erecting

        deth

,spinal
bulging

knots knot

(the trees)



so dark between:









                                               ­










                                                       i cannot see























.

such things as my own body i have been:

                 (the grass

                   the sun

                   the moon

                   the sea        )

and felt the big violent urge up
of the whole world's thigh
each stupid flens of men:

their hands that go out from them
and come back into them–making and destroying;

(who have i been my own hands amongst such things?

making much

destroying much?



                                                                  they
                                                             go
                                                     out

                                                             come

                                                                        back

                                                                                    IN

and they are so heavy
with nothing
even the grass
that will become them
cannot grow in such
a dark place                                                                                                       )

this thing has eyes.

its mouth does the wide thing
with flesh and teeth over its
voice which seems easily
keen and darts under its
breath;

it can't but hear to speak,
and says softly–somehow:

a dream which dreamily dreams
up the sun scarred air into
the summer sunlashed
,and comes through window
a little gossamer with pale
blankets of downy light.

(you are dreaming, my dear,
in our bed your hair makes
a dark coiling of itself over again
against itself, and the stark pillow
of your nape and breast;

–breath easy–

it is summer within and cooly
shrugs with the light patter
of seawind, gull throats,
and the stuttering jangle
of a somewhere bell-lined
noose.

how easy it is to be an orchid,
i think, leaning into my thoughts
and the words on a page
while you sleep
your lips
around
each
smooth
dallop of your
chest–breathing–and gently:

i kiss you in my mind.
                                         )   )   )    )      )

the earth is a moment. a surly moment. a collected harmonious moment. it
is the blood of my blood.
and i am in it. the thick and sticky blood. it is in me. and we are

i laugh:

i am sleeping somewhere,
the sound is halfway between
nothing, and something
is quickly some sharp breaths.

i pull over the night is
coolwarm wet inside the lips;
autumn is full and rotting
with the terse hush of moon light.

(i don't know what i am doing here)

           my muscles coil and wax
i tug the covers sharply
          my flesh washes in roiling heat

i wish for something soft
something neatly apart and needs me;
my lips fumble with a dry kiss:

"I love you. I want you. Please."

in body whose white lectern
turns
fragrantly to
dust

, i will carve

a notch deep
into your *******
snow fingers and
dove hands of
love cruelly which
i cannot unmake
my lips for                              .

i've some blade in me lightly
awe full it

shard

glows

              wafting

a hot star drips from

and out my fingers


          EXPLODES

.





                                                                                bruise,

                                                                              the pressing of your skin
                                                                              is hurting to want
                                                                              to want hurting
                                              
                                                                                       in you to hurt

                                                                                to want

                                                                                 to hurt you

                                                                                  (  the pressing of your skin,


                                                                                       bruise          )

o do you divine nudely fingers of immutable almost Spring divide me?

more or less than myself when

arrives (shaking) the uncommon
coronet of your rain hair

(that dances)?(i do not go out to receive it my hands stay closed in night(my fists are very tight with darkness whose only breaking is hidden in your wet steepness of easy rain



falling


forever

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.

"That I shall not be loved: I shall love no one."

fist needs little openness
sprawls completely fingers
akimbo
                receiving

another also little open

                       hand

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.

e

l          a

                 (p freshness

                      over every sense of lightness

                         you heave about yourself

                           and sleep so deeply

                           even dead was

                       never  so still

                   as you slumbering

                steeped in cotton

             i pull from you

          and met with

       your flesh

mine

oh blood the
increasing
of your
quickly                  intense

fragile

     deepness

lurks with the hot sleepness of Summer,

whose languorous muscles prickle
(very steeply with clean waters of health
                                                                          )
.  straying

with new hands
of unmaking breath
between every flower
their fingers go into the
stems of young petals
making, by the brilliant
heat of life, some darkness wholly deeper

(completely more brilliant than

です　
　　　　　　　　　

　　　　　　　　あなたです


　　　　　おいしい、か？僕、




　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　­　　　　　思う



                                       。

her mouth becomes smoke
says, "                     ."
(outside a bar;
somewhere there is a siren
mutely i remember my
hands and putting them
into my pockets)

curls and splits
up into quickly
nothing vapor

between 2 cherried
lips–dissipating.

(it is hard and quiet
from the alleyway
smoothness emerges
a cat )

into which bathes
the earth in neon

and the night yawns out
into starlight warm air
and
the thick smell of jasmine
and beer

felt, have you ever,
a world without fingers
,grooves,
or
edges of roughness?

it does not feel of anything
expect feeling more deeply
than hands ever have been.

Coming at the backs of your
eyes with peculiar easy intense
banding of unbroken shades
of light, it does not emit
a single colour instead
it fills with brief singular
tingling of being

a texture more wordless
in words uneasy to say
a poem of trite inevitable singing.

"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."

girls feeling EMPTY cords 'tween their hips feel. They
of some nothing
go each day
filling
nothing
with
some
cords.

.














































                          "I'm sorry. I love you."








































.

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
                                       ))

.






























































                                                                 your unclosing was so tight. it
                                                                 tasted like the ocean, brine and
                                                                 went so fast my knees hurt
                                                                 splitting its tense flower.





























.

'is cheeks er
rosey
stupid

(stump stupid)
rosey
an' 'es's

"What are you doing?" dooing. 'es

fat little.                    is


e a
boy
in

A
man suit

wearing a face like

A boy.

.































                                                "Did you **** him?"
































.

"The greatest weakness of my own character is the inability to bear the suffering of others for the furtherment of my own interests–my inability to inflict suffering."

The first act of creating oneself is nearly impossible. Being that they must ***** the very plinth upon which all creating is later done–all plinths themselves been built on ever prior ones.

i love you how one time you were the ocean i could feel sleeping amongst whose waves a girl.

the flesh you have been has always been the world beyond me to leap through all mudness such clarity of love i have soared upon the breadth of each timid stroke of it and slept furiously amongst its petals.

16 hurts inside
her hurts
inside 16

white white white, lips. *****

lips white inside

16 hurts

;
little kitty 16
white ***** pregnant little short shorts barely barely cover cover

little white lips

(she needs 2 hairdos to wear 'em)

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

your mouth is nice.

it spills

(deepeasy)

over the evening

and feels as

moonjerked nightjabbed

with wide dust of

warm fingers.


its curt;
its cut

of sunspear

drinksleeping

and magic hurt

pulls over kiss

pushes through

starsabled and winged

dreaming of nightfist.


it does the moon thing
and curls with
bright rushes
of lip.

its splendor is cool mute
and filled with
lavender.

c'est;
c'est saison;
c'est saison du veux.

and where it sleeps,
my mouth sleeps too.

a one time i wrote something
one time i wrote something this one time i wrote something
that didn't, that one time, seem at all like the sort of one time i'd write
a thing like that that one time but then i did
and i did
               and i did
                                and i do
(tense is important)

getting so falling
the leaves as rust
                             a
                        
                          r
                  e
                 t
                           o

                                drifting
      heaps

                      piling  handsomely
                                            by dead
                                                     whom eats
                                                                      the trees
                                                                             (the sky generally says rain2day

of a new more nothing perfectly fragile:
wings aching to lift

downy

and feather broken

young with sunlight and raw

amber skinned candy come look
and with me
                        a kiss perhaps
                        ?

trash sum
pretty is pink;

with its got ***
mouth full of speak,

            


                              
                            "Choke me."

from somewhere nearby a lark is suddenly
over
the whole dancing mess of humanity
even louder
than is to be the screech honking
of voices car engines
into cringing violence of
increasingly silent manifolds
around the white body
of that birds cracking majesty
it opens its throat and the entire world shuts the **** up

come up through me

   lifting


         brightly

to
the        naked cup

      of my lips

an unpursed

whiteness

that shall spill

over thy slender

life

             LIGHT

when you die
you are dead

when you are dead
you are not alive

A mountain is not alive
A sunset is not alive

"i'd yeah"
I'd yeah i'd kick him in the teethi'dkickhiminthe"teeth"

a leaf
who
shall
speak
Fall

    is
d
r
i ft
e          du

p


         on



the breeze;




                   l
                  

                        i

       l



                            t



        ing,



it pauses for a briefly infinite minuteness
only to lurch
suddenly
into
no
t
h
ing.

that loves you the terse crushing pulse of hard darkness a forest through
infinite leaf opens the keyless vault of being and parts every vestige of
self beneath the moon becomes livid every cutless blade with white
incredibly fleeting dust of immense light

it wigs

instantly the body

in tons of weightless flower

all limb to dance with coursing heave

of minute electricity

over which
can barely be heard
the mute rushing
of
grass, "

"that christ was a good ol' boy
he was a good ol' boy with his arms hanging
with his arms hanging hung he was a good ol' boy.

he cured lepers and he
went like mad to kiss
their bodies rotting he
went like god's supposed to go
--right up to them--
and he hung his arms about them
and he cured those lepers he

died on a cross
somewhere i don't
remember he was
a good ol' boy

that christ."

body,


                                             do
                                           you
                                         know
                                       how the
                                     air by you
                                   (when)
                                  becomes
                                lighter does
                                                       ?
                                                       or
                                                          do
                                                             you
                                                          perhaps
                                                                 know
                                                                      how
                                                        severely wafts
                                                     the arcuate dribble
                                                                             of your girlness cuts?

(being just flesh)


pulls a little something softly
of smile over sleep;

tangles a breath
in noon light–





                                                                                           wh isp e r i  n    g





          




                                                                  S.



a hanging finger
of loose
Spring

twixt lips:

    (spearing silence)



tugs into arms
a trembling rough




                                                                    Of
                                                           s
                                                                 t
                                                                       e
                                                                             a
                                                                                   m      

                                                     s   i      n       g     i           n     g



                                        

kiss.



       .


       .

       .
       .

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.