'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.

(Alive)

and again
i am here


dreaming

of somewhere
(withyou)–

alive         –

and

d
  r
e    a
m i n

    g.

some barely rosebud
tenderly just
open
slenderly

bobbling
aloft
skinny skinny skinny
stem and

a pink
sliver of
petals
bunch easily
at

the lips
of its,

(hands go around
and: Pluck            )

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.

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)

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
                        ?

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

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

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
                                       ))

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."

through what body of flowers does your kiss move,
its muscles softly more

where palm tightens against neck
titanically blossoms

your breath
in leaping heaps of strenuous hurt.

hurt that loves to.to
come against me
the forking of its river, its

wideness of thigh, and the plying
of my open fist

to splay the dirt

and plant amongst your dying earth
the heat of

                    infinite

     Spring,



                        .


          '


            ­                              ,
  





.




                   ­   
                                 '
                                 .

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.
                                         )   )   )    )      )

when you die
you are dead

when you are dead
you are not alive

A mountain is not alive
A sunset is not alive

each pairing

  --parting--

comes over words
lips over
sounds of
throats young.

hubble bubble
(outside)
below the window sill:

                
                        summer; and; ******

(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .


the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
        /
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which


you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;

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

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.

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.

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

"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."

a branch sways it
bends
supplely it

folds

not an
inch

only

to
break

.






























































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





























.

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)

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'm sorry. I love you."








































.

rife oh do you the new totally unique
obscene with low lean muscles Spring
feel not so near so far when stocks of
earth are steeped in deep so roots a'dying

(the little glad hand of sun outstretches
and into reaches the noosed purple
of aching darkness' ancient peak

the unfurling nuisance
of its ardent beam
to let of golden crimson
a burning rill to pour from far above)

all wan glory

all feable living

in the broken body of the shriveled Dove

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

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.

everything                                             :

. comes , together ;    '       "  and   '   falls  ;     apart       ,        

                                                                                                       .
                                                                                                    ,      ,
                                                                                                        '

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.

A moment perceived so clearly

A dash of neon

Against wet asphalt

Glows

Fades

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,

               .


  

        ,

Cool. it makes me feel
(the ocean when)
words do not the lightening
of the long sky,

in undrab Spring(a body is proposed)

of flowerets and garland roses
(green at the knees
between the hips
stoking         )in profusion

their broke
colorful
tension
ringing
(the fur stroke

                  singing  )

the tiny thing life has hands making hands into gold against light
flashing against dark and bones beneath skin the smell of roses
and taste of a girl neck drunk in short hair and black nails chipped
catching in the chambers of its heart the easily nothing blood
that makes its hands to make laughter, saltsun, thighs deeply new
and rush thrusting with quiet silk and the neatest trimming of
health.

by the way,
I have always loved you,
unwonderlingly which
I do not think
another hand
would be so nice
in mine

a hand last held
—no void to fill:
(the hand that grasps
is empty still).

so wait this hand
to holdest yours
when shut my eyes
as closest doors

no part, no rent
will bear the breaking
of flesh’s joy
a join making

so lay in still
at slumbers ask
a morn will come
where loves a bask

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.

some field full of grass
grass leaping
and spits from the
soil

          (or)

which hurts to least
to see and fold
within sight

the curt splinter
of girl hips and
wider than death

they eat the spring
into which becomes
Summer by

the scrape and spark
of their tuff
tinder.

of what i write you will
make of it what you will
by your will
with your will
you will make it
you will make it

the nothing moment
where of a once beautiful
woman in a dark room
with her husband only
sits painfully

and says, "I forgot to take my medication today."

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,

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, "

i like a sweetness
and but
       a savoryness
                too
and sometimes the other

   more than the one

there's something big dreaming colorful
sleeping inside you i'll put keys in it
slipping turning keys
and it will suddenly

                                         !

i (tyou th) e
sound

uhv waves
the

cool
and trembling

breaks white capped

little oblique distinctly

)sighs

emit(

moonlight

are a lot like(girl necks)
in flowers who--

the earth, untensing
of soil and the clouds
are of sterling fluff
amorous to cling with
such unchaste waters as

--bloom, and turn as
blades into my palms
running them hot with
the deepest scarlet of

thighblood, parted, singing

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.

hello dying you look so pretty
in short shorts suddenly
over skin a little,

                            .

                    hangingly
with increased health
the air up outside my
  hillwindow

                            ;

each graciously
perceiving thigh
a thing full with
lush and wonder

                             .


                             .


                             .

                             groped with hair
                           with
                             some
                           short
                             shot
                          through
                               by gold
                          and like you
                                   dying also
                       sun


                             ,

skinnyhips
breaknice
onpetal's
singe,elated
dancethe
washof
summe­r'sgiddy
stomachtanned
taughtlush
faultlessribbon
ofAsmile
(singl­e)                 sings
                                
                         of

                                cheeks

                          ******

                                 with
                        
                      green


                                mint


                         and



                    taste




                                like





                             gold

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.