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.

of what new some there is grass there is flesh

                   )that


swimming through muscles of divine Spring
feel good to be young again
their lurching and unlurching smoothness of
blade

is a grass between the the thighs
where giggles little the all of the world
in two new newness of old always being.

)it's boys and girls and gardens
and the cheapest hot glass of
dark dark dark wine
through your lips
on a cherry
afternoon
there
is
the
fresh slung
amber of a girl hand
in her girl hands' slowly slinging
of trite *** waisted in some hips gravure

             tussel

                tusseling

with the irreverent marvel of life
lived insmiply insipidly sipid .      A Dream Like Paris

everything                                             :

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

                                                                                                       .
                                                                                                    ,      ,
                                                                                                        '

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


                             ,

girlsome that immortal which
by vibrant edge of slivered day

         (    stops suddenly   )

the miraculous bulge and clumsy twitch
o' sweetly crimsoned even's fay

A moment perceived so clearly

A dash of neon

Against wet asphalt

Glows

Fades

ked



                                                    the ****



                                                                                                                            "***




irl."G



her **** the i

unto to this day(–drugged
as which with
the sonorous
pull of jazz                            )

a dream is born
of coiffed in sighs
of drunken fuzz

the hurl burl
clap trap
of Paris ,

occasionally a girl mouth;
tongues; the
divine laughter
deep

within thighs(

where lays
a flower of April

                         (

giddy young and tight

)

immortaly dying

)

and serene

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.

this new
the slim body of
thorough unbroken
tremors

seems


it

itseems

like as like
unseemly
coils of
brute laughter
the languid burst
after *******

and

serene pitches of
in the winter when
first grows
first fingers
into tense coldness
of taught muscles

the love fist

       (uncurling)

through stark air,

A rose.

um um um um

    (wut wut)

the *** yer
mouth

    (impaled

on slender tragedy
of girl lips breaths)

sum uhv ****
,way down    ,
yer throat

(please
)    that    (

i of

nerves exactly
body more

dither with
precise warness
of boy fingers

into tingling *****
coyness of unshy

–thigh and bone–                                                                                              )

yer
yer
yer

swallow-allow teethteeth

sc

    ****

                ing

('gainst
hollow
and
tight
instants
of instant

                     SPRING  ,  )

Does loving want *******, only?

(I'm not sure–after all
maybe because
what else has a hand
ever turned over
the hem of something
supple soft and spun
within its thighs 2 thick
fingers of gasping?)

Love is it even, really?

(I've never known no loving
unless it had its mouth draped
over my hips and I broke
sighing through heart and lung
its swallowing throat.)

What is purely something if not loving?

(loves not nothing–but it's rubbing.)

each noon sleeps through drowsy
and sharp autumn with its hair
in manifolds bright steaming with
chirps of tiny color

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

"It's like, I know you love god, but I
just want to bend you over a table and
*******–and I think you want it too.

I know you believe in all these things
and far be it from me to say they are
wrong, but under your skin I can
tell there is something else.

You pulse with something raw,
painful, and violent.

You seem to tremble with palpable aggression.

Give me the pain–give me the Valkyrie
I know you are.

I want you to hurt me, and I want to hurt you. Your neck is so pretty.
All I can think of is what it would
feel like in my hand.

We could be something so ugly and
beautiful. I can feel it within you.

It seems barely contained within you.

But maybe we shouldn't.

Maybe you shouldn't.

I don't want you to do something you don't want to.

But I want you. I want you to want it."

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  )

how again these alive with men breaths
go to work and stop their living
on balance and "problem solving"

every morning to make
just stuff with which to have
a little this and a little that of
life and drink merrily with

friends, a neat car
and to
(perhaps)
longingly ******
between the lives of others
even more life:

it is completely appropriate;
and to be strange is maybe
responsible if you have an cat and
have to get home early to feed him–

(cats can't feed themselves)

he says under the breaths
he is
going to work
on balance
and "problem solving"

Every  Morning

"Well I suppose I realized at a certain point how important physical affection is for me. Touching and being touched is immensely satisfying and reassuring to me. I only ever really feel alive when I'm near someone–kissing them, smelling them, the heat of their skin soaking my skin. It's the only thing I really want. It's the only reason I'm still alive.

For that moment. That perfect moment when someone opens themselves to me in that way. That first parting of their lips, the taste of their saliva. The taste of their neck. The feeling of their wrists in my hands. That openness, that vulnerability and surrender. Saying without saying, 'touch me, love me, **** me–I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours.'"

who writes a poem death that the world calls life God
in inimitable shades of city laughter rain and smelling
with the bulge of incessant betweens where clothed
in the clutched clefted pinch of love all boys are telling

mirror me
catch
this softly
snowing
outsidenight

where two and
three girlthings

the soul of boy
wars         rings;

hair in shortly
which some
*** wears

her mouth without
lipstick saying,

"kiss me–


       (i am soft)"

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

some girls are like
the uncoming together
of deep mountains

(there are where

occaissionly it's been


flowers.          ) their hips



that part

at the parting

of boy ribs—




.

let's say begin me the you way
does
           open

more slightly
the closed fist of my petals,

than opens me the light fingers
of in may Spring. than

the rain does,
in autumn when
dies the trees to neatly wonderful,

(and i come into their black bodies
the sliver of my mute flesh;
stopping on brief immutable desolation
my awe to wander enormously)

the dew is fast and quietly begins me
when: like that you

are like you are

like my to unfist (and with bright colours
)pollen

                gold, suddenly,


                           forever

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

                                         !

how when I was laying deep in you your checks and baby I kissed your neck you felt so steeply warm and you felt like the tightest drinking of my thorn your hips went running hot with a gush and I kissed your straying lips I went down you your body up went it curved exactly perfect to feel so tightly steep and wonderful to climb

cool this
finger over
scalp(

             the world)

and beneath
the hair the
slick stuff
of love:


F L O W E R S  .    

Where
between
the quick cloth
of trees a stag

(twining tine)

‘tween root and sea

. And the taste of everything

perhaps is
the last
breath of (almost) Spring

when neck and kissing
each smoothness of skin arrives.

Opening all doors—
fills all hallways:

the laughing of children
and the whispers of mothers

how who

                    through


new what

          (crisp)******

of uncouth
****** glass:

                           BUILDINGS!                                                     (awholecity


suddenly of unerupting stillness
leaps by
slick courage of burning liquor
a slightly old

               )a slightly stupid(

boyness of incorrigible grinning
arms of hands by body youth sick

a girlnesss about


entwining into steep darkness of hard love:

      some mouth open.


      some mouth eager.

it hurts to be loved.
it hurts to be, loved
it hurts, to be loved
it, hurts to be loved
.it loves to be hurt

silently,
the tress
the marigold
the bumbling of
unkempt bees between
green and green

(a whole forest accidentally
in cool shadows etherize by
pools of mostly light darkness
the tall body of mouth        )

not a sound or not a little
hist wist
escapes(breaks)
the tulle

(and it can't be heard
or said how
deeply loose and warm
it is to be
inside the chilled vambrace
of this big forest everywhere)


                             somewhere


a


                 bird



      is,

I've never written a good poem.

i (tyou th) e
sound

uhv waves
the

cool
and trembling

breaks white capped

little oblique distinctly

)sighs

emit(

moonlight

"Because nobody really loves anyone.

       We love the idea of the person.

                        The actual person

                                  just gets

                                     in the

                                       wa

                                        y

                                          ."

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

.




















                          "We have a very unhealthy relationship."




























.

i probably don't care
unless
           ido

how inside feels moon
when slight suddenly
****** all nerves

          (tingling)

perched on breath
every vessel rages
with intensely purring starlight


                And
each self wholly vibrates
;teetering;
with brief invincible death.

i would like to(between your lips)
become
(my own lips)and
my body–

                 my kissing



                                     .become


the tight rose of
your garden doused
in youth

where                  very

unvagrant

i would like to always house
my fists;


more open more unclosing of
petals, *****

distinctly clothed in the aroma
of your thighs

(–i can imagine my face being only
good only
of wanted flesh
upon my cheeks when
they are with your cheeks ) and please

can i give them
to you my
lips my
kiss
my
fists?

is to see strangely
the rain hanging

by a most cloud
grey when
behindit
lays                      
only

blue

what are you?do you
think?you are?doing?

to me.will you

doit?more?

Please?

t

                                                                                                                                h




i
     s





                                                           O




hh
o                                                          w



aboutof



                                                                  (half-





)s



                     t

  a
                   r
                                                    edmadlywhichsky



is

2nite


                  ,





                              i wonder carefully with heart


if its

                              most chaste



                                                                   own eyes





might pierce the
veil of youth


and bring where sin is rash
the touch of death

–the dust of ash.

to seriously know, to consider keenly: my father
dreaming father, lie in my dreams yours, father
lay your fears on me (each timber yoke, to my
shoulders father) each limber fantasy, father
bind to me they all and sleep father; lie in
me your hope, your heart, father place in me
by hand worn, the distinct immediate light
of strength, father, pass into one long night

love

i wish it could

contained within

the body
(of 1 body)

be.

your way the who the body
swells the
lifts the
prurient
skirt

of my thoughts
with
the niggling
wafer of
your thighs

feel better than
my cheeks
can feel the air
(and i can only breath when)
they are untogether together.

feeling–and your back does–how
do you feel
about how
feelingly it

musters razors
in my skin when
your *** also?      (and how can i
                                describe how it
                                feels like joy
                                made some
                                supple real of
                                realness in two
                                halves of a broken
                                perfect?                      )


it defies words.

there is no cheap no word no sentence
made that by does not at describing it
become.

i am myself, and can i say how much
that is a better thing when i am between you? are

And how can describe it?

the way it turns so deeply into creases
of divinest flesh;

half feet
half knees

upon who hurts to pray inside you
my love fist?

it cannot be said nor sung nor anything
but tasted into one swoon of many tongues
upon it–

my mouth has lived whole years not so pleasant as five minutes between your hips.

.


























"I want something real.

You know what's real?

Pain; anger; misery; suffering: ugliness–


I want to see you in a moment of complete ugliness."


























.

blue inside feels:
rough from the
groove up shaven
closely to fresh
air stings over cool

–skull and neck;

where i wish
my hand could become

a certain smoke
of tense opaqueness

unfolding a flower
in sharp city nights

the enormous groan
of my soul;

and sleep in your dark forest
a tactile brace of slender light  .

(   i               love                  you              will           never                know      )

.































































­                                         of
                                      loves

                 ­                  we've had


                     remembering is too difficult


                                    we would

                                       rather

                                       forget


















































.

.    my soul effuses, and things even drunker than Spring have emerged   .































































­










                                                                 ,