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.

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                              .

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.

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

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

i probably don't care
unless
           ido

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

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?

.                                                                                                  



                                                                              O love
                                                                             ,my hushed cords elate
                                                                              at the stroking of your fingers

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

to me.will you

doit?more?

Please?

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

is to see strangely
the rain hanging

by a most cloud
grey when
behindit
lays                      
only

blue

trash sum
pretty is pink;

with its got ***
mouth full of speak,

            


                              
                            "Choke me."

"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."

quiet


























Rising
             thru

hard
  erecting

        deth

,spinal
bulging

knots knot

(the trees)



so dark between:









                                               ­










                                                       i cannot see























.

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

come up through me

   lifting


         brightly

to
the        naked cup

      of my lips

an unpursed

whiteness

that shall spill

over thy slender

life

             LIGHT

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

feel barely(you baby)I
feel you barely baby
I feel you barely breaking
                             (baby)

beneath me baby
I feel you breaking
beneath me breaking baby
I feel you barely
and I break you
(i break you baby)
                                you barely

You beautifully breaking

.
.
  .
    .
      .
     ,
       .
         .
        ,
          .
         .
                     .


         '            
            
                                    .  




                 ,









                                                      ­     .
                                                            '
 ­                                                             ,

girlsome that immortal which
by vibrant edge of slivered day

         (    stops suddenly   )

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

S)                                       a
                                       e
                n                                                k
                                                                              those teeth
                                                                                                   right up to my neck
                                                                                                                                        Heavy Breathing
                                                                                                                                                                        and
                                      
                                                                                                                                                                                     BITE

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

do i suppose to know a thing?
(i don't know it)

                            but
    supposing
                           i
                    
                                  do

     what

                     then?

questions are a lot more interesting
   (than
           (
an(swers(

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.)

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.

.































                                                "Did you **** him?"
































.

tight within

      (release
                     )

muscles that
tense

upon    fiber

music     blu

as with   red
fills

            filled


thick in dark
(between
bars of
sallow
starlight–



                   breath

in inching

columns of


                   sweat
                   sweat
                   sweat;


skybreathinghandsapartkissthighsinsidesplitcurvingdeath

let me think,


you are flesh
not flesh as
blood or
bone entwined

by limb, but
flesh as soul
through body
and lips–

"where are you?"

and by the way, "i've been"

the hour of a girl

(often to kiss the shoulders of mountainS"

leeeepinG"

.


























"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."


























.

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,

definitely probably
we,re all gods
sort of maybe gods
r
t
o
f
  m
ay
be gods

it's hard
being yourself
really
          yourself
the whole
ugly perfect
thing it's
tough and
garbled and
it's hard
looking right
into the eyes
of those who
know you
and, being
yourself,

being

Receive ever

                           hands totally

                                                       open

                      
                                                                     other hands all

                                                                                                  hands even

                                                                                                                        with love and a smile
                                                                                                                                                               A


                                                                                                                                                                L




                                                                                                                                                                W





                                                                                                                                                                 Y





                                                                                                                                                                  S

love's not mine

                    nor

                for

                        me

                  neither

                i
                   either

i not loved
                    exalter
                                  though

to speak love, say love, deftly

                 I

.































































­                                         of
                                      loves

                 ­                  we've had


                     remembering is too difficult


                                    we would

                                       rather

                                       forget


















































.

i will die the Spring will come out my lips a flower and will gather at my throat a forest i will not speak and it will grow softly tiny and millions

"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.'"

(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.



       .


       .

       .
       .

ked



                                                    the ****



                                                                                                                            "***




irl."G



her **** the i

i love you(bytheway)who
comes out darkest winter
brightly hands

your cheeks feel beyond feeling--minute

,soft,

and clothed in Summer:


dance

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?

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

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

it's autumn i cannot believe how i am alive again
the trees are and the day
in bits of orange
recedes into dark
fathoms of unday,

i wish my hands held
your hands that like
god hold the making
of every little nice thing

and every little ugly thing
of making inside me though

               –i wish–

how suddenly fragile i was
when we were

even though
we never                        were

. It's autumn

and i cannot believe how


i am alive

shape that cuts
(girllike)
closely
shaven

with sweetness pressed
alone a little empty

needswants

filling to be

–inside–so mouth;;;

skin love,

hands dreaming on
pert curving of tiny
white white white

she she

"Can


             I


go down on you?"

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