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.

i would, perhaps, a 1,000 folded lips
crease into 1
                       kiss

the venom of thy cheeks
a smooth immolation

              REDpretty

with white beneath
neatly in rows
                                   that sharp
                  
         but



feel good

nice and
                ,

           .

                ,


   .

"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."

hot

the

big                                                                                                          chattering




hulking



brute




                                                            OF





brutal                                                                                                          autumn


                                                        Death



                                                         with






leaning                                                                            into







pockets                       of





                                                              cold  cold    cold     cold       cold      cold






teeming with
suddenly sky cutting
***** life,



                                                                                                                         hurry


                                                                                                                         hurry



                                                                                                                        The



scared
scurrying
endless mound
of always needing



                                                                  TO


always                                                                                                                  be



                          

                                                                   .





                                                                   ,








                                                                   ;

.




















                          "We have a very unhealthy relationship."




























.

of what is there,
the making of dreams?

                     some ***** perhapsness
                                           ?or

                                              the maybe of seem?

a heart completes, by preferred effort of word, vague love
over sea (many boys always) teeming
yearning with lust

                                   as
                                          I

uncoy, notshy, approach, baby, to ask you darling
might you also like to

                                           ****

you the
con is ce

stract

          ab of

hurt *****
too
put inside

    me

thick fingers scarlet

(in a petite lake
of white white white )

you moan
you churn
over your belly
onto your face
"down
***
up
      ."

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

"Maybe someday I'll find someone that actually cares about me."

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

Stupid:

the raw and beautifully dumb

      (i want to hurt you)

    .A flower that's
a lot like
your mouth
and throat
choking on me;

my pistil and thread
pulling into
which heart tries to make
love from–
                     hips and head.

Oh this were if only it were if
it might
be more possibly

to wantingly be.


                                    (but only)
                                          it's
                                        were

not if
or could.

Or if
it were
is

                       it might


(would)

     be.



an'
pleasantly so.

.

















                               (

                                       )


                        (




                                                   )



                                  
















.

i love whose swift wonder is the barely day at absolute neatness of death
when
bones the soil
ribs of shadow softly,

                                                            It

pounces by lean irrevocable muscles of serene nonsense
a forest that
melts as cool toffee,


                                                             Warm

slick easy between frigid bars of darkness leaping
(that where girls are always laughter
and health is never keeping   )

who again is this place?

(i see you there--alive and sleeping;
amongst white flowers)

i kiss you lightly.

i am sorry for all the things i have done.

i will love you always.

goodnight.

not matter does whatever this world thinks(i

will go by flights of angels
)on

their breath

i will go by florid gasping of soundless immutable
waters into

              waters of. i

will pass my little ship its sails may bend
but
i will go o'

i will go shall not by the whatever the world thinks

despite angels (on whose breath shall carry me

into

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































































­










                                                                 ,

at a turn down slopes into
slender night
                          a path

i know through a forest
where, lovely, though
and dark and deep

but for promises to keep
i shall not sleep

.





































                                                       Your body is a word that I am mad to say.










































.

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.

.







































                                "A
          lot of the time I feel like I'm
               in love with someone
                    I've never met
                                  .
                                  "











































.

"There's nothing wrong with a ****–
just don't fall in love with one."

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.

with love often
i am more than
with you
more than nearly
love i'm only
more devoted
than to you
even i'm with
only love

which have felt.

the night sleepily in white dressing gown
up


and grinning


with the **** sliver of its moon a bit
wide luminous and softly(                        .

a dream that teeters
briefly with infinite stupid self

I) the ridiculous me
that with five fingers says some wan curling;

there is a fan blowing, i can just hear it vaguely

stooping
its rapid cheeks somewhere; silverly.

And) can anyone describe
why laying is pleasant when dying is to lay forever?

(i think
and i don't
and it's so cold outside winter the trees are creaking but inside it's so warm i pull the covers over my head and begin some divine fantasy of girls.   .      .

Unfeeling girls

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  ,  )

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      )

.






















































         ­                                                           this is not a poem




























































­

































                               ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­             /

.






































           "Seems a little ***** to me."

















































.

i'm going to love you(and you're going to hurt)

i'm going to hurt you(and you're going to love it)

to what unthing new do i impossibly owe my hands to touch?
(its face perhaps its lips or
the body beneath when

it parts beyond darkness

,and some fat drunkard
howls at the moon)?

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

spelt:

the uneven the
folding of into
mouths–

grass;

between tickles
and niggling
of thigh

sweated and
hot through
muscle of wine,

over the lips

       breaking

a dash of
                     light ;

sound
(and not sound too) –––

there is a doe
a starling
and a
thick beam

of golden wheat

parts the sun
into white manifolds
of burning health:

(wither which,
into each should go

all those summers
afore the snow) .

on the ***** of pin rests the whole breathing and dying finite ugly world

cast in minute wearing

)she is fair and frail and far and far

Ffall, she shrugs shoulders and from
there stumbles gold in delicate smash
in aching sigh, in verdant crash
                                                                                      (the sun small i see through my window out there

somewhere a girl is probably sitting who almost)

break all the rules

SUN,

being you
being sheathed in

                       –rain

that
(drowsily)
purports between

two wet ribbons of
speckled with

impish

darling: ****** of light

            (grey and gray)

,

A city is suddenly.

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—




.

flower the hands and lips cannot
contain the pistil always running
red over the cusp of your budding
blossom,
              .

Even in notSpring,
when it shouldn't be full of pollen;
but little bee by mind of flesh
reminds your pricking to always
burn a little needling with
incessant urge to fill the
dark space between thigh:

(there is something slendersmooth
and easy to be inside of–

                    (like the earth)––

                             ( like death)–––

who forgot a word their lips trying to
find stumble stiffly up into the mouth
of a gun's barrel saying,

"Someday you'll see it."

give me a day. i'll know you in the grass.
coming to a heart, press and sip of it.
sleep in the hour of a girl and lay a finger.
all things many. one thing never.

the earth.

                    a smile.

                                     laughter.

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)"

the ******* are i love the way it's.
the and it
the does way
(forked dolllike riven).


                                                                                                     ?suppose ouy od


                             why not some let's the?

                            



                           (and maybe even harder)

love

i wish it could

contained within

the body
(of 1 body)

be.

Red short lips hair
you're so cute
and you got so
in my joints
and i'm
so let me
just hurt on you
darling
             ,
              let me


                              please?

a lot of times after the sun
and the lilies and next to
to the rain is a window
and i'm sitting waiting
looking and sitting
and waiting
next to the
rain a
window

A between
                  (these crumpled breaths of light
                                                                          )

is a              where
a there
                              a where there
                                      r
                                    o
                                , i
             l
s                                                     SUGARsexMAGIC

"Goodnight."

(i am alive)there are three
thick fingers of dawn
pushing into the throat of
dawn gags on the spending
of a stream

          –steaming–

profuse
and

        Red.

grows nothing thicker than
the tip of a thorn
in the softness of your palm
with a minute coronet
of scarlet
                     doesn't hurt

                     almost looks pretty

                     and won't stop till pressed

                                                 with a finger

to live which what life beyond being

   (is there some I

stagger up with moonlight
the cool instant breath
of standing hot between
nothing and nothing                            )



vast and vast and vast



that enormous when of feeling the wind
around drunk drinking of the texture of a breath:

collapsing the condescended body of the moon stars laughter just inside the house outside which dreams the world of rain darkness and the impossible languor of health–


the need

the urge

the rush

to quietly pursue books of open girlness;

pages terribly comfortable to grasp and fill within letters of self.







how which we desire what to be perfectly exact of easy being:

the frond which stands strong without tending of hand–

the garden filled with the immense flower of youth.




And never to die,
never to grow old
or weak inside.



(what an impossible thing it is to know; to love; to live                    )

what an impossible thing it is to laugh