.





































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










































.

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   )

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)–––

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

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)

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)

break all the rules

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)?

i loved you so much




























































­
























                                                                   .

i feel not myself the rain or a trees outside the wind or in the dark a bit (slenderly) where.

i have loved.
the crust of life
the o how divine reeling
of its casual thrill. and

the stern parting of flowers to break
against each heap of striding leg
their sinuously lurching scent.


     (i have

         and oh god how i have

                  loved the demure ***
                             of stopping day

                    ;and where it has splayed most lustfully

                             entered
                                                      have i

                                                                     )the music of my

                     fist



                                         and the chanson of lilies.



God, and sweat oh
how i have loved thee the
swiftly naked among unnaked things.

(as a juniper, caroused with poppies,
and my neat hand curled upon a glass perspired(

the driving through late nights
and the sudden stopping at the end i have gone miles into twilight and how many i do not know to find girls in sleeping bodies i have gone miles into twilight to find them and press apart their sleeping bulbs they might suddenly alight)

but does not my fingers' itching
to meet with some things tight,

or day begin,

or the last futile gasp of easily purring Summer

match by cruel luck
the urge of life to sin?

i do not know.


i only know that i have loved,
(let us see if that's enough).

writing–i'm not sure–
maybe this
or that,

to fill perhaps;
between which nothing
is but pale.

not i




                               ,







                                                                         Turn this lift
                                                               upon its shoulder
                                              into up making music of
                                        neck:


sinew febrile alive with dancing electric sometimes sound of mouth; and
  by how of fingers alight with such ungrace to hurt is a beautiful poem
   faster than light is quick through the blinds cut into a trillion thinness
    of glowing dust–

                                          (it can barely to feel)

                                                         the
                                                  stroking
                                                boy sigh of
                                              tonguefully
                                             aware thighs.

                
                                                                        flah ton decarb
                                                                     by girl cheek of
                                                             inching into seams,
                                                           pollen thickly sealed.

(a rose of night and sword of day;
with which vein'd marvels play –    )

tumbling trill and awake with sight:
to see where dark and skein are tight )


                                                  –––––––––––––––––––––––

a not caving self of into daring stem
******,


                                                                    burnt
                                                                         ,

                                                                           reeling


                                                                                                                  and said .

you speak
says the rain
very heavy
out of the north
over the tops of
trees into the
forest becomes
the soil filled
with nostril
of pine,

and the street goes
merry outside
the classroom
the wind and pane
groaning with
rain

a single tiny
figure crosses quickly
into the warm
hands of laughter
coat filled with
themselves

and outside
Autumn is constantly
dying constantly
pushing into
glade and fen

her colorful
mouth and
long thinness
of day.

waiting for listens to hear,
for her quick feet–a doe
in white skin

thinks it's
pretty to be
choked and

loves
t   o
sw al l o w

Spring's little fingers hurt
(pink at the blood)and
push through the lips
of every branch, its pistil.

all the body is perhaps.
is some is; is a some

times occasionally girl of breathless apart.
who's a do you think why not in a
bit of sweating skinny.

(Her mouth is-andherhands-sometimes-a God)
of men let's say who cannot
how much they'd like to be between.)

What's more absurd than that? jazz
and it feels like to be: in her lips exploding

the quick lean of a grin through 26 years of loving girls her body who's some in a piece of unapart i'd like to make unun legs smiling and she laughs, "what do you think of that?"

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

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.

it's time


       to sleep



i guess

tomorrow

i'll love you



forever



Christ.

"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.

das licht ist

.  .   .   .    .     .       . kinda

kinder

like . like

nacht ist.

like kinda
canis
can
(can-can; you do the?)
canem

                                      edit.

how  of,

              
       U wen

've               been

wine amongst such dower trees as Spring:

a perched upon
a string of suddenly
cool night has


           alighted

with weft of surging flower
a stumbling drunkness of **** infinite self

(a parting of easy fragrance   )                  soft

at the hinges

and wet between

the peels of rough human knees:


                                                           (some hand; some soft
                                                            
                                                             At play

                                                             at hurtfully
                                                             entering eager pain    .)


                                                                             t
                                                                             h
                                                                             e
                                                                         sound
                                                                             o
                                                                             f
                                                                         fingers;

            
                                                                 the sound of love.

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

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 between
                  (these crumpled breaths of light
                                                                          )

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

these things of dreaming:

"I will always love thee."

(there is no love:

"I just want to ****–and then die."




                            )

it's dark a cat shifts
springing the sheets
stir you the cat
and a branch outside
the window taps taps
taps the window outside
a branch it's dark the cat
stirs the sheets spring
and it's dark you roll
over and somewhere
a dog is barking

"Did I forget dying?"

asked who

hung with livery
of silver youth spun
by rouge turning
of night into day                                    ". Perhaps
                                                                                    "

or because suddenly
remembered summer
was sluiced in body

of hot water around
slim ankles–the opening

of every small vein–
rushing to mix with
motes of dying laughter

the very petite and
fragile model of thy self                        " one day when
                                                                     the incorrigible
                                                                     rough noose of
                                                                     Spring has tightened
                                                                     about every gold
                                                                     trimmed loose laden
                                                                     goosenecked whiskey
                                                                     minute of kiss *******
                                                                     between wide thighs
                                                                     tear tumbling and
                                                                     blubber wonderful
                                                                     life shall with death
                                                                     's vacant fingers make
                                                                      a flower of thy body
                                                                      renewed at the lips
                                                                      of thy grave every
                                                                      morning pearled
                                                                      in dew
                                                                                                         "

.                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                           s
    ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                     o
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                             m
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                          e

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                                n­
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                             i
  ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                            g
   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                       h
        ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                   t
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                                                     s

in you let
                   colours
                                   sing colours

say colours
                      of thy body
                                            of thy throat

sing and let colours of thy body and thy throat
loose them and become a whole thing more
perfect than human thing only; becoming more
let and let and let
                                 till they are exhausted

till you are spent of them
                                               till rages nothing in thee

let

           and
                          let
                              
                                        and


                                                             let



the colours of thy body and thy throat

.
























                                       ­                                          t
                                                               ­                as
                                                              ­               t
                                                               ­                 EE
                                             ­                              a
                                                               ­                 C
                                              ­                         h
                                                               ­  feels as shape
                                                           ­    like shape does:
                                                           ­  as like winter fist;
                                                           a juniper wi' holly kisst
            
                                                                ­         Acurled
                                                         ­                w
                                                               ­               i
                                                ­                    th
                                          ­                                i
                               ­                                              n
                                                               ­ a    curl'd   sphere
                                                          ­                   t
                                                               ­          he
                                                              ­   locke o' love
                                                            ­            an'
                                                 ­                         f
                                      ­                                       u

                                                              ­           r
                                                               ­             l
                                                  ­                      e
                                         ­                                       d
                        ­                                                            fear
­                                  

                                                               ­                        et, un deux du pleure fus

                                                            ­ that hands should hurt
  
                                  where love is new














































.

your lips



             (the word)






are the smoothless mastery
of the sea breaking
into silence constantly
their loud sharpness;

quaking with rush of
moon hush, the fierce
treble of wave and
night beam

–glow broken
through unmute
shoveling of
lip;

and feel (where deep)
of green darkness
and the silver plucking
of woken thread.

be without



               d e
f
     i ,    N    


                                              i
   T                     o

             I


                                            n

the eyes turn over fingers
turn over wine and flesh,

teeth tasting and small
inside the hips

(where my mouth lives
with 2 blades of youth.)

what                     thou                                                                      art ?
thou art
                           c
                            
                                o
                            i
                      l
                                     ed                       flowers

i have a vision. of something a little bit infinitely beautiful. inside me a bit.

something, a bit, that's perfect and hurts.

with bruises. or cuts (thousands of them.)

and i will tell it you.

if you want

know me:
(i am myself amongst you)
i am the root of light;
i am the light where roots dare not tread to pass.

.























































                                "Let's ****."

what do dreams meet flowers  ?
whose
             fair

hands seriously complain with

graves straight upright grey
in tight rows    ,

some effulgent rill of daisy
suddenly the earth breaking

the stiff silence of
FALL

thin listening
(the moon is
thinner than)

       A blade

turned whitely through ending
air of night upon its sharp shaft,

only to deflate
in beginning which
erects the dawn by

its own most thinness
of a blade of light
light that cuts the top

of trees into day and
                                     Night
                                    (night)

.







































"I can be cruel.

But not emotionless–not mindlessly cruel.

With disdain and a true lack of care.

I envy that."



















































.

you are because i am because you are

that winter kills a flower
(there is a song bird
                ) it  


loves(somewhere in the
darkness ) only

purer only fleeter with
(whose beak snares upon)
snowfingers pressed with              (silence)

white lips around
the thick pistil                                                    (and calls Spring)




                                              To Die

                                           (               )

open me–in this thy woken self;
please me be, within thy cloven helth.

loose thy lock:

o' woven skin and flock of grass,
where Spring hath root
and worm has pass.

be this blithe o' bonny bell
that peels in darkness a golden tell;

for thee, for thou, my hands are made,
to tend thy soul
                             , and flowing glade.

.
















                                                                          





















                                                                                 alone

let's go for a walk i miss you how deeply and beautiful  you are  amongst
such  things  as  sagebrush,  old  mountains  and  the  wincing  silence  of
pierced by bird throats quiet it is so  quiet  inside  you i  want  to  put  my
hands in there i want to put my lips eyes and mouth forever to lay  inside
you one blue spectrum of self in no parts the whole thing and always and
forever between the cold heat of summer your body's mind is a tight song
way over the mountains in a coiling weep of  rain  that  like  rain  touches
every frond of the light forest we are inside of whose body is trees of such
dark wood even i cannot say that i know them

(i see you)
this old
unawkward
lady of
sagging *******

who , "you'd think"

i

"would" know "better."

quietly mysterious and far away i love you
i love you the big and small unnearness
of your imagined hands i wonder which
on your body's wrists (and the head upon
clothed in shortness) are skinny so nice
and never to be known by my hands you
are so unloud will not ever close and


                         (i will love you always even though you will never know)

there's some



            (destroying) inside you that

                              

                                  i
                                l   o
                                  v
                                  e

                                  i
                               l
                                  o
                                      v
                                          e

                                 and

                                 i ' m

                                mad

                      to have inside me


                         (destroying)