i don't think you
and without
should
            and just
do it

you are because i am because you are

there is laughter a girl fills the naked silence with her shoulders through
the angled tress of her white flower (a rose that) whose mouth speak
saying to live through careless moments of hurt sunlight: SUMMER the
curling sigh of ******* **** fingers between where sleeps her sonnet and
her hair.

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).

feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.

(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )

to break and to be broken by–

upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–

(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them

where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)

But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with

the uncertain darkness
of life:

girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean

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.

eyes big love crumbs
the delicate thrill
of quite so new
You;

stroking by
the coarse fuzz
of electric fur:

i like it

more my fingers when
drunk with monthly blood are in.

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)

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.

crimson little lake break
where there

          (sigh)

"again"

emits

           twixt


thigh and thigh

           apart

suddenly when

17 "please  ?      "

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

who , "you'd think"

i

"would" know "better."

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 .

everything hurts inside 21
she can't have a baby her
daddy don't love she
likes girls some times
boys some times
she doesn't
understand
the big
ugly
straining
of the whole
big ugly world it's
so ******* unfair nobody
cares about me **** the amount
of money every girl makes less than
a man makes it's so ******* unfair how

((everything hurts inside 21)


                       except me.       )

i am dead tomorrow
i wonder will i
live again the next day
or the night beyond perhaps?where

there is a silver stair
reaches through cloud
and shevel of
moonlight

up into a garden
of lilacs sleeping
betwixt a girl
and her thighs

a song will start
of dawn over the
valley of her
hips springing

into each lifeless
trestle of flower
the shaking lurch
of life to live

through jerking
happenstance of
body and make
in some other

garden between
the hips of
girl flowers
and down by

the lewd shoot
of stem
their seed to break
and life to end.

venez à moi, mon frère.

Is, the definitive
not me when
whose hands(?
)are these
in my hands, Spring?(the grass)

and trees occasionally
mirror the always of
my body as dirt;
there won't be
a day when. I or i shall

go amongst the chansons
of lilies the dilute spell of
life mysteriously. a flense

of an ember parted on
on the parting of a blade
of green and waxy earth

gardens will where gods
do not go and grow
more deep than worms

into each body their roots
as hard as soft as
and light might apparently
become a mote

of your wrists will
pass into the lips
of other lovers

a very tiny song.

how way what water repeats
itself
repeats itself
over two stones

between parting
of dark woods

a light blade
of

sunlight

carouse

christian has her hair long
her face plain without
lip of makeup, and her
brief mouth is without rose;

  (i know)

i'm unsure why
the lips nothing
and hair plainly
with longness

seems feverishly something to have.

(wants i wonder which
within your hips are softly sleeping;
it needs to fill the itch–
their strictness always keeping)      .

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.)

"I don't know how much longer I can do this."

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.

my knees hurt-- praying in your church

issohard
for

25 minutes of writhing

i pray

my mouth runneth over
with your cup and

my knees hurt

pr
ayingi
n y
our church

some kissing,
of flesh parts
under my tongue

–finger fulll–

tastes something
salty a little
musk and slick
through curtain
of sharply

tiny, cut
closely to skin

and rubs my cheeks raw.

I will return again in you. In these
hands of night, made lean and
gleaming. I will move within you and
my body shall be as light. I will turn
my face into your cool fingers and I
will love them.

(I will make my body in your body.
      "I will always love you."
                  Goodbye.

i just feel beautifully

       inside

as a word
                       i strive

                                      to
                                              say

                                                      (but never can)

Nobody cares.

of

(do you suppose)?raintime morning with

creeping.

                               shadowlightshadowlight

crreping


strands,


                      hands as



soft can be? the inching,

caress,
and deeply?

to open is such a sweet thing, and dear it's so a nice and easy thing to please and unfold maybe the petals of your heat


(where might boys play to eat)

her mouth was
(it did)
i heard it
--and a whole ocean
went pouring

"I'm not always very nice."

.




















                                                         "So,                                                         what

kind                       of                                                ****

              are                                       you


                                into


                                                                                                          ?"





                                                




                                                 "Consensual ****."

some broken poem lives(idon'tknowwhere)won't let word or sound touch its thin thighs and scarred knees from being on them between the knees of boys too many times; demure and easy as rain in April where Christ is born again to the rough feeling of a broken poem in the backseat of her car running with face of eyeliner and still trying to be pretty.

that you are
after all
who i wish i had become,

       (i do not know you)  .

the lips neither the mouth nor
teeth between neck.

i kiss,
and again
i am not you.

i make after the rain
my skin to run
with rivulets of sun.

i do not live early
or sweet between you.

i do not make the small sound
of your breath
inside my own breath.

but, after all, i have my son.

and what more is there than that?

nothing.

and perhaps
(after all)
he shall be
who i wish i had become.

be being being
–gold sometimes
,Spring never
in winter always:
Summer and summer
go entering

every sunset
their frail whoop
and last gasp
as shoulders unneat;

as boys and girls in garlands
whose hands they fail to keep

and make their mouths as gardens
)with death they hope to beat
(

i loved you
that you were something
easyweak
between the flesh and eyes;

doing with precise smallness
your hands within my hands.

there is very cute inside to feel its breaking–**** which–throat full of knees
getting onto its ******* ***** a little pink and so white gags on gulping of
clean seems innocently with needs to be.

taste feels to reach to
tongue
deeply between kiss

      (lipsnotlips)

where least sleeps spring
and calls by mouth

your hips to sing,

                              ,

                              ,

                              ,

                              .

this little gilt feels into darkness more
everyday Pink
emblazoned
on its *** emblazoned
every day
Pink
into
darkness
f
e
els.

simple is works hard
and stupidly grins
at little this joke and
little that story of
fishing or going to
the zoo one summer
with his kids–

breathing and is
alive he (simply)

smiles and knows
without knowing

it is good to live

being inside
too long to taste
or see,

there is the
dumb something
naked which

laughter and youth
have forgotten;

(the move music
and art sound;

the color and splay
of vibrant self)

being where


              (some     where)


inside too much
without feeling
or smelling

has just to want
and taste something seems:

of flower,
,hips
grass,
,and petal.

this suddenly flesh over me
which saying not words
speaks

              (says)

with brushed by fineness
of slightly golden hair:
back and knee and shoulder

who web between sequence of bone
muscles in hurling coils of, "yes."

deeply and more fair than
roiling plate of sea
seething and curves
with wave of heat;

(turned heat)
curved by blade
of mouth and neck.

(i am love you) the which
parted and swelling
to fit within;

eyes, ******* and freckle.

(and do the undoing thing
from where all newness comes:

the "Dear," the "I,"
tongue into
kiss;

breach the fold
where's silent–bliss       .)

icanfeelsome cold
(hard birds between)
in Portland
there is a red brick building
building between
the hard cold
and some birds

(      i  can  feel   )

she tastes like something
inside slick
and red between the legs,

her mouth makes lips
make hips
and i between them

churn thickly
over the cup and hem
hot within bleeding;

my mouth drinks her
lips speaking–
drinking lips

and mouth, my
fingers drown inside
her; i kiss over fumbling


and she tastes

(and i taste)

inside our mouth:

rust,

       .

.




















































" your poetry *****.

it's like you're trying not to make sense on purpose."














































.

a thorn gently
palm
eager with which
to meet:

red

A pen is sometimes
(books)

the pages of which(between)



ink.

i want you. the
coalesced flower of
Autumn in
wriggling manifolds
of
freshest
death,

that by who
paints with strokes of crimson
their brush becomes
the coy feather
of once a month
between
your
thighs:


                                                           blood

you're so dying–i love how beautifully it,
where your skin is
i love(i wonder
how
        
it folds .i wonder
is there room
amongst

your dying and folding skin

for me to live;

to lovedie
between such,
breath so?

i wonder)

.



























                  "I'm objectifying you–you're an object to me."





























.

.































































­


















"Let's put it this way: if anyone was
actually honest all the time you would
hate them–you would deride them,
you would do anything to disbelieve
the things they told you. Honesty
disgusts us. Only someone who was
insane or hated themselves would
always be honest–absolute honesty is
the same thing as insanity."







































.