some hot living between playing
the air
with hair
does some girl beneath
a heap of wondering brains
completely perform a lust thing.

Big,
i cannot believe how so
incredibly
you are hot and orange
with
Summer i can remember

wandering through
the vestige
of your hot flesh

(cool exactly alone)

one lonely hand
making
the making

of a girl face
cupped by curling laughter

hair

that

i cupped with
laughing joy of lonely love

(i wonder
i remember

and dream of deeply loose muscles
in that quiet city
of constant noise

.






















































"I write all this beautiful **** about love but really I just want to ****."








































.

.




























                "I love you."



                "If only it were that simple."
























.

not less spoken than:
;hardly hearing
;barely speaking

            .

.





































                                                           Your dreams will not come true.



























































­


                     .

One dumb ******* mouth speaks
does eat
the face by

two thin chords
of pink sweating
easily .

it yammers it says
something about
the weather whether

or not
it might rain

heaping into
the pinched
nooseness

the fat trill
thinness of
its head:


sleeeeeep.

poem,

              


                  i
                   t






seems to
bright seems to
trill with–

poem and
a little song;

often and curiously to struggle beneath
the wide sound of its voice:

its own letter,

its own verse.

it's still moonlight–


pushing over a             "Yes"

into "baby please

**** me




harder


                    "

some wet some centillion of how about i've been waiting all day to
stick it in you(r) mouth please let's kiss i love you so much i want to ****
you i want to tell you i love you don't be afraid because i want to love you
i want to *******; it was really hot and you sweat all over me (all over
me) when in the middle of the day i ****** you in a park parking lot i got a ticket on the way to get in your mouth you tasted so good and can we do it again next week?

.
























































        "Why are you crying?"


         "Because you're so beatiful–
           and someday I will never be
           be able to touch you again."

























































­



.

i need but one word to speak
before all entreaty close me:
the sighs of women weak
and all the ladies holy.

i am my own hands,

only when they are alive with you.

of some lost,
did you make?

And how
would you know?

(typed rapidly)

it will unpersist.

the rain and the earth
will eat it.

the skin will come off.

and all the night
WiLL SiNG.

.


























































                                                 Winter.
























































.­

3 loves because
you are not one body
single hands or
two lips only;

you are(perhaps)

a multitude.

perhaps a gallon o
of incredulous which
i become by

each tremendous
drove of your hips
that eat like snow

my figure to become still.

more still than to live and that
i shall lay forever as a flake as like
to melt upon and be the new old soil
between each pressed sole of boys and girls
in love they make the curious racket

of life. i would like to make in you
before turns my hands to ash and
not even one of your bodies

can h(old

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

.









































                 "Cruelty is a more genuine expression than kindness."






















































­.

.































































­





























                               "You're just going to die someday."























































­
































.

.








































                "Where are you?"



































.

Sea,



                                                     the




                                   gulls

                                           (you)


                                                                                          krashing


                                            by




                  frequent tiny



                                                                                         eclipses



                                                          of



                               waves


                                                     Express


                                                     chips
                                                     of
                                                     white
                                                     onblue


                                                     becoming


                                                  



                                                    (instantly)
                                                     hung
                                                     by

she it who little nervously is

most soft
most innocently head

throbbing

between neck and air to be

loved to be

needed to be

wanted of more than body always
can't but to "I guess

we don't have to
tell
my            boyfriend.

.

























             "Promise me you won't forget."


             "I won't."























































.

.





































"                                                  You're a monster                                               ."





                                                          



                                                             "Maybe"

























































­
















.

who has been my own heart
that within its flesh
there is some self
as i could touch;

after my own touch,
which within their own heart
beats?

.




















"Rule #1:

Don't give a **** about anybody;
because nobody gives a **** about you."

































.

.




































                 i love you let's ****

































.

.








































"All I've ever wanted is to be loved."


































.

"Want something beautiful? Make yourself beautiful first."

what writes dies,
saying itself
in dark little letters;

for a moment it
on bright screens where
it lives
(even though it dies)

the instant of the moment
that it's borne
on the eyes of others

into dying again
as they feed on the
specters in

books     .
              .
                   .

           .


                              .

.




















                                           ­                                                                 ­                






                                          ­                is this real






















                                      ­                    (am i really alive)






























.

not to live is normal
more normal than to live is
to eat and sleep too late
on saturday mornings
or to meet with cloven
skin the bare rawness
of your chest .




more normal than to is,
is to is not wasn't never was and
won't be ever more than
the gesture of your thighs
threaded with moonlight
on sweaten summer eves.

and to because
i assert it is more normal
than to kiss to with lips
,the dirt, i

my hands and body
would like to unusually be

in your breath and body's lee.

it is very soft down here,

the way and

i can barely hear


              (are you talking?

            


                 i love you

"It hurts."





            "Do you want me to stop?"









                             "No."

.


















                   "Well that's ridiculous.

                     People hate honesty–they prefer to be lied to."




























.

.






























            "Water you waiting for?"

































.

quiet


road


between


bending grass

"You've done a lot of terrible **** to me."


"Oh really, like what?"
















"Telling me you love me."

"You're not what I expected."






















"What should I have been like?"

.































































­



















what are you some kind of monster kind of some kind of monster are you





























































­


.

.















































"It's so hard because I've loved so many people, so intensely.

And not one of them ever really loved me back."
















































.

who R you the god
i've been
inside several
times tonight

         ?

a beach rose
where one time
i wished i was
seeing the ocean
split itself again
over a man.

did you ever
wonderlingly
upward which
a star upon
pitch stairs
climbs casually?

who knows not me i've never even seen.

"One question I find I ask myself more and more as I get older is, 'have I ever really loved anyone?'"

.
















































"You can hurt me if you want."



"You're not into it–

I can't do it if you're not into it."







































.

.
































          "If everyone were equal how would anyone have any value?"

.




















"I've never been with anyone as rough as you before."

































.

.







































"Whenever I meet someone I really like I always want to tell them I love them right away. In fact, I have to try really hard not to.

Most people are just as afraid of affection as they are of abandonment."































.

what's a poem?some numbers
(after all)howmanydoyougot
                                          ?i

got oh how many let's count
'em
        do

you think
you'll get as many?i'll

like yers if ya likes mine
let's like em

a word without reading
cuz

         what's a poem?

Just some numbers, after all.

it needs to the
constantly always
want endlessly
enough that

never

never

never

never

never

never

never

never

nev­er

never

never

some's
a   little bit,

starrily snowing,

sky so

(a rook between
         h
       a   n
          

         g
            i
       n
         g               by


)