straddle nothing crumpled jilt. i'll sticky light and call you in a morning

some things in me dying are gods
(but not magic

    no


                                 magic always


unfurls 'er little
tickling
in my
and
                   i

                                )she the


              magic


to caress
'gainst my cheek

the easy span:
her innerest thigh

(i to kiss which up
crawl
fantastically into
tightness


                andie    )

"enjoy what you can," says some curly headed mouth
open over the hard shaft of her camera
a thousand times a day
snapping
some
lookatme's:

                                    




                                         (and never stops *******.)

hang me a poem through the mouth of night the slender smolder of cold
imprecise light that it might build into a thin strip of almost bursting
  intense colour(purpleandred). it might suddenly stagger up the
   common heap of sky--through the cheeks of white neatness--
    the blithe cursor of brutal dawn, spilling with such brinding
     creepness of light the thighs of earth full of lancing steepness
      all the wriggling of life shall commence with body lathered
       of youth in stupid love of dumb *** there will a coronet
        of hot dew wreath the pistils of flowers and the dirt
         will speak the rich secret of life in colours innumerable;
          the bending of words upon always quiet paper
           cannot meet with them the fullness of their
            drooping incantation(and lips cannot
             say with always talking mouths
              how deftly the primness
               of their serene
                majesty
                 is,

                  '

                        ,


             '

                                ,




    '





                                                           ,

crinkle dust
up on
           lashes frail
those mercurial onyx
splinters o' your sharp
eyes
        you catch me
looking at you from
the back of
                    the room
you catch me onyour
sharp eyes
                   grinning
a slutty rictus
                        you cut
a sharpness out the air
with them
                   green shards

by what star
(or the shining of some invariably self)
shall guide the making of thy hands?

the excellent health or the
girding of some winsome wealth?

on what plinth of ethic, moral stands?

the body kept;
the jewel grand?

made or unmade a like
(a rule followed
is only valuable for).

autumn your neck is ivory straight unfleecing goldly
and brownly thousands neat, flutter
each gorgeous beneath each
piling drifts swiftly sets
on edge
crisp morning

(who is unstrange gentle and has hair thicker than)

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

If I remember correctly there was, eating into the rough and big of a quiet and unsnowed languid mountain, a road neatly where trodden a boy and girl (all day) who came to the body of a lake in the last wisp of summer gently amorous of their shoulders suffused a wreathe of light on bough and stem. Gentler, still, who even than irrelevantly brushed their limbs in copper and beaded dew of striving youth. I, if I remember correctly, was a boy who in a summer one time, by the body of lake, knew a girl. who said,

                                                                                                                                                                   she loved him.

who (unopen) came by 3or2
simple detours of images great
first trekking rediscovered unclosing?

                    Art,

whose work is                             men,
first

is nothing but this

sa
yn
ota
wor
dor
)don


           'ts

a




                       ya




                 words
                     m
                   o
                    u
                   t
                    h(h
                        o
                           W)about
                          how
                            in
                        winter

                           slep
th
ard
ly a
letter
ofy
ourbody.but

(with a verb i
                    you
                    the aching
                    and all the birds
                    of a forest
                    
                    leapt

                       from





                          SLUMBEr



                          and rose






                          upon







                            the crimp

                            of darling youth





                             a flower,



                                 ,


                                          .



                               ,



                   ,



                                          .

a ****** dint of silence was bulbous in a long fettered common
that thrashed calmly hues of slippery wind
being largely small
the city chortled deeply
and it was barely exploding with rapturous clinging
a loose sheet of normal night
                                               ?

it's hard the word i'm sorry and
the clouds today
are a bit
cut of light
draping easily with so("

     i,m sorry,,

the way i've notbeen
and haven't said)

the way i love you the way i love you the way i love you. i love

and the roughness of cotton,
the blithe softly flow,
snow and petal broken;

a stream instantly chaste
between the thighs of mountains
(your coming mouth
and how many times have i remembered
the hard droll moment of your intense clovers
parting through a sea of dark leaves
the slenderest gap of life to emit
its thrilling nonsense a gown of roses?)?

i do not or have wondered
on the cutting into the hillsides roads
when driving in Summer
and the sprightly children of dandelions
tumble daftly serene

And want to **** my timid notion
amongst the thorn'd stems of your garden
(where burying is easy
and death never came from the ground
and only life was grass, and flowers, and kissing

forever

                )))(

.












































                                                                    destroy what you love




























































­.

dying is that a little girl x63
going into dust as from which
came her just sixty three years
ago not loved once within
them or met with the kind
smile of anyone but her old
little cat that just as her within
became as into dust like
(From which they were breathed)
that 63 years ago pile of used to be

were it as rippling as the techno static shoveled obdurately
in the volume of this writhing pit i'd sonic cavalierly with the
fairy dusting eyelids fluttering. stripping accurately the moisture
of my minute organs churning salty crystal obliqueness at the
stunning lounge seriously unserious fractals micturiting. hey it's
youth. what else?

vexes sharp looks intriguing blond of hair
tightly of thighs mutters a pair
that i think might sound nice like
a nighttime sounds
pretty pushing a pin

between them

cream the soft you are is body
white

             shoulders


completely neat in kissing
easily blades

between muscles rigidly
tight and folding

                 folding


          and

fi


              n


     ger


                                s



yoursmine
teeth please too
a bit at least
because cream

the body soft

you are

is hurt nicely pleasant
and you know


                 (like i know)



pretty is pain

Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves
(or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really ******* ******* that can't
Kant a **** thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying **** too
many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end
i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign
talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing
made of its own ******* will "you **** me or what)"?

some girls taste like all girls taste like
every girl, differently, the same;

each smells the least exactly like the last,
smells swelling with a pinch of brine
between hot breaths of a Summer ocean;

and how good the ocean feels running
faster than curved orangeness of pinched
pinking hotness down your chin while it
rustles jook quivers and sighs heaping
one exquisite leap of its spine into each;

(let's say basically i've been a lot myself
on my knees at the edges of beds eating.)

i'm sitting i can hear the ocean way out over the moon hangs deftly round in all the fitness of chaste and cool darkness my hands are at my waist i'm sure they are and where are my hands i wonder at the split milken and tenderly dripping sea it whispers my heart is in it deeper than a seagirl their ******* are like cherries popping sweetly with just a crisp flens if pinkness at their tips at their **** i'm feckless staring harder than and harder then a star leaps wholly the blouse of night one unsharp button of her quickly tousled hem i'm tearing to by bit by into her tear and a boy is sitting on his door step he looks thinking one day he will make a boy in a girl spilling her full of him

love

                                                                                                                               you

                                                                                                                       wings

                                                                                                                   you

                                                                                                             lift

                                                                                            feebleness

                                                                                 firmly

                                                                         from

                                                                     me

                                                                       and

                                                                           i

                                                             become

                                                 suns

                                 brightly

                    searing

       every

             second

                      you imp my back

                      you pinions you

                      bury me in flowers

                      and i am music

                      o’ cherubs and seraphs

                      played from harps

                      stroked by your nimble

                      feathers; love you

                      carry me to your mouth

                      where i kiss and kiss

                             and

                        ki

                               s

                            s

                                    and

                            k

                 is

                             s

                                              k

                                   i

                                           s

                                      s

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

to me.will you

doit?more?

Please?

.

























             "Promise me you won't forget."


             "I won't."























































.

2day glass
through heaped sunlight
dusty
accumulates a second
when fair meticulous
paws stir
                (claw and whisker)
bunch and unbunching
deftly
shatter lilting
minutest bobbles

what waits beyond the edge of a light(idontknow)
there is not a sound but
there is a very fine forest
where a crow is gently
a river is sleeping
and silver through all the trees is dancing

o to breathe
how it is i love you:
your little quiet which
do not your lips betray
the slightest music.

o and quiet
how it is i love you:
the mute pressing of your body;
without words which
for saying nothing

is louder than all the world to speak.

i wonder what death i'll wear when the soft scalpel of flaying darkness visits the veneer of my stocky bones. i maybe think i'll touch the vale and tear an onyx breath by cleverly decaying lungs, who by swift retracting fascia i'm a pulsing ***** of health. We'll all go there, lay in her soil bed, and unmotion unfinite..
                                            .

to mix as mixing fingers do
that pleasant scape of cut and hue
could only be by perfect hand–
to spill the sky with food so grand;

for eyes to eat for ever more,
ere come the bleakness: acheron's shore,
where stood is there unlucky crowd
embrace'd of apple from knowledge boughed;

and the lark that fell for un-leaden branch
to stain from souls forever blanch
died to live–immortal make–
when each, our bodies, meet their break

here are some deep in you ideas of living,
they are the rain sunshine and hands
amongst such grass as neatly distilled breathing

(i have often and have you ever wondered how you are a living so

                  nearly of perfect temporary body

)it constantly does seem the as such

some times occasionally will us of mouths
with drinking crisp waters of hurting Spring

explode fawn like into crimson sweetness
of hard dying somber infinities,

that move with what grace into deep ideas of living;

they do not know how.




                                    (but i do)

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?"

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

Nobody cares.

Winking doubled 3 and by 3
he was down by a the an at
the very steepness of the grocery
outlet's little outlet shunting
to passersby his handy vanity(and they liked his dog and saiding so they drooped a coined palm and flatulated giddy tinklings

     he later utilized to *****

begin again
it comes starting
the end, again, begins
newness pressed between
dawn and eve is glued your
fresh smell atomized an instant
and mingles in the dancing dust
flitter mumbling pitter pattering
diminutive motes bump and
carouse in tousled hunks
of light

.































































­












                                     love me.

                                     **** me.

                                     trust me.
















































.

from the delightful pinch of your waist
is effused the mauling senility of your
forgetting smell
(which like cudgels' dozing blows
wreak the apt obliteration
of my normally conscience
                )
and i'm a can'thelpit
but kiss dubiously
pressing down
the quake of
your
ecstatically
expecting stomach
(at when  reaches
the ultimate cusp
of your brimming
ecstasy pulpit
my deft oral precisely
                                      )

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

"You're very beautiful, by the way. Now please take your ******* off for me."

glory is to suddenly
hands drunk with
sunlight mingle
moted through
errant beams of
almost spring light

(the steering wheel tears laughing and enormously

    into


                the infinitely splayed
                thighs of flower



                a Pale hand waits
                to ***** the flourishing stem


                and drink through
                near darkness
                the excellent body of Spring,

                                      
                                                           '



                                                             ­         ,


  
                                        '





                 ­                                                  ,


.) Chaste–
doe ears leaf cotton
the twill of starlight
rough kissing between
forced lips of stiff youth:




                                                      ­   i
                                                    rid
       ­                                     iculous
                    ­                      ly that a
                                      m of freck
                                  led shoulde
                              rs lead through
                              by the parting
                               of naked health
                                 bright forests of
                                   dark trees
                                 whose black
                                wood hides in
                             who the always
                           sinking cur of
                      dumbest youth) let me speak and i will tell you a day:

who are we that we have been?

(I do not know.)

Nor have i or been,
or when and if,
and where?

perhaps if,
And I do not Know,
had i been
then i might,
being but little and a small nothing
(far from everything)
and walked.

but,
Not Knowing,
i wonder.

i love you constantly
that you are my Wife
(and my Children also)

,and both my body and my lips

(i want to kiss you constantly)

your sweetness and your smile
and the smell off of your hair
and light sparkle of your eyes
and the very correct angle of your nose.

i love you always, that you are.

And that is no little thing
i think because
i love also the Spring,
our children,
the direct sheen of moonlight
on pale snow,
and always your constant hips.

i love them,
and not least,
but most;

for you are my wife:
always something,
easily eternal.

and I love you,

as nothing which is eternal
is not you;
nor the gate of your walk,
or the folding inwardness
warmth of your
creaseless thighs.

i want only to love you
for all my days and nights—
and when they are done;
spent of laughter and tears,
i will rest easily in the ceaseless
crook of your sea.   .    .

i love you there is
something undark

more

unseemingly possible
to speak which
makes your soul–

it the
noose which
hangs by all the nights and days

to be rough
to be wholly of
hard and unhard made;

it want it to touch
(as inside touches)

each small and trembling
****** of me;

and i want it to feel
(as valkyries feel)

hurt beautiful ugly and strong.

frail i, in moonlight shall, march
up wisp of spring
into gabled spilt
juice
of curving dawn

orange
whose rind
like the human also
drys

           withers

                            sloughs

what could be more ridiculous than

this moment?the

sunmoon bloodfingers and

fucklovely

spate of effulgent  starlight; Darling that

your lips suddenly
seem to do? (my hands

the curling
of a cute cut
in clear water

a slendering
band of crimson

tracing the arcuate heap
of life's reeling–

caving to fill
in blistering flens
of brilliant
dying
instants–

,"I love you." the sand
a beach occasionally
the back seat of an old
car the sleep fitfully
morning of rising
too early into your mouth
a flower gleams by
broken of silence
sunburnt and smelling
of aloe rubs
with the cool rub of
coiled muscles , . ;                            (my Dear
                                                                  w
                                                                      e will die)
                                                            the night will
                                                            trun upon a blade
                                                            of light; our
                                                            skin will bunch
                                                            into delicate
                                                            rills of dry
                                                            coils and
                                                            dust become.    .          .                   .









                                                      BUT,

dear i will hold (you) that impossible violence of the first quiet moment of
your lips that i held slightly in my own i will hold it in my heart that
unbroken stem of your frail laughter of supple vibrance made my dear i will recall the hurt wildness of your eyes and bruise of your soft voice
my dear i will hold in my tiny hands the vast pulpit of your hairsong
and bloodpoem my dear i will forget not the dull and moments each
i will remember the early mornings and lashed travail of each lashing
voice.


                                   (My Dear I Will Hold You.
                                    I Will Carry You.
                                    INTO THAT NEAT DARKNESS
                                    . i will cup the serene mystery
                                     of every stupid minute of our
                                     body and dear
                                     i
                                     w
             i
              l        
                l

.

i love you that you are like your body;
the hair between lips quick
with thighs around

folded

folding inside–to be

inside of folding lips
upon slick freakness
of dark soul

(the fragment of your mouth does
inescapably the totally arduous
fist of its bulb to spread comely
each instant of pulsing life
with brutal health    .                     )

i love and i wonder
(approximately)
half dead into your
muzzle the painful spurring
of my love root

;

and your neck reaches
,hurting, to your chin
with limbic sweat ;

i love it
and it is like your body
you are

the coiled foiling of death
to remind through immutable pressure
its constant grasp.


i love it
and that occasionally
i am the body

you like to be.

"I've done a lot of ****** up ****." She said, quickly pushing the needle into her hip.

who is more nothing
his hands in weakness(halfsmall grinning)
slightly

parting on a cigarette
brinded by
a tree shade

he skinny
his arms
toyish
mewling
to cup in
their crooks
a drop
of the sun

and
be

        warm


     againitisWINTER)

amiably staggers
with neon a street
diminutively
creased with
laughter
and the common
blood of youth
whose vague
aptitude for
lust is always

I've never written a good poem.