A pen is sometimes
(books)

the pages of which(between)



ink.

there is by you occasionally a mouth,
i would like to climb inside(.)it Spring
under it the red pink occlusion: stupid
                                                          ­        youth

hanging by a hangs on a string,
of smart immutable dumb loveless loving

careens and gestures (which of) there is
a thing not like a thing i have ever. (have you?)

                     an ever have you a
                     dumb youth wanted
                     to immutably break
                                  ?


i that might like could you like to to.

if you'd like to too.

i could climb too into you

dyin'

    

we call livin' we


all the

(you yes


         andi  the


              whole)

we're
ya know

but

we call
dyin'
livin'
cuz

it's prettier
to think

but
to think

is
dyin'

(i know

    and i know

       i know it i



                           you



                                      the





                                                      whole






                                                                                     and





                                                                                       it

i love you how one time you were the ocean i could feel sleeping amongst whose waves a girl.

.



                                                            how like
                                                             night
                                                              does the
                                                               intense
                                                                wiggle
                                                                 of your
                                                                  hips
                                                                   enamor
                                                                    me
                                                                     sweet
                                                                      and steeply
                                                                       leaning 'gainst
                                                                        your stomach
                                                                         they're some
                                                                          violently perched
                                                                           ***
                                                                            ontop
                                                                             of your
                                                                              thighs
                                                                               like razors
                                                                                keen
                                                                                 and pretty

to count you amongst numberless heavings
(smally colliding) of human voice thousands
screaming all dimly numb voices into dumb
voices numbly dimming(stars like innumerably
dying flicker less fast into darkness but still do)

would be a lie more truthful than living is truth

for though dying flicker: you burn

(and i whisper into you a very tiny spark;love
which ekes through your cheeks black wine
freshly distilled instantly drunken beautiful;flesh)

hanging on a petal of deeply sepaled night
(pearling dew) a sigh escapes across fields
of mute flowers up tumbling mountains reaches
stupid immortal silence and fear nothing hands
for falling though stars, silence, mountains, muted flowers, human voices:


YOU

just when you think you,'ll never sleep
opens up the rough muscles of nigh    t     and P
                                                                            O
                                                                                              oF

gold

that beneath from
sturdily shouts a girl
in milk as body white

easily

that snipped of barely
perhaps flits enormously
which face is hers

curiously

curling upon
most girlish smile
of most maybe lips

gone

behind quick glass
–and rain started
to fall

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)

how like stars, innumerably beautiful, do girls crowd her face(the earth)whose cheeks, like those infinite pretty sparks, swell with the nubile quavering light o' ladies perfumed in youth; which cling to my eyes and soul like those fierce twinklers to the deep quiver of night.

inside this face the body soft
the whiteness almost of
rose crismon
nearly drunk
and swinging




           (i can see stars)




two lewd random lips
part on kiss of taste like,
"do I like an ashtray?"

"No."

(rushing like steep twinkling of sleeping light–

how many more nights

i wonder )

you are like ( how can i say  )

a sliver of warmth made skin
of blood and bone between
**** shoulders of night.

i do not
know too much
or how shall i say

you are beyond words to speak

of a more nicely arcuate
a more darling
hips.

i think
(will not)
more or less of this
moment than
of your cheeks
apart against
mine in a stupid old
park i'm too drunk to
make your
cleft
stinging
kiss impossible to

my face by little flecks of
embrace by
warm wetness.

and steeply wonder on the rush of
a nimbly
stumbling darkness
rife with
too many stumbles of
rushing lightness–

i want to love you that–

i am dying this earth the stars and every

breath between;

we shall make of this
not anything particular
a shining instant
of touch

(to touch within )

some lewd of unimportant
totally

               Is.

there was a cat in Spring fuzz tangling
morning pallid
'tween paw
and whisker
                               there
                                                 was 2 girls

talking their
small sharp
                                                 voices

blundering
                                                 in sleepier

Spring morning
fuzz
                                        caught

                                                      'tween
                                                       tail
                                                       and claw
                                                       whose name was "bjorn"

what avarice it doth crAVe so greatly in the odor of gold so a flavor is guilded our minds and we make our arms for it so we may hold more, i loved the dawn. gold enough for




                                                                        






                                 i

dance me into entering waters

           (the sea)

i might dive or very cold
it is too hard(to swim

is though even steely wild
shifting ever for

                                     )

grey and grey and

(the sea)
who is steely wild
and very cold entering waters

dance me into

(and even though)

there is, after all,
one thing
(after my breath)

–a star–

hung loose
and into the night
(which is my soul)

dreaming through
moist lips
and the cup of flower

a kissing of pale light;
the rough newness of rain;
and the smell softly afterward.

this moment is drunk
and occasionally says
dark things of remembering

about pushed apart legs
in April when it was alive
and something loved it more
than living–cooing even

into its soft ear vaguely
promises of forever and
keeping through death
its hands and lips and feet

     (whoosh)

but goes through the mouth
and nose hot dollops of dreamless
wine occluding speech, taking

tightness and smashing it over
the head with a memory of
a coy poem that tasted like the
sea in your mouth when

it sat on your face and
it was the only time it was ever
–truly–
                

                Alive.

girls feeling EMPTY cords 'tween their hips feel. They
of some nothing
go each day
filling
nothing
with
some
cords.

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?

there is the world so much i think i have felt it

have felt by it
and by it felt

so much it
(the world)

who in droves presses ugly Spring against me
who in heards comes dying and immortal
who in sleeping flowers laughs most
(the world

by sting invisible
impulses each rotund death
of lungs upon heaps of dying
to go out and wear more gladly it

it girls laughing
it boys sweating to be first
it arcuate of hips
it thundering of industry
it of millions tinly each


each pointless
each fathomless
each more than last
each next than other
each the other than the next

i think and i have seen by it
and have i?
way north over the barn where goes the winter
when in neatish crimson hulking ****** comes

first small coming

then steadily gargantuan

Summer

in deep veins of failing gold
only to brittle
only to fold and tousle
only to rubble and quake

alas

and i have thought

alas

and i have read

alas

and i have felt so proud to get at the meanings of poems

) but ever have i known it?

No.

i have not been my feet to push of it a million splendors

i have not been my throat to scream so loud my body shook

i have not been amongst its people

i have not tasted

i have not been by the skinny bank of a winding stream in the middle of Summer when the cool water tickles across the span of each toe the wholeness of being

i have not kissed so long to love

i have not breathed so long to speak

what then can i say?
but do i say it?
of course

i say it by hands between quick thighs
uncurling hurting bruises of hot sharpness

i say it in the hunched play of a girl's wetness

i say it in the calm stroke of a withered dog's scalp

i say in quiet moments as in loud moments

i speak(and i always speak)

and i think i have the world so much by it felt as to know it

and i think i do not know it

and i think it is not so much

and i think i have not felt it

what stands the sea on completely edge?

the roots of mountains very deeply into keen waters steaming. (like boysmen


at the shriveled inch
of girl *******



                                          )like
      ­                                        ,
        
                                            like      .l

      ­                                                    i

          ­                                                k    e the way intensely quivers
                                                         ­           grass to grow
                                                            ­        in plumes o' green and waxy

                                                           ­          the way smells
                                                          ­           the teeming
                                                         ­            of a city
                                                            ­         harshly
                                                         ­            into
                                                            ­         1
                                                              t­hgit
                                                            ­laturb
                                                          ­fist              
                                              ­        swelling
                                                ­                  to strike

                                                         ­   . A meadow where sleeps girls in the colours of Spring,



                
                                     ­                                                                 ­     '



                                                            ­                                                ,








       ­                                                                 ­                                    .

i have the (deliberate) comely legion of summer marched through
in the lather of poppies;i fell sleeping with flowers from my skin
pulsing to reach the sun

                                               by stems fragile aching

                       LAVENDer

and



                marigolds 2

                                           were

                                                        there

                                                                   they
                                                                    had
                                                                     *****
                                                                       small
                                                                        voices
                                                                         but smelled like
                                                                          H
                                                                          O
                                                                        N
                                                                         E
                                                                        Y

come this day with me and look upon the earth.

She is a wise
wide at the hip
deep into her
basin where

the folding occlusion
of her bulging lips
contain the
exstatic pearl of life.

she is full:
her thighs
abound over
in supple fat;

her moss is
golden she hangs
a bent beam
on the running
rill from her

cleft bump,
the hillocks
suffused in
grass rollick
and distend
pleasantly.

within where
the waters
part themselves
into blood
and wine.

Her mucous
is secrete:

it flows
en-opaled.

The eyes are for it.
The mouth is for it.
The hands are for it.

it holds wide itself,

(and tight and suffuse
and secretly languorous)

for all who would enter;

and ALL entering is here.


And leaving too
is here:

there is entering and there is exiting here;
one quickly after the other,
or at the same time,
or at neither--
entering and exiting all the same.

She is a worm hung
and in her cellar
is some moist rot;

but do not dismay
for as entering and exiting:
from rotting there is birthing.

And how we are born.

And how we come from her.

And how we come into her.

And are made the same again.

the splint to mountains trollop
and ecstasy of luminous death
a sunging light is hurdy gurdy
and
            to behind
their rocky stiffened pose
it's a plunging ***** of deeply laughing violet

it was milk again last night arms sweating teeth on edge and whole body steaming lathered in crocuses

my daughter moves
there is something
shakes moving
rattles a bit
falling she
does
into sleep
something
small(smaller)
than all smallness
her tiny aspect is
warm and i think
Very perfectly small
and smaller than all
warmness. i fold the
several things of my
arms around her smallness

and


she


s

    L



    e



                      p




                                     s.
                                       ,


                                       .

whose own body have i been
beyond myself to live?

some grey some black
tiny little box of tick
tock, little snap
little whir
and crank

over the engorged aperture
of girlflesh parted on spits
of young wanting-to-be beautiful;

snap snap
whir tick
tock film,

film over light
over film
over electric
sensor hot
at mouths

gush twaining
snip
snap

(1.8 60)
too bright
too light
not enough
chiaroscuro
when you're

"lick(ing) her ****"

in what sureness holds wife hands?

My most mundane love,
fresh in a moment
i felt your shoulders
between my fingers
the fascia binding
my soul to yours.

when took me
yours beneath
a smallest gable
of artificial flowering:

(in a peach dress
very pregnant;
i kissed the
last person).

"*******," this if not alive if not dying of each buzzed ripple
of breath which tensely erupts
into uncoiling fold of morning
over the silent chord of sunrise

seems if not speaking seems
to eternally youth, breaching
the seamless cording of
a short girl's throat–says,

"alright,"

and
        "i
wish you
l o v  e   d

    me."

I come a robin's egg blue sky
With a sun and a night
Lean, dank, and innumerably
Looms with magic
Just at the nape's of
Street lights

some barely rosebud
tenderly just
open
slenderly

bobbling
aloft
skinny skinny skinny
stem and

a pink
sliver of
petals
bunch easily
at

the lips
of its,

(hands go around
and: Pluck            )

did it ever seem like life was sifting gradually swift in lumps and sighs,andforks bolting sorely muscles tingle and baritone is plumply in this jazz hard cafe i'm eating eagerly your stomach with darting hollow orbs it's so cleanly a caked muck that's draped splendidly in ******* a girl i lick and tender verbally a slick sentence skirt lifting rapture

how you feel in the dark( uneasy
imbalanced weirdly strong) feels

like ( coy unearthly howling) rain
feels deep with smelling after (
prickled millions of cold and hot )
mingling with the seaair and is
gently acrid salty wafts of gulls
crying scattered threading the
moonlight through their coarse
throats ( little tiny trillions of

kissing droplets slightly ) like
you feel in the dark ( imbalancing
coyly acrid howling ) feels like

THE SEA

by this the world i mean the flesh:
the lip eye
bone sinew
ear mouth
and nose;

i mean the nerve
over buzzed
by impingement;

the shocking
and profuse
frock of the
skin,

tingling at
the rush of breath;

i mean the cold
and cadaverous
welching of
the lips not formed
about spent gas,

in rutted exersion
of its yearning atom.

(the bone and hand
are at once in play
with the muscles,
which form and
gesticulate the self;

they make as unmake
and the world lists between
their span--

gripped tightly
in the 1 moment
and let idly
in the neckst)

i have formed
myself
my hands
around the
shafts of roses

and i have never been
myself less or more
than in those moments
neither being absorbed
nor voided of presence

but only being
the hand
around which
the within
holding
the presence of a rose:

i lift
to my nose
and eat
the exsellent
PoLLEn,

            .


                   ,




        .














                                   ­     !

u c now? Grass is me. each glowing blade of it are my limbs R grass
grunting up to skyward professing such greeness and full of vital
light,
         it is so supple and it by lakes is me
         and by napes of rivers it is me on end
         it is my hair and it's electric in me
         singing some song majestic
         yet so quietly
i know it as i would know a lover(if i ever trod on my lover
who was softly cushioning each fall of my wiggling toes
with their strong little body)and it knows me because it
is me, i am the grass and i grow with the wind on me
and it is my friend(for the wind knows best the grass
(save for maybe the dirt(who is my wife(for she takes
my root deep into her and bears my seeds to the air))))

i have fallen through all beauty(till
eagerly met i this moment)

when shrugging elegant words
eased from the cream of colorless
pages a purely growing perfection

into my soul the inconcise mess
of edward's dumb fingers
and his most dead mind

the confusion of all instantly wondrous splendor
(and edward, did you suppose that caught as if by
filaments dying immortal threaded into woven
hanging letters the gush of when you rused up
the best hill driven by black wine that i would
laying amongst pale cotton come alive in you)?

sum wut werd 1 means
i dont think a single think
will mean.

And how should 1 know it?

By what name will you call this thing?

the nam'ed thing persists
resisting itself nothing
which unencumbers,

the still pistil
of a blade between
the toes.

Have your feet tasted much?

Have you been so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

(there are thousands of poems left).


                                                             .







                                                              .











                                                                 ,

i love to die because
i love to kiss
in you where

(death sleeps)

wide and white and waiting

to kiss me

because but i
love to kiss you into
which sleeps summer and dying

(who autumn shall meet–dying)

cannot go but goes
anyway (the tacit
ripple of sublime time)

from whence the corded
bullet of your mouth
screams chocking with
poppies and crocuses

streams a dark and fathomless lips—

(i would like to part.i would like to enter)

darling
i
Love You

w

          w



                         wh



                                             what loves


                                                     this
                                                        I?i
                                                      loves the
                                                      rushing of in girls
                                                      Summer when heat
                                                      does its lips in forked
                                                      seething.

                                                       I loves
                                                       the hush
                                                       of almost winter nights
                                                       and the concise
                                                       melancholy
                                                       of empty rooms.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the by
                                                        cherriest of wristness
                                                        to loosely
                                                        in vagrant slumber
                                                        stir whitely.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the brother of my brother, and
                                                        the little timid
                                                        of barely unviolence boys
                                                        (in fists very tightly which).

                                                         But.

                                                          w w   ww what loves
                                                           Iis
                                                           the most
                                                           of life
                                                           and lessing
                                                           too
                                                           of it
                                                           into
                                                           primest daftness of sleep.

came thee by thee came
a posthumous day
(the fold most grand and eloquent
the lancing fragrance)
i,m uncareful lucid cadaver
of sensible powder    
crimped finely
so in the clarity of feverish dawn i drew and bent the notch
a shady dappled riot
       where i wait for some madly gabbing burst
of wet unkempt






                                  S
                                    P
                                  R
                                 I
                                   n
                                         g .

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

.                                                     I
                                                     at
                                                    The
                                                   sharpest
                                                  new
                                                     clean
                                                 blade
                                                of
                                                    dawn
                                               which performs
                                              the colour
                                             of life
                                                        in
                                           A curving sheet
                                          of condensed
                                         flowers
                                                      am lifted
                                        impractically
                                       petal
                                      upon petal
                                                to
                                    the breathless coronet
                                                     of
                                  unspeakable
                                 love

DEstroy(of)er(whothe)

               earth


is slender waisted gaunt
pale skinny horsed
and short

                       in leggings
           (smoKING a hard
****)wiggles pink at the


folds and heaving
in youth


wears some glitter on her
over the balcony
*****

all the streets in girl things comely
arms a bit are haired in

               (tan and tan)


the golden crush of whose mute fingers
make blithe the spring
and against
find the night homely

piercingly the mooon against
into slivers thousand make
their drooping slender of cotton haste
as cherry petals,

                             a branch from shake


in the wind to uncurlsome
neatly wan ankles
and fists o' skin girlsome

crease and crease alike(andunlike)

gossamer



                          faintly





                                                          of




pinkest aching to part


To enter loving


To exit heart

on the steps of an old house sits a bright boy
(his hands are full of sleeping and flowers are)
he is in the summer a bit and there he is
sitting a bright boy on pale steps with his hands
full of sleeping and flowers are carefully and
he plucks each from and each from he plucks
their petals on the old steps of a house in
the hot pash of sunlight sits a bright boy, who

.































































­



                                     "Hurt me."




























































­












.

gilt in foiled amber streetlight bluntly buckled on my coffer p-coated and trundling meticulously a drafty cinder of pretty little veins blueing clicked small headed teeth blasting blond scalp and hot pinked lips they' were asking shyly if i'd a minute heat to burst the cool heap of tobacco splitting pleasantly her plush rinds a tube 'i"m sorry i don't smoke'

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.)

"You did this little thing, when I kissed
you after I had gone down on you,
where you ****** your juices off the
tip of my nose. It was one of the most
****** things I've ever experienced."

Rise
that within
you there titans
of summer invincibly
gold stuff form'd.

Sleep
from which
shall their tumult
sing unbridled colliding
of days in heat's fold.

i wish i could talk to you