.















































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

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
















































.

.                                                     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

1 hill
wide up the ways
from the foot
in a dark wood

there is a mangy
old leopard blocks
my path to make

up into where there
from which
all surrenders come

and hand not makes
but breaks;
and all lips are lovely dumb

. (i wonder where not which
this glad and homely even stitch
such rouge perhaps to be
in golden morn and noontide's lee)

for there is borne upon its breast
that wager which we all must test;
not known but leapt
–from where within–
the leaping that old Denmark guessed.

and walked by nine for harsh travail
rings that cut at entered nail;

O this guide is poet made
who meets me in that sullen glade
and pulls me forth towar' deeper paths
where life is still and sin is paid.

o how easily your lips become me,
the burning crimp
of urging kiss,

to depart myself
and wander amongst
thy body holy and vile ridiculous winsome trivial spectacular,

(arm and thigh)
whose sweep and gait is love
made ready for tongue
to impart slowly tenacious,

whose comely hair is course tender difficulty splendrous,

whose moments are singeing exactly innumerably few
(and never enough)


who i have longed for in deepest valleys of untouching cruelty
(to cup thy whole mouth
in my mouth,
to carry it forward
thy kiss a burning standard

into inkset darkest darkness of night



that i might walk without stumbling;





that i might see           )

stop enjoying the beautiful things other people make.

start making the beautiful things other people enjoy.

the ******* are i love the way it's.
the and it
the does way
(forked dolllike riven).


                                                                                                     ?suppose ouy od


                             why not some let's the?

                            



                           (and maybe even harder)

Spring, that whose every year is its last
and whose death always is the promise of its birth:

you pink between,

you softly to part,

you to come of flowers lathered,

you are a mystery.A cute curving mystery,
of slightly undeath.

a curt cutting mystery,
of increasing unhealth.

you're whose *** the mound of wreaking,
the confluence of hips,
and the pourn of roses, gardens.

turn me off(in your body there is a switch
which
ignites the pale frame of flowers


                                     To bloom,

enter me thy hands of cool etherizing
that i might

                           suddenly

(a flock of intense doves)
become my skin
some curving ofs
starlight(inAmsterdamwhere

a flower left me
the rich improbable hands of the wind

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)?

are what the heart? some
fresh vehicle of kissing?) i have

broached in sinuous deliberate
matchless chords of straining music
                               ,
to break the fragile muss of intrinsic Spring
                               ,

in twain of pressless spent thrilling flowers

(whose mute crushing sends hardboys to war


)and propels quiet girls to wares.

sunlight
where
your
fatal chord
of music
strains
the mute
scepter
of night
bleeds
crimsonly
a thin note
of thigh
parting
light(


                      your
             mouth
                       which
                 ekil
                      is
                         a
               turned
                         upon
                   medallion
                 ofvery
          Spring.Agape

                     T
                     o
receive

                              the


thick

                  brutal


          ***


                     of poppies

      )

let's say begin me the you way
does
           open

more slightly
the closed fist of my petals,

than opens me the light fingers
of in may Spring. than

the rain does,
in autumn when
dies the trees to neatly wonderful,

(and i come into their black bodies
the sliver of my mute flesh;
stopping on brief immutable desolation
my awe to wander enormously)

the dew is fast and quietly begins me
when: like that you

are like you are

like my to unfist (and with bright colours
)pollen

                gold, suddenly,


                           forever

not matter does whatever this world thinks(i

will go by flights of angels
)on

their breath

i will go by florid gasping of soundless immutable
waters into

              waters of. i

will pass my little ship its sails may bend
but
i will go o'

i will go shall not by the whatever the world thinks

despite angels (on whose breath shall carry me

into

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).

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's
a   little bit,

starrily snowing,

sky so

(a rook between
         h
       a   n
          

         g
            i
       n
         g               by


)

of

(do you suppose)?raintime morning with

creeping.

                               shadowlightshadowlight

crreping


strands,


                      hands as



soft can be? the inching,

caress,
and deeply?

.































































­













     "You might be a vegan, but I swear your skin is milk poured into the careful shape of your body."


























































­

























.

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

let's be pretty
inpurple
(your eyes)i'll

your throat(and
)how

           about it?

with the nuzzling
of my love fist, baby?ican

make you pretty



                                 ,baby?and i

can kiss you,

                       dear.doyou

want it













          ?

.






























































                                                                 your unclosing was so tight. it
                                                                 tasted like the ocean, brine and
                                                                 went so fast my knees hurt
                                                                 splitting its tense flower.





























.

.




















































                                              "I just want you to know, I care about you a lot, ok?"














































.

There's some sense of things, how do I say, I don't know--I feel it uniquely. As when I have been my self, alone in a car, watching streetlights wash over my hands. As when I a have been amongst the stark folds of almost winter nights. As when I have been pressed suddenly from unkissed, into, kissed.

And how do I describe it? Maybe I don't need to. Maybe you already know.

Who knows, perhaps.

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)

.































































­
                                                  who loves shall not die beyond there body.



























































­





                                                                                                                                                                              .

"where are you?"

and by the way, "i've been"

the hour of a girl

(often to kiss the shoulders of mountainS"

leeeepinG"

say wide thy heart
(i shall enter it the sea)

i shall,
by armies of lips,
forge into its miles
deepest ruts of burning neatness.

i shall,
in it,
very softly sow
1 seed.


(which by shall erupt
thy paleset coffin
into the carefullest of stars; reeling

              ).


and shall,
it by erupting,
become the sea
(entering it)


                   of me.

body,


                                             do
                                           you
                                         know
                                       how the
                                     air by you
                                   (when)
                                  becomes
                                lighter does
                                                       ?
                                                       or
                                                          do
                                                             you
                                                          perhaps
                                                                 know
                                                                      how
                                                        severely wafts
                                                     the arcuate dribble
                                                                             of your girlness cuts?

.































                                ­                     O
                                                      yOur
    ­                                                    mOuth
       ­                                                   issO
         ­                                                      hOt

               (inside it feels)

                                                sometimes­tight

                                                          ­and
                                                             ­                      O
                                                               ­                 it dOes

                             when

                                                  Springtim­e
                          
                                    ­                           draws 'er

                                                            ­               pretty 'ittle
                                                          ­                                
                                ­                                                                 ­    nOOSe

                                                          ­                                                    acrOss

                        
                           ­                             yer neck
                                                               (jerks)
        
                                                ­                                                             and parts
                                                           ­                                                  (wetly)
                                                         ­                                                     light

     ­                                                                 ­                                        and
                     ­                                                                 ­                        (life)
                                  ­                                                                 ­                                        intO darkness

                                                       ­                                                                 ­                            strays.

your *** is like ****
(i think) and the backs of your knees
are like
i think. very nice to be inside of

i would you,

do you think too?

your lips and perhaps?

i would like oh dear to fit
like rain fits in April;
very wet and strictly.

oh dear and to eat you tinly i would hurt myself
with the hardness of earth. i would climb
into your fist very stiffly a flower. andear,
i would lay a hand against your unmeeting(
i would enter the primness of your heap
A mountain of unsleep. ) andear

i think you,

(do you think tooo)?

Oh this were if only it were if
it might
be more possibly

to wantingly be.


                                    (but only)
                                          it's
                                        were

not if
or could.

Or if
it were
is

                       it might


(would)

     be.



an'
pleasantly so.

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

.





                                                                                bruise,

                                                                              the pressing of your skin
                                                                              is hurting to want
                                                                              to want hurting
                                              
                                                                                       in you to hurt

                                                                                to want

                                                                                 to hurt you

                                                                                  (  the pressing of your skin,


                                                                                       bruise          )

how when I was laying deep in you your checks and baby I kissed your neck you felt so steeply warm and you felt like the tightest drinking of my thorn your hips went running hot with a gush and I kissed your straying lips I went down you your body up went it curved exactly perfect to feel so tightly steep and wonderful to climb

Sum Mer

summer

sum yer

summer thick you
your rind
is splendid
to break

by teeth eagerly
your juice                    (sweet juice

                                            soft juice

                                               coy juice )

it letting
runs so hotly neat

in rills instantly
it clings
to limb and brow

it rolls
it comes out of fair and crisply dying spring
a girl it comes

in short hair
and exactly fraying light

its cherry lush
(from where ardent boyish grinning gush)
is youth sharp in fragrant muss

(and too like would i
in there a bit to tiny die

amongst er thighs a comely playing
i'll a joust of lust to fill their splaying

       )in June time
           a coffee
              and its girl
             were
          they
             and
           i

i(doyou)love
             (lieve
      
      -me-  
  
    be) cuz

you

don't please

be cuz
(true please

    ) cuz

i love you
(do you
believe
            
             me?)Luv?

i love you it the world
and

i love

how by the way
when you laugh
shakes all your body

just a bit
your body

like your body
it shakes
the rain

it moves even when it doesn't and

it feels warm inbetween my sheets(hands)does
your body

and when you stir
in the morning
stirs more the sting
the hot
the ring the
when it
the morning does
sting does
the stir more ring does

of the sun through my shades
prickling very skinny
it reaches

to touch very lightly your hair
and meets my fingers there

(when you are laying
and i kiss
you
pull tightly
the curl of your legs)

i sit up and look out you
your arms
over me
become
and i
back again
into them
trip

like when i have looked up at the stars and my breath
winds up into them
a neat and easy coil

you are like your lips

and your lips are like the sun
dashing
across infinite nothing
to meet my lips

in such heat
i think them cherry to touch

but a poem is not you
nor are you a word

instead you, Dear, are

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

.






















































         ­                                                           this is not a poem




























































­

































                               ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­             /

the very ugly beautiful you
AMERICA i

we the
(people)you
and me
are

i have a most thing
it is very

and when it is
there is a rushing

it feels sometimes
its mouth does

i think itchy with
its stomach has

or its ribs

but most
it is mine

it is very

its lips are and teeth
(i kiss them)

they look so
and me

oh dear
my heart goes

this thing most
of
is
and very
it's so
most

i can never have more
than less
of as much
as i'd
like

at last again the dying

(this prickish

         the soft and)

Spring is to hotter

(body are

            the


                  more     )

become in Summer


        


          (a tongue)

of such heatness to move
articles of fun
to disdissemble gorgeously

they

's

shoulders fiercish cumly

and they's

muscles pointed
waists
attenuated
to hipish
widely spend


(that where

where spends

my wonder

to wonder where

what under there

is what underwear

                                    )

think
i hope
it's
skinny

it's
thin
neon easy

to "please"
too "please"
hot too
"please" to

remove please

on your knees
(please?)


in Summer where
under there
wears
an itchly urgish
to bare

the clefted fold
in freshly cloven 'air


in (the)
dying (Spring time)
the (only) pretty (ring time)


When Birds Do Sing

the it need
you and by
febrile coarse

"****"me

the



you





your frail
uncommon
heat


it




feels
(*****)

the like
an eating of stings


feels grossly wonderful
(herking jerking wonderful)
to choke

to choke so nicely
to choke so pretty

grinning hot
a flash of sharpness:

redbeautifully scratching
me my oh why

not
   the shaking

          you


are not unlike
a very bud
split
at
the nape
of crowning

lussst

(a flower of my bed
so delicate shook

by cruel thrusting
the parting;

                      hip's crook

                                             )

somewhere i am sleeping i can hear
the wind across
the span of my ear a flower
is bending in it is bent
bending in the wind
it is white
its petals are
its body is
thin it's green
it's yielding very
nicely

somewhere i am sleeping i can hear

what the **** have you done

don't go
(the world is)

i am


and sitting


miles away

(tick tock)

in a pale room
buzzing

(tock tick)

a fly

violently


( waiting )

where are you?
i love you.
don't go


(i can hear sitting) miles away)

a fly
buzzes
violently

when i the you sweetly
sublime of
knees fleeting intensely

kiss inwardly
the entering sound

You
the perhaps exactly
shed a sliver of teeth

by catching skin
gag
upon a sliver
of ***** shyness

and seem feel
the arms by
youth hard

hands

crimped skinny hot
vulnerable teasing
to swallow

this world

does it see the feel need
(as a child does



                                         )flowers?


and does it see them?
the stems by coloures eloquent
bobbling tiny thousands

each a poem silked in light
each a vast array of smell


and does it feel them?
the curving hollow
of rushing soft

to gather in a ****** plume
the tease and romp of hue


and does it need them?
the sigh and quake of fragile dying
the least living
the most loving

and does this world
(as a child does

a flower )?

and does it?



























and does it?

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