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

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.

"You're not what I expected."






















"What should I have been like?"

i were left to impress upon myself the medium of hips
where in was yours, the aptest sliver of
feminine hotting spark
                                                 and after
in rigid slumbers mortar
she was more astonishing
than gods first light
he said
once
(and it was
) so?

by what courtesy of some small voice does the city speak,

little and so much

it says, "by the way have you seen the old man in
his tired skin,

goodbye,

waiting next to the young drunks so loud underneath they are so loud and not a whisper can escape ,  "

the city, and it talks too much it

cannot be heard

over its own
voice
          .

there is an old man who is dying inside me
he lies by a pale ocean
his eyes are and mouth mouth crawls with
ladybugs Spring is there
her lips are full of chafe and brightness hangs
about a flower less
petals each into the wind next to a pale ocean
where there is an
old man who inside of me is dying

i know precisely the whitest utterance
of almost spring nights; of nights
bewitched sonorous
sleeping fragile
fantasies.  from who is belched a pale
gossamer sleepingest city; i who love the
moon brimming stiller streets of
her flush tremble
her sabled hush
her most coyly subdued excitement

.





























































                                "I miss you. How are you doing today?"

























































­











.

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.

flower the hands and lips cannot
contain the pistil always running
red over the cusp of your budding
blossom,
              .

Even in notSpring,
when it shouldn't be full of pollen;
but little bee by mind of flesh
reminds your pricking to always
burn a little needling with
incessant urge to fill the
dark space between thigh:

(there is something slendersmooth
and easy to be inside of–

                    (like the earth)––

                             ( like death)–––

.





                                                                                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          )

a dancing shadow widely spectered an obtuse blot 'pon bedroomed wall. or slightly also melancholy: it's rigided amorphousness stank of hollow

it feels too heavy with people
and sounds often
in little boxes

, people

little boxes in them

where sounds

are too heavy.

"That I shall not be loved: I shall love no one."

'is cheeks er
rosey
stupid

(stump stupid)
rosey
an' 'es's

"What are you doing?" dooing. 'es

fat little.                    is


e a
boy
in

A
man suit

wearing a face like

A boy.

is to see strangely
the rain hanging

by a most cloud
grey when
behindit
lays                      
only

blue

i my lips have been

    (to fling across impossible darkness)



A kiss


a curling
a soft
a mouth
a such achingly
a stupid and.


Across feeble immortal night
a blade of light
might that it would
its cut to part
that inken hood


to sleeps where curl'd
in girlish winking pearl'd
your heart's body
to cup it in my pinken furl

and a bit of sting
by Spring of pollen
your comely wisp
deepishly to imbibe


lifting thy swollen stupor

(press back the leaden lid
  )

do not go there are trees and how many who knows the world is round in Spring and fat in Spring is the far wonder of somewhere the chickadees of smooth sweltering dolls with their dulleyed limp mouths and they don't say a "******* word"

A pen is sometimes
(books)

the pages of which(between)



ink.

of what is there,
the making of dreams?

                     some ***** perhapsness
                                           ?or

                                              the maybe of seem?

a dream is big in you reeling through young arms stabbing
(by able blades of deft hands)
the night


                     a rose


of the magic distillation released
shifting 'pon the wind
trembles not a clove
but sand 'neath feet
is unsturdy moving
out to sea a moon
is larger than anything else
hanging by some cord invisible
and a lark cringing on the air divisible:





chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchir­pchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchi­rpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpch­irpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpc­hirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp­chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchir­pchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpchirpchi­rpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpchirpch­irpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirpchirpc­hirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp
chirp­chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp­
chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchir­pchirp

little blue pale who
hurt knees(              )inside
slightly of
purple feels alone
sitting slightly
knocked,


mouth doing
the totally brutal
girl thing:  

                      your estuary

in which sleeps titanic dreams
of glaring night
****** summer
and unkempt
                sprin
                         G


shines so easily
with heavy beauty


and tinily utters
each new careful star of eve :                          (your hair is a deep mystery;
                                                        ­                       like the sea–
                                                            ­                   shook,
                                                          ­                     folding
                                                         ­                    )(endlessly
                                                     ­                           into folded
                                                          ­                      coils o' gold stuff made         )





tucked
suddenly
into
the
quiet
crook
of
a
book
store



                                       ,"I like your nose ring."

(dreams)
                  just
                           thickly
                                        and
                                                  copious
                                                                 what like pale
                                                                 towers ascend
                                                                 nights to heaven
                                                                 in which sleeping
                                                                                 fair
                                                                 winds ma
                                                                 gi
                                                                       st
                                                                 r
                                                                      a
                                                                 t       e
                                                                 the lewd buds
                                                                 of lilacs and
                                                                 poppies un
                                                                                     opened
                                                                                                   buds nudely
                                                                                                                        before
                                                                                                             crocuses
                                                                                                                         and
                                                                                                                    between 2
                                                                                                                          sheets of
                                                                                                                                  softest
                                                                                                                               cotton
                                                                                                                                     the innocent
                                                                                                                               sugar petals
                                                                                                                                      of their bulbs cleanly
                                                                                                                              is sundered

lightening I, baby, struck deeply
cleaving thy smile

thigh sticky
                       and to the lip

brimming, teeters, dear, you
on me

crests up thy body, arched
totally and splits the quiet

seething
                   aches

                                a
                                         yowl

shall die who not
of Spring always?

not grass or leaves.

not the sea or
the tragically rapid
wings of
hottish wind.

not the rocks
or the
trimmly light locks
of crimson eve.

not the fit splendor
of the night
or (the who)
of, "why not?"

when shyly asks
of boys, girls ,
to part them

(in twain of pleasure's hutch
  

   )         (              where



      ,        like of Spring        ,


dying is not so

as vermillion becomes of touch     )

breath: there is nothing like you
a flower, the river next to it, a
strain of summer and



                                                      breath
­












                                                    ­                                     there
































       is






























































­
                                                                ­                                                                 ­      nothing

drink dreams
rushing with flowers

(somewhere


alone

and with gin   ) carefully

intercoursing with females
and speaks coursing with
hares a lark and suddenly

it is winter

(into who barely he fits himself)

a radian–and spring.

bruise
i like
to press you. your

body and


the skin beneath me please

i would like to

                            ,
                                   press you.

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.       )

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)

hot

the

big                                                                                                          chattering




hulking



brute




                                                            OF





brutal                                                                                                          autumn


                                                        Death



                                                         with






leaning                                                                            into







pockets                       of





                                                              cold  cold    cold     cold       cold      cold






teeming with
suddenly sky cutting
***** life,



                                                                                                                         hurry


                                                                                                                         hurry



                                                                                                                        The



scared
scurrying
endless mound
of always needing



                                                                  TO


always                                                                                                                  be



                          

                                                                   .





                                                                   ,








                                                                   ;

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

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       .)

it hurts to be loved.
it hurts to be, loved
it hurts, to be loved
it, hurts to be loved
.it loves to be hurt

do you i
have some
memories

   of remembering

some remembering

i was when
you were

two cold outside
to walk and
we so
(staying)
stayed inside you

were very warm

and




                                             (it was so cold outside)

T'what

death do i owe this living:
hot kissed sweating backs of knees the lick of tired grass drab waves of summer moonlight laughing outside a bar hands full of mouth eyes ******* and constantly the droll hammer of absurd youth


                             ?



(Portland was like that)


hung flesh
with the hot flush
of freshly ******
girllips

;

because i don't know why, the stars.
purred furiously with sky
deep with purple and ambrosia

came the licked in dawn
of orange and white husk
split at the collar–
leaking black wine
rain and occasionally


love

the caress i feel

          is my own fingersunlightrainwaveseyelashes


of sweaty and inimitable curling
Saturdays

                     the twine


of their bodies


                                the gusset


of neat and white corners

soft and soft and soft

always



                   always



    always


eyelashes prickling tingle
a multitude of tickle singeing


muscles and hunger

eating and lank

hulking and brutal

skinny and timid


the specters in books
my window suddenly looking out on the bay

ships

dreamily swept upon turgid waters

and a boy(on the edge of his bed)

i think i shall die
that there is a rose in my lips–
the sea everywhere
and the barely sound
of washing over
the sand
it.

heart, it's
by you the

     such does:

rainfingerskissingsunlight.     the

**** gentle,

and the winsome easy.


(heart) i
have climbed
by the steep winter
of your ribs,

into the crisp tumult
of cringing heat

my hands to make
(in your nakedness

    ,trembling,

)a coo


to halt the quivering of your stomach
at my entering sound. (that


**** baby

i want to
fill you, and

please       not

to hurt you when,

baby,


i love you
and because (he( u )art)
i don't want to i'll

stave the eagerness
of rain

to


pour.

not less spoken than:
;hardly hearing
;barely speaking

            .

.







































"I can be cruel.

But not emotionless–not mindlessly cruel.

With disdain and a true lack of care.

I envy that."



















































.

a thorn gently
palm
eager with which
to meet:

red

.
























                                       ­                                          t
                                                               ­                as
                                                              ­               t
                                                               ­                 EE
                                             ­                              a
                                                               ­                 C
                                              ­                         h
                                                               ­  feels as shape
                                                           ­    like shape does:
                                                           ­  as like winter fist;
                                                           a juniper wi' holly kisst
            
                                                                ­         Acurled
                                                         ­                w
                                                               ­               i
                                                ­                    th
                                          ­                                i
                               ­                                              n
                                                               ­ a    curl'd   sphere
                                                          ­                   t
                                                               ­          he
                                                              ­   locke o' love
                                                            ­            an'
                                                 ­                         f
                                      ­                                       u

                                                              ­           r
                                                               ­             l
                                                  ­                      e
                                         ­                                       d
                        ­                                                            fear
­                                  

                                                               ­                        et, un deux du pleure fus

                                                            ­ that hands should hurt
  
                                  where love is new














































.

feels of a whole roughness
a heart cloven
seeps from a pair of oncenoble
girl eyes,

                   "sometimes I just want to die"

i think you,
when the world
(easy with roses)
speaks a hymn
like the mute
crushing of
parted night,
will rise beyond your body
to sing with fierce grace
your hands as lips to speak;
such love (even the roots
of flowers have never known)

.





























































                                                  Let's dance.
  
                                                  (And **** everything else)

it's autumn i cannot believe how i am alive again
the trees are and the day
in bits of orange
recedes into dark
fathoms of unday,

i wish my hands held
your hands that like
god hold the making
of every little nice thing

and every little ugly thing
of making inside me though

               –i wish–

how suddenly fragile i was
when we were

even though
we never                        were

. It's autumn

and i cannot believe how


i am alive

I need the softness of some small moment to open 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?

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

to me.will you

doit?more?

Please?