you                                    r
crimson; instrument
(beat
beneath) bone
i'd
like 2
call
its environs
my                                      n      e       w
home

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

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

the nothing moment
where of a once beautiful
woman in a dark room
with her husband only
sits painfully

and says, "I forgot to take my medication today."

i
found something

(inside me)

will you let

me

show

you
you
you
you
you
you
you
you
you
you
you
you
yo­u
you
you
you
you
you
you
you
you

turns leaf over who through rain divides the world into muster and bluster of almost autumn nights thick with near darkness; it cannot feel to shift or move a muscle only to roll under the deep muzzle of rain and stem.

pass me through this
(the lung)
an embolist--

not making a passage,
but constrict instead
all moving of hart;
all ******* of blud.

a minute will be your hands
around the neck of girl,
pale spent, lurid
in the cheeck--
a stain breathing,

below the eye
not clover
nor neither dye
but the curved hinge
from where all seathing flys.

1 invincible shining moment
comes crashing thoroughly
over the slack drawn tightly
instant your lovely fat lips
SmaS!H over me deliberately

break all the rules

what writes dies,
saying itself
in dark little letters;

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

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

into dying again
as they feed on the
specters in

books     .
              .
                   .

           .


                              .

what burst from limbs
in naked fire
?the sprout of love
A supple pyre

are we
unlike steel? (more like light
made supple leaves of grass in
sleeping mountains where lay we
our hands of fire shorn of appolo,s Breath
                                                                         tangling with the boughs of forests
                                                                         darkly
                                                                                   waiting
                                                                       deeply
                                                                                     softly)

Do you? who in marble stillness,
(thus reposed) under shade of
buckled trees and heavens hand
would with thee let me lay and
into quiet charging gushing
stiffly ever and

        for
ever;

everyday i'm discussing with everyday, myself as i make out to the glamouring
the inches and dashes of every self i have
and stitches of sinew here in which lies the me that is this i, i that am

i walked in leaves of grass, of wriggling splendor's summers of shoulders
and achy crimsoned necks by the suns meters of light
measuring the stints of our crawling opaque days and suns of many sons

it's very that is that even when sun should repose his ***** of uncadenced
carefully miraculous shimmering blood
like orange and ardent flesh he'd go on us it, giving his very stuff our bodies

to wear on our wheres and whens and whys. is night not also beautiful?
it is naked beautiful. **** and beautiful
plenteous and beautiful with all its hearts in tinder palely igniting every

atom of copious earth. bowls of copious illuminant children, the things
which will become after us
the us that we were before their coming. but they are gorgeous and neither

would i weep if in my going they should take that space where were was
i. resting the shouts of my self
in the orchards of youth, i am now so but it's quickly running, flitting

eagerly from my this. in vines and plurals i am single and many. neither
none nor many. but many ones,
little bubbles of tranquil vile fluid guttering the songs of wind.

i go to streams and they are me. i go to mountains and they are me. i go
to valleys and they are me.
can i be streams and mountains and valleys? can i not be streams and

mountains and valleys? they are weeds and i am a ****. a **** is a rose.
i am rose.
i am blossomed in full spring. able of petals. i am turned to the sun, with my

root between the lips of earth. who is my lover. the earth is woman.
she is a ****.
a **** is a rose.

by another name. they smell just as sweet.

when you die
you are dead

when you are dead
you are not alive

A mountain is not alive
A sunset is not alive

the earth is a moment. a surly moment. a collected harmonious moment. it
is the blood of my blood.
and i am in it. the thick and sticky blood. it is in me. and we are

in sleeping waking
i wake in sleeping
as sleep is waking

in the nice hollow
of dust and lightning
teetering softly
(aloft the feathers of
laughing flowers
deeply flowers
smiling sneering flowers)
in the crook of arms
nestled suddenly
in heaps of sighing flesh

i wake to sleeping
as sleep is waking
(thinking dreaming)
in plumes of colour rich
on the din of atoms
that is this self

this own self,
which you are live with,
that moves through your hands
into the body of the ocean:

(i am in love with) ;

and quietly.

instead
as like the curing
of soft shadows into
the verdant copse

of a forest suddenly
still with
leaf and sun,

i will love you.

I find my pen in whate'er words encompass I
when i lay it to the page. stark and stretching
'neath my pen, writhing 'neath my pen
The words i find my pen
to encompass it: The page
beneath my pen

of what i write you will
make of it what you will
by your will
with your will
you will make it
you will make it

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.

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,

            .


                   ,




        .














                                   ­     !

in bigsome whole colliding
the earthmoonsun suddenly
start starring into opaque
coolness: the nape over
standing hair exactly

on ends of pricked groove

the moonlight is just
and the crooked
fullness of mountain
the breadth of pale sky
interposed, a uh just

under the scalp tingling
when it's outside
carefully snow
and your feet are so wet
inside your shoes

where you kissed a pretty girl once
and though you will
(why not)
be dead someday

turning the radio
up until its bigness
erupts

"What do you think you're doing in here?"

by the way,
I have always loved you,
unwonderlingly which
I do not think
another hand
would be so nice
in mine

a hand last held
—no void to fill:
(the hand that grasps
is empty still).

so wait this hand
to holdest yours
when shut my eyes
as closest doors

no part, no rent
will bear the breaking
of flesh’s joy
a join making

so lay in still
at slumbers ask
a morn will come
where loves a bask

if you
,being me,
want to arrive suddenly
with the moon

(up carrying
the downward
slings of gossamer
glittering night)

i will make soul completely
in the burning shine.

i will make chaste
my smiling sometimes,
and climb inwards
the up what which

hangs by clearly
the pendent
of your chest,

fulminant

and

RISING

i could kiss you through the tongue,
straight into the mouth
behind where the teeth
lick feeling the chips

inside your plaque
and the florid
cheek
pricked over
by the running nail

vermillion, garish
and extremely
sharp(oh

they are tracing
the precise shape
of your ***)

a hulking
of which
strands the
gently coiled
of your wrist
within my hands

its hold folding
within folding
the bounded
rhythm of thy
pulse:

"I want to *******".

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

         ?

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

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

who knows not me i've never even seen.

How alive you are,
take me this
in your 5 fingers
the stult and
around of me

the eyes off--
rounded--
complete,
and near
through
nearness

abreast blazeness
(where blazes
2 pale *******)
full and deep

deeply between
fullness and nearness:
the 5 fat fingers
you are
Alive--

how?

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).

Of how i am being
beginned
by the whorled blood
and the expressed chamber

i sit, kneel and walk
supposing upon earth
the each of my feet;

my hands kneed and fold--
i collect in them bodies of my children:
sleeping, awake, crying, laughing;

i collect in them bodies of things
unminded and minded alike;

i collect in them the sheaf
of spent grasses:
the hull of them
containing the celled
phantasm of God's breath.

i linger and i am not myself;
i stand before wall
and my gaze becomes fuzzed,
unfocused--and i wonder.

i touch and am known by my hands.

the things touched,
too,
are known
(perhaps)
by me,

in the quiet between
my buzzed flesh
and the smooth rudeness
of the thing.

i handle and am handled
by my loverwife,

(the coarse cutting
of her fine hip
hair is a needle

split

over the nerves
of my caress--

it electrifies--

and i am stolen
between the fibers.)

i am alive,
and how should I know it?

imaketherainwalksoverthebackofmyearsandIsigh:

"Good Bye"

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).


                                                             .







                                                              .











                                                                 ,

no small thing breathing.

it jumps between
transference.

it's exchange
with blood
and air.

and the smallest capillary betrays:
there is no death
which is not inside.

and the allroot
of the skin
suffuse with wine.

its prickling
burst has some
laughter wandering

in the miasma
of a kiss:

hot breath
stinking a little
and why not because
when my tongue is
in your mouth i don't
mind the smell.

i like it.

the gross and sweating of you.

i like it.

the way and how
you are first in the morning your hair is wild and i want to kiss you after the quiet of it passes over into the noise of your rapidly changed face.

i loved you the way you were in those moments
when i got inside you
and your wrists were
so narrow and pale
inside my hands,,,

something smooth.

something delicate.

out here you can be in the land.

The snow is gracefully
in the cool churned
and dark sky.

(you can breathe)

here where
only the smallness
of yourself
can be heard.

your hands will go into the soil.

there will,
over them,
come frost.

and a flower will brace
against chilled winds
its caving stem.

you can be here
and see the toil
of the earth in every
turning of its pail *******.

you can cup to your mouth
the ember of your breath
and pass into the frozen
limb of dead spring
the **** warmth of your lungs.

you are made here,
in the land,
where you can be.

and the toiling of your breast
will pass into livid creations
of quickly eaten, hot.

you will be made and unmade alike.

you will dream of the bodies of girls.

and you will sleep between
the snow of their thighs--
pocked of rose husk
and shattered frond.

you will limp
between the
clean pillars
of their hips,
and your hands
will find within
their riven dirt
the striving root
of life.

(you can be here in the land
cold something
stirring its
magnificent hair
shaking off
the sheath
of stirless
snow...  )

And your hands will become numb.
And your lips will become numb.

and you will fumble between
their dumbness.

and the whole of you will become numbness,

(stumbling)

into the bubbling
heat of
Spring's
arched

HEAP.

can i destroy myself in you

.








































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


































.

there is very cute inside to feel its breaking–**** which–throat full of knees
getting onto its ******* ***** a little pink and so white gags on gulping of
clean seems innocently with needs to be.

she,s a livid verB
of pure distilled
filthy l!ghtn!ng    and
                                               she makes me wanna

she makes me wanna

                   sh       e            m
                                       a
                                                                      kes
me


                      want to...
                                  (   !

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

i like you dyin'
your blissfully crisp
lucious pulled
tightly dyin'. your

bursting thinness the

skinny your arms

the(bytheway) your eyes

which(shining)gleam faultless eternal


andthe
your whynot perfectly hips
which carry like the burning of my cut
(with your cut)to
meet

                                ;  as ships



i and think do you
like dyin'

and you i like
(and like you i) a girl that
likes girls
                     (dyin')


likes





i

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.

from somewhere nearby a lark is suddenly
over
the whole dancing mess of humanity
even louder
than is to be the screech honking
of voices car engines
into cringing violence of
increasingly silent manifolds
around the white body
of that birds cracking majesty
it opens its throat and the entire world shuts the **** up

there is a shape you are
the shape of a
cool
cool river
on a hothothot
summer summer

summer summer
day
day
day
day

(liquid cool;crystal between
the heap of your femurs
there is a tight tight
song of inside           ) i can and can you

hear
the slow and droop
of your crystal body
twinged with the caressed
lance of
awful day     (Let's Night) .


there is beach out there i have been to in the summer with you let's go

love, that what are thee:
i am trying to find,

having come to a dark wood
–i went astray.

there that such of self i found
and gave each hand to be

was not but bough of fleshy bind
(where nought but skin could see.)

dazzling glimmer you eat the hills pretty
inside your first hour                                                                          
a girl lays                                                                                      
stabbed by my young
arms dreaming 'bout her stillness nestled fastly

           'gainst me temporary and my ribs
          (she wiggles into deeper thrusting
           that face unugliest and cloaked
           in gentle smiling lips)she kisses
           me by those two cords o' electric
           pink stuff and i verily
                                                 do love her
                                                                             my "stop dreaming" girl

                                                                                                               kiss me

.


























"I want something real.

You know what's real?

Pain; anger; misery; suffering: ugliness–


I want to see you in a moment of complete ugliness."


























.

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

this little gilt feels into darkness more
everyday Pink
emblazoned
on its *** emblazoned
every day
Pink
into
darkness
f
e
els.

there is only one and still there is only one. it beats and stutters and
there is only one and in the open breathing pasture of my palm infinite
and only one. it smiles it is. it is clever and warm and gentle or. it
is the only pulse strong pumping trembling tremendous heart blooming
staggering incredibly exploding scarlet. it's it is... the one. the only
one. it is mine

my back from rushingpinions extend soaring
i'll wont fall
there's fire in these most of all
it's love
bearing me skyward heavens bound
(sinew and cloud)
cerulean you got me craving
those plush
ambering hills neatly piled

               i
over
                     sweeping

        my arms
                               and eyes

        stab 'em
                              gentle

                                              and
                                                         they'll
           ,
                                 deflating   ,

                    get into one ****** mass

              and i'll eat 'em

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)