A
                                                               ­        heart is where its
                                                             ­          gaggle of appropriate nerves
                                                          ­             tingle singing nerves
                                                          ­             single teeming nerves
                                                          ­             a tumult of aching skin
                                                            ­           towers correctly sublime
                                                         ­              a balmy twinge of evenings
                                                        ­               who curl with clearest scent
                                                           ­            about the firmer freshly body
                                                            ­           of the thighs quaking totally
                                                         ­              (a face that twists heroically
                                                      ­                  churns adroitly
                                                        ­                in adoring pleasure
                                                                ­        wreaking fragile sturdy
                                                          ­              crescents
                                         ­                               limping on the hotting
                                                         ­               chalice of her febrile
                                                         ­               brink. she totters just almost
                                                          ­              at it. right at it fiercely.
                                                       ­                 her flush groaning
                                                        ­                her garden parting
                                                         ­               ),i flay the difficult ugly
                                                            ­           that wears on her this
                                                            ­           common uncanny second
                                                          ­             i turn her sorely into naked
                                                           ­            flavored robes writhing
                                                        ­               between her thrashing together
                                                        ­               i stab her forever giddy
                                                           ­            my placid crashing”

1 rude reality intrudes
its bulging
and inflamed
nose, about

which hangs
the paunchy
and florid
cheeks,

blud strung
by fine and
very narrow
little veins,

that weblike
spider across.

in their thinness
straying
(uncarefully)
the neck down.

the hair is lank.

the eyes distended,
in which,
their is some sheen
dulled.

the ******* hang,
(are limp),
flaccid
and pendulous.

where in this alone
which you are
thinking some
of empty

air air air
over the rolls
and fluxed
earth;

the soil
in whose body
hides each
small seed of the grass,

dispersed again
and again
in root, clover,
thresh, and tine;

there is only
air air air
here in this
alone where
your body
finds the
caved silence
and the sluiced
arrow of a flower;

(it is a hill)

there is a girl somewhere;
far and not far,
between the hollow
of her corded belly
and the curled
chamber of her lips.

she makes
(who is a maker)
that will not make.

alone alone alone
in the
air air air

(who thinks some of
empty hills
where no seed
of grass,
dispersed within soil,
lays the earth over in
teeming abundance).

only alone,
in the air,
where the earth
fluxed and rolls,
thinking some
of empty.

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

the excellent health or the
girding of some winsome wealth?

on what plinth of ethic, moral stands?

the body kept;
the jewel grand?

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

ugly is more

real pretty than is

'cause pretty
(though skin and because, also is)

always but ugly
inside always too


always
(always)

"The greatest weakness of my own character is the inability to bear the suffering of others for the furtherment of my own interests–my inability to inflict suffering."

ni
(ght b
ur
s
t cackling)a

w(h)iTch 'er h
e
           mw
a
       s

sofast

itw
a                     s!green


OHMY and

it
w        a                      s



t(i(gHt

I shall live;
not the world
or my body,
but I

beyond dying
will leap freshness
and taste deeply the health of everything

there's one long gun
girthed in boney stable palm
and finger flicking death rattled
sweetly copper children
a patient rind of health,                                    for thou and whence
                                                                             it girdles profusely
                                                                              a blatant death
                                                                             of vibrant pulsing colour

(i see you)
this old
unawkward
lady of
sagging *******

who , "you'd think"

i

"would" know "better."

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

folded

folding inside–to be

inside of folding lips
upon slick freakness
of dark soul

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

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

;

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

i love it
and it is like your body
you are

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


i love it
and that occasionally
i am the body

you like to be.

where is my body
i will lie in it
the world

from which
my flesh
trees the heart
and my breath
will come

into the stars
hanging
gossamer and
flung neatly
the pate over

and my mouth
will be the sea
issuing
verb
root
and foam

it will vibrate
from my own
valved throat

a single
straining
word

bursting

through all darkness

a fulgent
burning
FLOWER

when i spill smiling lips i cluster them on yours lady you lady you, like pearls and wine, you are bones deepest and i like you and i play you. i play such tunes as on your hips i tap them lightly with my finger tips i tap a little orchestra on that hard pretty straight blade of bones you have stucking so elegantly out that pale and warm pool of flesh. you creature are a moment exploding and you lady are a star; fallen roughly in my eyes you sparkle blinding me before steps i stumble up them to you Heaven.


            (and U don't kno it(but i do)    )

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.

i by nothing invincible life steal
and steal again

into unearthly frigid sleeping night

crux and crux 'pon,

and strange furious tumult of lust
whorled ear strains to catch

lifting my finger to scratch her
opaque stomach one frail sliver
of light, stop that murmuring
never endlessly mutters beauty
impossibly amorous careful wind

tugs sepals into the mute kisss
of dawn: colour more blindlingly supple

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

laugh whole mountains                 ,

you got sinews deep as

rivers in you(they’re sle

eeping down there in y

ou and they fan out toA

narrow hairless delta)an

d that’s where i am

the such my hands(yourstiny)they

,as like rain,

they the their

          body itt

                                    e

                      
                              e

                                       ms

                      like with
                      beauty it
                      sings
                      singly
                      it
                      seems
                      unseemly

                 .

Dear it
the cough
your *******
they
point they
coo they
their
fracas is
it soft
does make
hardme to reek
of youth so mad feverishly
i, like coming morning, wash
your valley full
my piercing ray,



                                             i


                                            until do

                                            (as day does
)
                                            break

                                            and hollow fill
                                            the swallowing
                                            of thy hips

(                                           the color of thy bonny
                                            the cherry of your lips                           )

.

















                               (

                                       )


                        (




                                                   )



                                  
















.

it is dark beyond which
to breath in
the mute foils
of night

churning with
constant cicada–

the vibrating of
two membranes–

i am not lost nor wonder;

i know this moment:



it is time to be the person you were always supposed to be.

the hours 4 and 20 past
when lays my skull in cotton glass
and lipless maws gasp and laugh
fleshless poesy of ice and gas
in erring billows frothing mass


            scowl(

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.

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

when i've tripped a star
whole over night
the silver flinging
of its crispest muting has

a daughter shed
of lightness
eyes its
their
teetering upon
perfectly easy winking

and her hands are so
they feel like
like when
night is so long
and hot it
stifles moving into
a pinch of stillness contained

by the exactness of my square room
struggles to retain

that lovely burning
o' 'er
splendor splitting

wings so gentle
i painful pinning

have neatly to keep
their body's wonder
to my sheets

sweat so glowing
as like the yowl
of dying day
it cleaves easily
darkness

and it rises 'pon
love after
love it
soars

your mouth is a pale crescendo
about which mutters beauty
(lipscheecks;eyes;hairandbody)
easy with crass eager nobility
and just a bit of intense fingers
culling fleetly every atom of
girl fleece into a singular punch
of lush dangerous silence

that caves when rushes your
neck into my mouth its crisp
foal (on awkward skinniness
suddenly) blisters engorged
with scarlet and strenuous rapid
sound

            BURST

i feel (body)
the way it
between my hands

performs the youth thing: life. The

                   uncouth thing, life. The

body way it
needs between hands
its.

the inexorable flinchless hurt of its marching finitely
--into bruises of hands--
its own hands.

that they might make
,by the coming together of palms

,a softness more supple than sleep
(a finite more extending than

                                    infinites deep,

each pairing

  --parting--

comes over words
lips over
sounds of
throats young.

hubble bubble
(outside)
below the window sill:

                
                        summer; and; ******

"It's bad for you." He said.

"I know it's bad," she replied, "but I want to do it anyway."

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

you

don't please

be cuz
(true please

    ) cuz

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

god's spades little digging children 'tween the hips o' girls
digging deeply (al itt le finger) lays a thousand times; seeds


                                   (niggles the dry packed loosing firm)

a root extending from

                                             into

                                                           a rose becomes
                                                                     a thorn
                                                                          pricking
                                                                        

waists (shoots and leaves
              shoots and leaves
              shoots and leaves

                                              )gardens calls 'em boys
                                                calls 'em boys when
                                                (digging spades release)
                                                a seeds to spill girls 'tween hips 'o

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

i will die.
the sun,
and by the way
did you know?
(i do)

in the summer it
leaps wholly freshness
into the sweating backs of knees

a yowl


a dream


a distinctly arousing



a corded and steeply ***** shyness.


it peters sharply
from girl cuts
into niceness
a cringing of night
to less darkly foil
the trees

(amongst 'em
where will sleep
me when i
cease my hands to try) roots


reachness of worms
and the rushing of oceans

wind

wind

wind


coolly teasing
with teeth so
cruelly pleasing

(upon which rise
the curving hushness
of body's plummet
isthe
falling of darkness' lushness

.    my soul effuses, and things even drunker than Spring have emerged   .































































­










                                                                 ,

feels like nothing that inside which is alone enormously too enormously to be anything felt or unfelt into every corner of being seeps
like a big room
too big
to be
inside
it
feels


                                                      




                                                           alone

your lips



             (the word)






are the smoothless mastery
of the sea breaking
into silence constantly
their loud sharpness;

quaking with rush of
moon hush, the fierce
treble of wave and
night beam

–glow broken
through unmute
shoveling of
lip;

and feel (where deep)
of green darkness
and the silver plucking
of woken thread.

colours

                                lurid skeehc era uoy
                                and you are gnillaf
                                of boughs bent
                                (in wind writhing)

you are lovely
little dead things
         littler perfect cluttered
                   dead things

                                                 suoroloc  R U
                              gnittor esool fo bits ni
                        sretnilps

you amble the earth
        calmly exploding
                     (and you crunch
                              so distinctly
                                   under my patient tread
                                               ing soles)
                            


i mark them
and i proceed
living and dying
(like you colours)
die like living
i live like dying

luscious corpse meadow salvation
wet waxy journal scrawled generous

be straight narrow crooked armor amour
fractured ferrous magnetic skin
dry husk sheathing thee: she spun metallic

so, yes, i will



                       but just this








                                                                                                                          once

heavy all the quiet laying music thickly between livingdying November

is suddenly stirred

at foot through many

running and laughing children

(wisps of growingfrailing stuff innumerably sheathed in a smalling pat of pale light)they

charge and roll up a hill by the school yard, boysandgirls together

boysandgirls together up going


                                                                     a hill

(whose mothers stand at the bottom and try to catch them when they fall

there will begin of my lips a certain impractical lewdness
and though ugly
it shall increase
and increase

till drowns it every other thing
and i shall name it

i shall call it

LoVE

the you the

      that

the

       totally

(which intensely does)                  Curve


upon curving
the twist of
some adamantine
hips collapsed
in one fatal crushing
of hushed nudeness                        Arrive

by mute girlness
of parting self

(where sleeps faultless
legions of boyness to kiss
with the waxing
of their paired moon
some wet keenness of bliss)

mirror me
catch
this softly
snowing
outsidenight

where two and
three girlthings

the soul of boy
wars         rings;

hair in shortly
which some
*** wears

her mouth without
lipstick saying,

"kiss me–


       (i am soft)"

.























































                     "You're in love with love.

                                        You don't love anyone."













































.

speak me young
the ***, your mouth
in clovers hot

transcending bond of mortal rot

('tsstupid your
   the mouth
   and swollowed
   tighly
   throat               )


lift, cleaving
petals of neatest night

carry to heaven(oh and

YES
when your hands
quickly
wig my
burning ******          )the( i'm

fist the
kitty
yer
smell very erectly  ) coffin


       'o mundane plight
( i'll push between yer stocks
         a
   *****
        like
      they
        'llpush
          a
      *****
    'tween the dirt
where yer'll sleepin'

              lay                   )

there is not

                        )i have tread(where hours in you have died

flowers

                 and rushing fields of them




                 where cotton and thorn



                 )gushing


twitched a cat's eye
behind the town(



caught between hips)quickly sleeping in fur(and the tousle of its catching)

and silver moonlight grumbled stirring

(ran crimson in its thread

                                                  )


as leaping the city came to my cheeks coldly stinging with March(and remembering our body



                                                          i recall thinking:


                                                          is there more a perfect thing?

say numbers the little white toothed
sliver of a grin
hair breathlessly tousled
about fingers stairs
(winding)
upwards constantly
tall moments of absolute singleness

into 4 hands
2 fingers inside
lips strictly around
to eat 2 lips
30 minutes of
ultra caressed
hyper scrupulous
tense heaving                      ;


say numbers
7,205 seconds
until reaches
the startling pinnacle
of über sensuous
gangling drugged
with blonde milk
suddenly supple
between, "my dear,"

count as to count
by more than 20
digits to feverishly
blunder through
hurried wanting
to crush,

( say numbers and speak not numbly
  of the nimble bumbling of thy pale
  fracas an earth will be born from
  within wishing will to will unworried
  a fraction cut beneath the navel by
  a tremendously incalculable urging
  to rush              

                                            )

Therewasthesoundlike(
even though you just broke her)
stillsmiling(and your fingers            R

blud                               ugly

and smelling like                                       )


the sea;

bREaKin,G

on rocks

in the hot Summer

when the tide runs out

anditlaysflat

hot on its stomach

(with its *** in the air
                                       )

theslowlybeginstorot

seaweed and gurgling

butstillsmiles(a very meek


                            rill (one only)



runs down its thigh

Rightbehindtheknee)collectsinto
a shoal



                                     and



                                                 "morePlease"

i think you are beautiful
(and why not?) the sea
is beautiful

(as like your eyes(
where between they reach:

(somewhere dark)

somewhere wet.

her it
the soporific
very dreaming
split of
easy night
falls so lovely
brushed of balmy
hair short
in tender heap
of girlness heat

it the deftness
of a wrist
hangs
softly loose
uncurled
lightly the fingers
in

her such steeply wonderful brain
a song is me
by love's lips it
i
the earth the
night
echo primly
kissing

and
couth
so a fancy
is all the world
to her in lovely slumber's keep

such as i would like to enter
and of its beauty reap

a flower on who would rise
all youth in me to crown

and lay my *******
in crimson parting's drown

"No one really wants to be in love. They don't really want someone to care about them and think about them. Most people prefer disinterest.

Make somone the focus of your attention and attend to their feelings and needs–they will be terrified of you.

Nothing frightens a person more than the feeling of being the true center of attention.

The feeling of having somone really looking at, observing, them.

No, they would prefer someone who has their own life. Somone who makes the perfunctory gesture of love. Some flowers here, a compliment there; but real, true attention–no one wants that.

To those who are true lovers this is a painful reality we encounter with each new love. We must re-learn restraint. To control our desire to shower another with affection and attention. For as surely as we do, as surely they will turn away from us.

No one wants love–really."

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