that kind of "*******

i ' m

goingtosmoke

a cigee                       "is



(to me)          so




so body
andso

it's

dying stupid wonderfully
to taste like

when lips are our(andtongueplease

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

not i




                               ,







                                                                         Turn this lift
                                                               upon its shoulder
                                              into up making music of
                                        neck:


sinew febrile alive with dancing electric sometimes sound of mouth; and
  by how of fingers alight with such ungrace to hurt is a beautiful poem
   faster than light is quick through the blinds cut into a trillion thinness
    of glowing dust–

                                          (it can barely to feel)

                                                         the
                                                  stroking
                                                boy sigh of
                                              tonguefully
                                             aware thighs.

                
                                                                        flah ton decarb
                                                                     by girl cheek of
                                                             inching into seams,
                                                           pollen thickly sealed.

(a rose of night and sword of day;
with which vein'd marvels play –    )

tumbling trill and awake with sight:
to see where dark and skein are tight )


                                                  –––––––––––––––––––––––

a not caving self of into daring stem
******,


                                                                    burnt
                                                                         ,

                                                                           reeling


                                                                                                                  and said .

wut

   wut've u beeen?weight, wait


waitin 4 u been(the mouth

(the hair the

    fingers)(inside the


)tuchin the touching
inside you the
way quick quivers
jostle in your wet wet?)

U been waiting for hands(4hands
)on your neck in your mouth

in your mouth's been waiting
4 sum fingers

4 sum lick spit fingers
(your mouth:

sum wut's

been

weighting

4 sum.    Wut?

this green dream,
of which i think too much,
marked of dint and lurid scar
whose cloven cheek
is comely seamed:

bares the hurt of boyish touch
where felt too full the words they speak,
now lies in frost–winter ajar.

but if could i
return to shoots
the forest where in snow is kept

your ice'n heart, my heat accept,
i'twould not despair to die:

But–

alas,

"pity is praised as the virtue of prostitutes."

words, again, return to me
past all that blocks
--the poet's lee.

an find the void beneath my ribs
to fill by letter
--potent glibs.


alas! alas!
i've not a vowel,
'spite patient thought
and passion's howel.



(so turn my fingers; scribble's clutch,
hold the body
--reading's hutch)

nearly you when i have felt pulsing
my heart(yourheart)has become
one smooth toto
red and hotter and tiny
fluttering stupidly
smiling under
your *******
my hands cup it
and to my dumb finally mouth
i draw,carefully,your fierce noble blood
and drink drink drink drink drink drink

two or three cheap men sit saying
about one night
******* some old
sunburnt gal

says one long thought
of an old man
murdered by
two white lips

chapped lips on the
spit of the world his
hands were young once

nice once on the young necks
of girls made by long drinks
brandy wine and copper blood

(and the shrill wisp of a flower
is in his hair as
he
the old man who
murdered by
two lips

gets up from drunk and goes
to  the withered primrose of some
summer ago when his long

and cool muscles blossomed
amongst tired evenings and
almost night was quick with
hot music of stars and brilliant trifles

. And looks he the old white
who man by lips
murders

into the distinct crow
of his shrunken
face a mirror

a mirror that
his face

does a single
supple


tear,

               .


  

        ,

loving tried sorrily a girl
to make out
of too much whiskey
something which

loves it too.

I will not die.

My hands will go out from me
into dark waters becoming
two rays of piercing light;

They will dance electrically as
unbreakable columns of smoothness
sing saying,
“though love be a day, do not fear,
we will go amaying.”

.







































"Whenever I meet someone I really like I always want to tell them I love them right away. In fact, I have to try really hard not to.

Most people are just as afraid of affection as they are of abandonment."































.

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.

so                                                                                                                       into
this flaking night           we   went                pl
                                                                                             u
                                                                                                          
                                                                                                      n
                                                                                                         g
                                                                                                           i
                                                                                                           gn
(of winters throat )
the sallow column
                                          ofwho,sneck
i'm a gently kissing

some field full of grass
grass leaping
and spits from the
soil

          (or)

which hurts to least
to see and fold
within sight

the curt splinter
of girl hips and
wider than death

they eat the spring
into which becomes
Summer by

the scrape and spark
of their tuff
tinder.

I feel the immediacy of things. The imminence of objects. I feel the keenness of a glass in my hands. The instantaneous dribble of condensation over a knuckle. The spontaneous aroma of a summer night. I am enthralled and enraptured by the crisp mint of toothpaste, after a barely slept night. I feel the rough twill of a garment and I am in love with it. I extend my hands into the rapid amber slats of the streetlamps on my dash, as I speed beneath them. I watch them wash over my hands and I feel somehow indescribable.

I am in love with beautiful women who pass me on the street. Every one them pretty. Every one of them a neat mystery. Every one of them in skin as lovely and soft as breath off the ocean. I know myself least when I kiss. I know myself best when I am kissed.

I feel myself in the world and I feel IT in me. I love my friends and my family. I love the rough smell of fire. I love the wisp of spring, grown into the verdant pulse of summer's heat. I love to sweat and feel the movement of my body through open space. I love the sharp itch of a tattooer's vibrant needle. The splay of colors. The tang of my blood.

I look at men and I see boys playing at what they think a man is supposed to be. I see excess, increase, and birth. I see leanness, erosion, and death. I somehow know that neither is life a beginning or death an ending. I know it as I know the tip of my finger. I know it as I know the taste of sweat and hairspray and sunscreen, distilled in the instant of a drunk kiss, in a tent just inside of Idaho.

I am for life. I am for pain as I am for pleasure. For I know that one is nothing without the either. I wish to be known and to say myself. I wish to know you and to hear yourself, said by, yourself. I am simply. I am a man. I am just what I am.

I may die tomorrow. I urge you to love those dear to you and to say it everyday. I only try to do that. I only try.

door and wall
narrowly divided

lengths and lank)a cat body pours instantaneously


gone

some weird lonely
you're all skinyy
except a blossom that is rough as red
and you stood right by the
refrigerator all night
and didn't say a thing

i nearly do think

               and dream upon

the wiggling human stuff
the chaff and bile
the sugar and kisses

       i neatly do collect my

unmean thoughts on the
elliptical burning teeth
of life(wherein reposed
days are languished
and animated)i take

                each trembling

hollow vesicle of common
people things and crop
about them me and my
particulars

                    i
do think and bumble
i marvel and revile
(and i should think
after knowing
                          but i
                                  don't
                                          know
                                                 A thing)

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

.














                                            




­







                                              SO.me um sum *******

                                                uff ruff ******* so
                                                polished; leashed
                                                IN

     ­                                                      your
                                               spread your *******
                                               mouth
                                               let's (wider)
                                               hard i'm
                                               going
                                                         to

                                               so those
                                               fukin
                                               take em off
                                               satin white
                                               little littles
                                               ,
                                               ****(do you like it when

                                                i "yes
                                                ))))        ­       please

                                                please


­                                                 "hurt me
                                                  into apart teeth .   teeth
                                                  fingers inside

                                                  inside tongue
                                                  tonguing­ little
                                                  rrufff stubble

                                                  neck neck:

                                                  throat.
­
                                                  Gag.

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.

newly first pressing flesh
your firmly enamor
(thighs and cheeks)
you dangerous and
clean beveled dainty
stuff
        
         you're the very
eatage o' devils and
god

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

(I this very am a contradiction to itself)
this which is
the very thing i am
is not at all a multitude of singularities
but a single multitude of multiple singulars
i am large
                and small
                                and enormously
                                                           a colour daft as starry days
                                                                                                         and brightly nights
and with pale meter
my hards are soft
and softs are hard
                                         (and i am like an onion
                                          in petals of purple skin
                                          an acrid flavour imps
                                          my beam of darkly
                                          steeply cooler hotter
                                          breaths that buzz
                                          like wondrous flies
                                          in ample valleys or
                                          cotton pasted flesh
                                          in denim
                                          )your jeans were on my floorIfoundthemthismorning
and i woke up to call you just so i could touch your voice with my ears
and kiss the treble of its throat with my gangling soul waxing profusely
with sparks of verdant poems blossoming in the uncommon pit of the stomach of my gross futile blithe brain because you made them with the
errant tattoo of your slight and tremendous music bustling its enormous
yawn over the roof of (my) rainbow hard heart that would like to comment in Your plunk of navel ringing tiny glittering barely hairs my smooth and
pinkish crumpled crumbs of love and sprinkle you with careless *** sometime maybe SWOON.

fists curled gently
i unfurl thee
i splay thee
and on your spans
i blow a cool color
from whence is
produced a whole
cuddling aroma
and about the
freckled *****
of thy noblest
raiment (the sun
and moon) i
coil it upon
and bless it with
the smarting dress
of my cheerful kiss

first love,
in whose body
my soul is made,

                                  the whiteness:
                                  your crisply
                                of
                      ­        scent
                            is like
                          when
                        parts­
                      the long
                   night
                     budding
                        the crimson
                     tooth
                   of
                       dawn
                    'pon
      
           the edged back
           thinness of
           mountain hair


(growing fairly towerish
it sprouts
as sprouts the sea
the freshest breath of life
to take by inimitable quavering
the softness of mind to depart
knowing

                      and kiss into

           the sweetness of darkness      (



                                w
            ­                     h
                                 ere

              sleep is
              nice
                              and
        
  ­                  comely wilting snow
                    on the blade of heat
                                     '
                                     ;
                                     .

every noteless music of this world is a song
exploding fracas in my smallest body lifting
burdened wings broken to stars falling 1x1
into my eye; sort of like the warmest rock
of green bluely visits all of me every days
it falls rising to up under my feet aloft it
i swallow winds breathtakingly sounds of
god touching all my atoms with his cooler
fingers  strumming over the strings of each
incredible momentous tedium when i am
doing the dishes in the frailing hammer of
Summer's heat gorgeously nuzzling the lilies
popping up from the richness deeply soil
in the flower bed right next to the porch
droops amazingly the tiredest earth

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 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.

& and of this swooping          twilight
i might say it
is it.                           one large enormity
  ,        small and tumbling
deftly clumsy                             and reposed
                          quicklyquietly
in succulent folds of mauve silence

'pon                                           the imminenthills

outside my window

felt, have you ever,
a world without fingers
,grooves,
or
edges of roughness?

it does not feel of anything
expect feeling more deeply
than hands ever have been.

Coming at the backs of your
eyes with peculiar easy intense
banding of unbroken shades
of light, it does not emit
a single colour instead
it fills with brief singular
tingling of being

a texture more wordless
in words uneasy to say
a poem of trite inevitable singing.

i have always wanted to write a poem that
thin wristed

smiling at stupid jokes

with hair tiny thousands dark

wanted to listen to French jazz on Saturday mornings

kisses dear lady little you
(between new and familiar)
your face amorously
marks my face

with the winsome crush
o' your uncanny pair
of softest and fullest

                       lips

always
,if the like moon(smoothly as waters),
threads the onyx plate
of night:

            
               i will love you.



As the rain loves the dry air.

As the dry air loves the sea.


will love you even though
eaten by the glad mouth of death, i.

will love across
the stark span of nothing.

by untense memories
of my softest hands.

will caress the curving hull
of thy body's eyes, and muted soul.

are you what.
((i think you are)?



             the body).


i think
you are
(which is
just slightly rotund

just

easily weak.

fit betweeen
your years)

long and
barely skinny

of arms. O

and you are

what
(i think)
you are?what?

(you are the rushing
keenly that joins
vein and soul; singing
)
You are.
and what
you are

is

vertically serene wonderfully pleasant

falling.

some indefinite shape
some formless form
some quintessential essence
always urging
always yearning
always procreating
                                                                 some always

tonight


                 walking


     i see


in

                   the


passing

                 tightly

     gusseted


                      human things


a very small pretty

        which

is in their lips


      hiding till their


lover turns


        (whispering sweetly nothing)




       or laughs abruptly children



          causing one causeless


         unnecessary grin


    to perch instantly


     ) the wind against my coat


     presses coldly



               November and.

poem,

              


                  i
                   t






seems to
bright seems to
trill with–

poem and
a little song;

often and curiously to struggle beneath
the wide sound of its voice:

its own letter,

its own verse.

shape that cuts
(girllike)
closely
shaven

with sweetness pressed
alone a little empty

needswants

filling to be

–inside–so mouth;;;

skin love,

hands dreaming on
pert curving of tiny
white white white

she she

"Can


             I


go down on you?"

it feels the each,
the mouth into which
sun crawls
moon sings
and trees

suddenly bluster
with and with.

a lark
a poppy
and the breaking

of darkness before

a fist swollen of
red newness to be:


(to be hard ; to be naked ; to be great)

which are you? Thou who art mostly scaled in fears
Of little rotten skulls)
        & the blundering mystery
of the big dark deepest deeply reaping darkness.thefingerofgod
    the thumb of god
                                   '
               between them our souls are writhing as he PLUCKs
them from our carnival
our    really big uncouth faces
. that he tickles in our sleep with dry
          and wet puffs of languid
fire He drizzles from the right heart
          in the wrong chest of men
Who like to act all nice and sweet
          but aren,t probably either
at all or maybe just a wee little itybity (a lot);
                                                                                                  the We
                                                                                         we were weren't well
                                                                                      we're we which is glee
                                                                                      a fantasy of garbled
                                                                                       annotated cells
                                                                                        at morts nice mouth
                                                                                         at morts pert mouth
                                                                                          at morts gnashing maw
                                                                                            in it
                                                                                             we're crunched
                                                                                              by shapely spears
                                                                                               of white
                                                                                                with blatant sharp
                                                                                                  edgesinourorgans
                                                                                                   sleeping in our
                                                                                                    thresh of hours
                                                                                                     the silver merry
                                                                                                      scythe man
                                                                                                       puts us in a box
                                                                                                        and we lay real
                                                                                                         still and moving
                                                                                                          not even the
                                                                                                           most little bit
                                                                                                            we stay like
                                                                                                             that we stay
                                                                  &n

.































































­










              "You taste really good."




















































.

youth lived harder passing into unyouth
your hips something nice are full and easy

(they are curving

they have docile sleeping entering


they are wide have thickness firmly steep

                                                                          )

like them better apart and better doused
in my kiss agile slanting heaps of love
and hips,baby,they are some kind of
tiny perfect entering curve of sleep
me and please come into (you like
to pull me out and)

the big old quiet of the electric house is somewhere around me humming incessantly with a heater .   a cat is which becomes smoothness neatly into
my lap folding upon whisker self of darting blackness the night outside
which compares with complains with rain through wind and trees my
window against and there is between it all the tiny miracle of a chime


                slowly    .

a rankling note of 1st light
lazyed through the rush of blinds
slowly
or my window was
it was
outside
drooping everywhere                            ,
                                       winter

imperceptibly delicate(from merest fissure
of night and day)in June
emerged                                          painfully
became              a

                                 butterfly

whose wings  a                               tempest
beat
         'pon
                   shoulder and brow
                                                           a precise

violent breath
silked in the leak of summer's yolk yellow
stickthickly
that lazily ate the skin of a flock of girls
giggling hard
                                                      satted on

the crumpled fold
                                                        of

                                                                            Lust

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













          ?

i loved you so much




























































­
























                                                                   .

only real way 'cause
thick up down:
******* ,



               i'm


sorry                 'cause


                i'm


gonna hurt)hurt you

a lot


                  (tonight

you the
con is ce

stract

          ab of

hurt *****
too
put inside

    me

thick fingers scarlet

(in a petite lake
of white white white )

you moan
you churn
over your belly
onto your face
"down
***
up
      ."