without a singular hesitant droplet i briefly stole
absolutely a thrush ungulping soft little ****** of phonetic
laughing caressing the dew preeminently dangling of
youthful sprigs and ferns playfully tugging my hands
dumbly morsels of fleshed bone that which are my first language
and winter
   winter is my first language
i burp it strongly oral
and it gods like the sun ****** cool the immaculate silence just afore
it peaketh about the limber mountain skulking drunken
snow on it's capped and permanent scalp of freezing crystalline beauty
  and she is my second language
                she is tawny
an ember singing ecstatically her moisture the habitual tumor
she graces and fans with her feathers
of long naked
tremors                     like a crosier of limp emphatic ***
to which tremble mostly also
and am surely fated to still unfinite in her *****
of rapid illucidity
a symptom of her pale perfect cheeks
as they (with light pink bulbs) press on mine
LIPS
         between they    


                                    :                     Writhing


!       !                                         !                           ?

.

























                              "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

  
  
                            


                              "Taking pictures of naked girls."






























.

are a lot like(girl necks)
in flowers who--

the earth, untensing
of soil and the clouds
are of sterling fluff
amorous to cling with
such unchaste waters as

--bloom, and turn as
blades into my palms
running them hot with
the deepest scarlet of

thighblood, parted, singing

.  these deep uply
)whom i'm become
              as you'm

i'd like to with       (
achingly clutch
the whim whisper

the sure hum
and crisp vibrance

of white white mouth;

always starrily
always upwardly

           :          body

of snow in June(

whose light pertness be ).

whose own wish nothing ever
so be could:



as white.




as mouth.

i have said you
have said i and
through your
lips have walked
my words has
parted human
breath and from
it shook a whole
sea has threaded
by moonlight
never stilled the
words that are you
that i have spoken
and you have said
restless coils of ******
silver thick waves has
heaved in silence and
gasping ****** unstill
forever the word i have
spoken and that have
parted a whole sea from
****** coils of human breath

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

.



































                                                  "what can I do?"


                                                   "what ever you want."






























.

.






































           "Seems a little ***** to me."

















































.

let's go for a walk i miss you how deeply and beautiful  you are  amongst
such  things  as  sagebrush,  old  mountains  and  the  wincing  silence  of
pierced by bird throats quiet it is so  quiet  inside  you i  want  to  put  my
hands in there i want to put my lips eyes and mouth forever to lay  inside
you one blue spectrum of self in no parts the whole thing and always and
forever between the cold heat of summer your body's mind is a tight song
way over the mountains in a coiling weep of  rain  that  like  rain  touches
every frond of the light forest we are inside of whose body is trees of such
dark wood even i cannot say that i know them

to marry
the divine habitat
you!re lovely careless ******
the doltish armor of my candor
would be surly erratic blissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

summer that like into the entering of cold hands open constantly some
crystal breath like dream such as has been dreamt of twisting into cold
figures of unlived bodies

                              : the earth the sun the moon the stars :

o open me quiet

         –in–

more completely my
very closed.

that such
,of tightest whiteness,
spreads cooly

parts ethereally

the quirky mystery
of empty rooms
behind nice doors

(where every sleeping is awake
amongst such nothing so big
eats totally the quick figment of
a thought faster

than breath                                   )





.So let's small?

i love you

    (the body way)

it how
of parting does

(my own self from
   ) by its.

and when
it arrives
with my mouth
your lips the
whole fracas
of inept manness
cleaves into
stupid parcels
of needing to destroy

(withlove)

the  vambrace
of holding by loose cotton
chaste meadows of unreeling self–

where into will sojourn
the ***** promise of
each flensed second
of dying youth

(and make in there,

something living


(something vast ))

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

wh O o         Sh       ! ) the sun sprechen
a malleable droplet
of porous handles
meandering careless clumps o
               f
                                                                 a and the ghost
        of spectral
                                          mouths ephemerate
delightful femurs
                                   loaded sensual creamy morsels
some alabaster muscles singing sordid

            or a too short skirt
                                                          i can'

t              kept my skin
         burning cherry infatuating scald
i barely
              am
  real
                               at the
           pursed
                                                    eternity

          of
                                thy immense
     finite
                                                                                   coffin

forget not words, body
thy soul is

                      and

hair            fantastically        ;   more unsquare


than an angle

measurable.         Not


                                 A
                       number
                           ,
                                        a

                     S
                         H
                               a
                                   pE  divisble


or an exact
adding of some subtracted
arithmetical wholeless
singular substitution.         (your
                                               mouth
                                                   is
                                              a
                                                           quiet

                                                groove
                                                               of
                                                      darkest
                                                   earth
                                                              )where


                                        innumerably


                                                              grows



                                                      the
                                                destroying colour

                                             of infinite flower

some hot living between playing
the air
with hair
does some girl beneath
a heap of wondering brains
completely perform a lust thing.

you make me the hour,
and thy body comes,
and i'twould hold it
that it comes,

i would sleep between
yer ******* and i would
clumsily depart myself

over the hearth of
thy neck

and i would
explain the terse,
awkward
flint
of my
wandering spark

through the rupt
and sweaten'd
valley of thy thighs.

i luv thee
the lady of
thy fair repose
and the sudor
of thy spilt
apple.

yor juice is canny,
it makes soul
over in its hands.

it describes me,
the lips within it,
and it is for my mouth--
fer'evor.

                                                

                                (               i luv thee lady,
                                                 so lay with me,
                                                 this day and night,
                                                 i might that
                                                 to luv thee
                                                 to shew thee
                                                 my luv                           )

kiss fingers hotly each
march wise
silked in
the fair health of autumn dying

(dying autumn lives so
dying and it hotly
body decays in petals
of orange and brown) up

leans the quick back of
and a mountain suddenly

where thickly flits a doe

between trees dying
she.

the and

writing–i'm not sure–
maybe this
or that,

to fill perhaps;
between which nothing
is but pale.

"who knows?" by body what
eglantine,
silver curving
upon heaps of
curving flesh:

upholds some girl hips
on two sturdy beams
of nicely wide
so easy to dash against
folding pink cruelty?

(i wonder) and how
you fit archingly
on your back
the gaudy sinew
of faultless youth–

(your ******* *** feels so good inside)

the rumpled fool
of boy stings
to fill with heat
every crumb of
slattern'd SPRING.

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

i have fallen through all beauty(till
eagerly met i this moment)

when shrugging elegant words
eased from the cream of colorless
pages a purely growing perfection

into my soul the inconcise mess
of edward's dumb fingers
and his most dead mind

the confusion of all instantly wondrous splendor
(and edward, did you suppose that caught as if by
filaments dying immortal threaded into woven
hanging letters the gush of when you rused up
the best hill driven by black wine that i would
laying amongst pale cotton come alive in you)?

i have stood where boys have stood
an hour of their body in the ground
from their backs to their hands up
pricking gently a cool stroke of wind

and each parting softly sleep stole
into the easy crush of rain, and into
the always agape lips of wanting spring

ugly is more

real pretty than is

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

always but ugly
inside always too


always
(always)

hello.

you are there
you are something
i think that you are easily dreamless.

you are the white
turning over of pale morning
into your neck and the pooled freshness of your *******.

you are these two things:
my hands–which make within
themselves bloodsong and wine.

finely twined with pale wire,
your eyes rest below your scalp:
they are chips of ice–limpid; ****.

(you stir you pull your hand into my
hand i kiss over the sleeping of your
white cheeks i stroke your golden hair
i slip my leg under your leg:

I can never touch enough of you.)

"What's it about?"
"It's a metaphor."

"For what?"


"*******."



"*******?"




"Yeah."





"What's that a metaphor for?"






"Life."

"Want something beautiful? Make yourself beautiful first."

a little silently the wind comes

and the earth comes

and the stars come

and the moon comes between them
a soft as curvingly round like *******

stands a wide and flat unmoving
except for a cow or 3 field
below the diminutive inch
of a hill wearing me like a ******

rests laden in frost soil
doesn't say a thing and my
hand passes through the
distilled utterance of my

lungs a drooping crystal ******

christ you hang tinsel on a wooden cross
(drooping) your unsmiling figure
by the christmas tree tinseled too
silver clever ringlets wreathing
hung by hands delicate
ornaments dote 'pon
the boughs swinging
swaying

in

some unfelt
breeze they jounce
those
lovely sparkle sprinkled
spheres

mingle in the arms
of pine and soft
cinnamon
smells

cru
mbl
i
ng

wafts increase
from
the hot busy
pocket
of
the kitchen

into soon sleeping hands
my body enters
to the sound
of small
laughter

i was 23 in the middle of winter there was a sound like creaking the whole world was hot and nothing was at the same time everything came stiffly in your mouth and you




                                                      swallowed

in such in was springtime (hollyhock and thistle) girls and boys went nudely up their downs, into crystal waters of crisply straying health (when all noontide swung wide its gabled darkness hutch) and boysandgirls (in holly) went winter in its touch.

awe in sometimes stillness is
the connotation of infinity
whose splendored temporal verses
snugly fold my mind
into the breathless divinity
of each careful line

um um um um

    (wut wut)

the *** yer
mouth

    (impaled

on slender tragedy
of girl lips breaths)

sum uhv ****
,way down    ,
yer throat

(please
)    that    (

i of

nerves exactly
body more

dither with
precise warness
of boy fingers

into tingling *****
coyness of unshy

–thigh and bone–                                                                                              )

yer
yer
yer

swallow-allow teethteeth

sc

    ****

                ing

('gainst
hollow
and
tight
instants
of instant

                     SPRING  ,  )

.































































­



                                     "Hurt me."




























































­












.

life, i cannot begin you to describe beyond my dreaming self your how divine moments of simple nothing.

your body is not, and i love it the how it is not. it is

and not it's


some muscles firing with hurt
seething to ache
so horribly
wondrous. it's driving

to the beach

too early in morning and you're heads not clear the sky is so wide and the sun is barely. it is

the uncurling of your fingers between
dishwater
and the winsome triteness
of the caving instant of your breath
caching in your throat
as you realize the dying
of your frail self,

clutching furiously the mundane heady song
of a coffee cup

(and in perfect silence emitting
the most enormous roar
of surging electric stillness)                                .    Life

you are half terribly
painful to. and life, you
are half splendorous to ****

sweating in the heap of your
car behind

the creeping sweep
of raging vein. Life

you are perhaps nothing. But lifE

you are the most,

and nothing hurriedly to slowly
take between the unutterably tiny *******
of snowgirls

their coldest song of closing lips,

and speak something hot

(something big).

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.”

the splint to mountains trollop
and ecstasy of luminous death
a sunging light is hurdy gurdy
and
            to behind
their rocky stiffened pose
it's a plunging ***** of deeply laughing violet

slips from nothing hugely poem of
light creating light by leggy moon
over whole earth palely tousled in
maimed and drizzled in silver curving
a point is risen amongst (man) and time
earth away sprawl echoes of finite
sleep.but though it moon over(in
a little naked comely heap of pert
and blazing tinder calmly foisted
between sabled ******* of aching
stupid darkness)burns how and fiercely
eloquent

o moon though small and nothing hugely
poem shall i (man) a poem slip by mortal
wiggling fumbles; and O moon!quiet sleeping
curves away silverly(into pimpled quavering
neatness)i muscle leanly dispute the soil
and up to you gallop sloppy gallons of kiss
(for you are most pleasant.UR round and fit
nearly in my lips (who shall pluck you from
between ******* and fill me burning
                                                                        )Lust

there are words in me always there blood is at my lips

****** burning

to release

the distillation of their sting
into such sweet pollen
a whole garden might
from them stagger
into finite blithe
smoothly muslined
night

            

                  




                                                                      crocus poppy thistle

which have felt.

the night sleepily in white dressing gown
up


and grinning


with the **** sliver of its moon a bit
wide luminous and softly(                        .

a dream that teeters
briefly with infinite stupid self

I) the ridiculous me
that with five fingers says some wan curling;

there is a fan blowing, i can just hear it vaguely

stooping
its rapid cheeks somewhere; silverly.

And) can anyone describe
why laying is pleasant when dying is to lay forever?

(i think
and i don't
and it's so cold outside winter the trees are creaking but inside it's so warm i pull the covers over my head and begin some divine fantasy of girls.   .      .

Unfeeling girls

fainter ever miles spreads ever fainter
ever farther miles of cool darkness
unfurl fainter colours ever fainter colours
ever deeper darkness ever darker deeper
darkness
                     and fathoms

                                                 and fathoms

                        ever

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)

.









































    "Do you like it when I call you a ****?"
































.

Spring's little fingers hurt
(pink at the blood)and
push through the lips
of every branch, its pistil.

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.

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.

how way what water repeats
itself
repeats itself
over two stones

between parting
of dark woods

a light blade
of

sunlight

carouse

what you were the way something
drunk apart cool between rough and
shaven legs a small flint of tinder
caught burning at boy lips too apart
too kneading lustfully hunched at play
talking about this and that "color is
perfect how you balanced them in this
piece" watching your stroke finger fur
buzz the cusp of your lick i want to
taste bulging nuzzle of broken flesh.

.




















"Rule #1:

Don't give a **** about anybody;
because nobody gives a **** about you."

































.