Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.

I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the *****! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!

All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. ****. High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.

Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ******. ****.
American ****: virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable ****, fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.

The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.

All we care about is ****, image, and ***.
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and *******.

The children covet.
No longer pure.
There is a feeling.
An intimate feeling.
To grip anything breathing and just ******
the pain into oblivion.
Not love but lust.
Feelings are too much.
The children can run carelessly.
Playing with whomever is near.
Whether it's forceful or submissive.
All have been warned.

**Circle Two

words are wasted darling,
can't add an alphabet more...  

but make o's of your lips,  
measure the girth of your hips,  
tease the buds of thy nips,  
sip honey, lick nectar,  

fork a tongue into you,  
pierce your insides,  
twist your wild hair
around me,  
bolt love,  
blindfold you,  

warm your ******* to
the incandescence
of the moon,  

nibble your ear ends,  
step away a moment,  
gaze at your island body  
your shy fluidity,  

watch you bathe
in candlelight,  
catch every
running drop
off you,  
every globule,  

wrap you up,  
unknot you,  
tie your hands together,  
feed you a smear
of chocolate,  
seat you
on a chair,  
eat off you,  

days and nights shall embrace us,  
seasons weave a cocoon,  
ice slide down our bodies  
and I shall make love to you,

and now as I utter  
these little strands
in whispers,  
I am here entwined to you,  

I promised to read out these lines  
if I ever make love to you,  

now that the words
are in communion,  
let us dearest,
bid them adieu

the night is
a coveted kiss,
and yet it hugs
us so, gently
clasping our eyes,
probing and parting,
a river laid bare
and revolves
playfully there...