(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.