there’s seventeen that’s
normal size and a short one
that’s hell with a knife

we're the carin' sort
and furthermore, we don’t give
a **** who knows it

when we met
my cathedrals were full
and swollen with
light
the narrow
white yawn
of oblivion, curling
into a ball -
we kick
down the road
past Finnegan's Wake
Drive.
and the last Lamb
in a Lion's
mouth.

i saw you as a goddess that would forgive me
my crippled inertia
and afford me a palace of goodwill
in the hysteria
of change.

but how i lost you in an empty
confounds me.
it breaks for unicorns
and nothing is
sacred.

it beggars belief

but affection stains
the miracle
like infection feigns
the lyrical

and so goes the sparrow, for now...

so goes the Widdershins of our distant embrace
and the wrong star jaded
and marooned in our perpetual
default.

a mad zodiac, plastic in the vapid spool of Eternity

a somewhat always gone
at the very center
of our being
together.

them be butterflies in the pastry
bedazzling the icing on the nape of your neck
and reeling me in
to the spire of your spine
with my lips, joyful and apart..
my crude lust, elegantly fawning
in the ripples of your wet ***
and narrowly avoiding'
a premature
Truth.

them be the kettles and the brine
yammering on about the pots and molasses.
the freak honey in the rock
of our solid moons -
as we recover from the act and act the part
of our chief deception
after the glow dissolves
and the *****
seltzers.

we awaken to the tossed sheets and the bare naked.

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.

i keep the squalor of our opulent hearts
in heavenly hovels, and i mushroom harps
in the damp lurch of our fever dream
monastic,

i combine the river with the sea
and swamp the ether of our delicate masquerade.
we don the ribbons of a hag
and scoff the ludicrous
of Sunday.

.
























                                       ­                                          t
                                                               ­                as
                                                              ­               t
                                                               ­                 EE
                                             ­                              a
                                                               ­                 C
                                              ­                         h
                                                               ­  feels as shape
                                                           ­    like shape does:
                                                           ­  as like winter fist;
                                                           a juniper wi' holly kisst
            
                                                                ­         Acurled
                                                         ­                w
                                                               ­               i
                                                ­                    th
                                          ­                                i
                               ­                                              n
                                                               ­ a    curl'd   sphere
                                                          ­                   t
                                                               ­          he
                                                              ­   locke o' love
                                                            ­            an'
                                                 ­                         f
                                      ­                                       u

                                                              ­           r
                                                               ­             l
                                                  ­                      e
                                         ­                                       d
                        ­                                                            fear
­                                  

                                                               ­                        et, un deux du pleure fus

                                                            ­ that hands should hurt
  
                                  where love is new














































.

so i will collect ladders until
i can reach
and rearrange them