Day one,
and there was light.
A path out of chaos.
A radiant beam of hope.
I opened my eyes to the unconceived.
A fiery hand
touched my palm,
leading me to unknown paths.
Ninth hour of the morning!
I was born in the sea.
I am unvisible, unseen.
Plankton they call me.
Chance met shells
and anemones my companions.
I played with the sand,
was one with the waves,
sipped at oxygen and salt.
The Eternal God told me:
"Before night comes you will have become food".

I didn't unedrstand it.
I was afraid
"You are unfinite.
You will be reborn in the morning".
This reassured me.
But who can wait for the morrow?
I saw a glowing star.
It slipped to the horizon.
"That must be my soul
ready to take flight.
The Moon laughed at me with bitterness.
"I' m sorry for that".
Weeping,
I drifted into the redeeming arms of sleep
Day two.
Morning.
Death spat me into the bowels of a great whale.
It is called "Leviathan".

I am reborn.
"I inhabit a green seaweed.
It tickles my body and I arise".
I saw the light which transpierced me.
Creation is a cycle.
Creation in its cycle engenders All.

my topressdeeply lips
hunch kneading
on your lips love
(with the sun   ,
                            with
                                      its
shearing invincible
                                   diaphanous

marigold heart) who cares less
when feebly earth consumes
the rightly,
                    naked unfleshing
                                                    waif
of i
is amorous to playlips
bunched folding
into unfinite heavens extending
beyond

                   extension

the decreasing miracle of your
temporal furnace
(so lady unslowly dissolve
the uncouth packaging of
thy lustful canary
and admit the frivolous
**** splinter of inflaccid
heaving)

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


!       !                                         !                           ?

i wonder what death i'll wear when the soft scalpel of flaying darkness visits the veneer of my stocky bones. i maybe think i'll touch the vale and tear an onyx breath by cleverly decaying lungs, who by swift retracting fascia i'm a pulsing ***** of health. We'll all go there, lay in her soil bed, and unmotion unfinite..
                                            .