dyin'

    

we call livin' we


all the

(you yes


         andi  the


              whole)

we're
ya know

but

we call
dyin'
livin'
cuz

it's prettier
to think

but
to think

is
dyin'

(i know

    and i know

       i know it i



                           you



                                      the





                                                      whole






                                                                                     and





                                                                                       it

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.)

that kind of "*******

i ' m

goingtosmoke

a cigee                       "is



(to me)          so




so body
andso

it's

dying stupid wonderfully
to taste like

when lips are our(andtongueplease

hello i love you the way
you are not.

i love the way you(let's)
become painful
to touch.

to fingers,
fold beneath
like the edges
of a knife are to fold

into my flesh
crimsonsome
and welling of(roses).

"You'll never be as pretty as me." She said.

you know i know you i
do dear
i've known you over
the front(groaning)seat

            bent baby

i know you

wet softness
that by does

(
            arching

upon

             arching
(

lean into of

leaning,


suppose a wen.


that of hurried ugly millions lurch
on lurching bodies of tired always to be,
courses with new old obscureness of
brusque hideous hope. that hope
of to be not always tired of being–

to find some seed, some
new rind of dazzzling health
in unliving mounds of hurt asphalt.

My Dear who's come through winter
Growing with soft roughness
How you have become my kiss,

The pressing of my heart within
my breast,
And the pushing of my breath.

Oh Dear your hands are small
And move into my hands
With smallness, their pale beauty.

Dear, in Winter, who is dying,
You are life made skin and health;
Your lips are always playing
With softness as their wealth.

sometimes i want to make love

sometimes i want to ****

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

I find my pen in whate'er words encompass I
when i lay it to the page. stark and stretching
'neath my pen, writhing 'neath my pen
The words i find my pen
to encompass it: The page
beneath my pen

the small sweating ***
roundly curled
into the moon

flits by flensed brilliance

'tween cloud and shook
quaver of churlish sea

igniting by wan dying force
all the forest to teeter
on apt flesh:

lusting to feel
the plush saber

of caving darkness                                          .

what Idid is
i looked right
cutting through
the brambles and shale
and into
your very chest
and (
          what
       saw
              i
        were
              such beauty
                so
             colours
            and
              deeply
         stitched
             ) in you
               i have spied
               almost breaking flowers
               about whom i'd draw my
               careful hands and cup
               them carry them
               in my heart those
               nearly caving stemmed
               roses i'd
                               love
                                      them

sheet crumpled not
deeply thrashing
with life as a last night did
dead now dreaming
as dreaming sheets oftenly
boy with toy like
fantasies of apart joints
socketed into unsleeping
hips in the darkest of
night's dreamless deepening

eel(f em
the way–electric

              –you

leef like
(stern notched hard at the lips)
cursing drunk
slightly of
f
ff
kilterst

                ep

p i n

        g


the curb curb()
stumble-umble over oh-ver
y tight
in tights

(rose patterned)andmoist

between the heelzover
my shoulders.

i don't like you
no i
        like you

only when you R
with me
                   skin

                   bones (probably)

                   and hips

                   full

                   with my hips

once
                            



                                       i
                                         was (not
                                                         )
                                                          in love with youw
h
   a
        t,Happened?

in coldest cool,
of chip alive with face   ,ice wears
a short


                (eyes)


blue skirt nudely
implying lips

of chaste laughter
crisp with hurtling
twinge of Spring

dead between
two pillars of
nice femurs

stiff with
stuff of newly
braiding autumn air

will you eat me magic?

will you get inside me
hot and press against
my heart your heart?

and will you, magic,
dearly touch and
burn me singeing
with your velvet
lips, magic, my skin?

magic, i, would kiss thee
each portion
each parcel of thy
body i would imbue
with the unstern soft
rub of my mouth magic

i would give you all
the perfect mess
of my soul
and i would
sing a forest for thee

i would say a season
(like Spring) i would
say a small warm day
next to the vibrant
quiver of a lake i
would take you in
my heart i would
carry you in every
scarlet pulse of it

and

           i

                would

                                   love

                                                you

                                                                 Magic

little blue pale who
hurt knees(              )inside
slightly of
purple feels alone
sitting slightly
knocked,


mouth doing
the totally brutal
girl thing:  

                      your estuary

in which sleeps titanic dreams
of glaring night
****** summer
and unkempt
                sprin
                         G


shines so easily
with heavy beauty


and tinily utters
each new careful star of eve :                          (your hair is a deep mystery;
                                                        ­                       like the sea–
                                                            ­                   shook,
                                                          ­                     folding
                                                         ­                    )(endlessly
                                                     ­                           into folded
                                                          ­                      coils o' gold stuff made         )





tucked
suddenly
into
the
quiet
crook
of
a
book
store



                                       ,"I like your nose ring."

come into my hands
they are for you

more unclosed

petals bulbs fingers palms

they are for laughing

the scent of the ocean

the feel of your shoulders

the quiet of midnight

sleep in them your fine
ribs, the night was magic

and you said, "I felt safe in your arms. Thanks for that."

Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves
(or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really ******* ******* that can't
Kant a **** thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying **** too
many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end
i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign
talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing
made of its own ******* will "you **** me or what)"?

i like to mostly play with words. or else to play with me they. or not at all. or sometimes. or yes,,,.
'  ,
         '
    '   ,    
                                          ,
                 '


         ,                                        .
                              '

              ,.,                            ,.,

                                                                       '

.

neatly performed life
between a girls thighs

             a boy

i knew last summer

                who

loved a fairy with
a piece of steel in her
nose
            got

caught in the cut
of her
downy sable
and

            gentle

sweep of eyes
where crispest jade
spent a rounded chip
of beautiful
                         pain

did we ever? like summer did. so smoothly into cool light. our very bodies went without us to the wet little wet edge of the biggest hardest lake where god and earth were touching sometimes suddenly. and their sorry eyes stung with a new mostly fragile tear. and we called it SPRING

to beingly is
to dyingly make of
white flesh

a most brutal mute song–

arms and hands behind
music of throat
–full of fingers–

pushed fingers into short throat,
deeply;

trying to
and openly
needs of, spit

where unsoftly comes
and fingers fit.

unnicest winter die please cold
and let Spring unlaboured
                          unclosed Spring come

please, winter dying, that for you
coats and hats
tightly of bodies worn
from the slick ice
thinly which veils
the limbs of trees, naked, save for
thy

my love, i give you my life
the eyes

   (unerringly)

the lips totally which
are for only your lips;

my love, my hands are
your hands, my mouth
is your mouth, my love

my fingers are the brushing
of sunlight, against which
your skin folds effulgent;

my love, my fingers are
the blithe petals of Spring
damp within your roots:

(you are the cool and dark
soil of Summer, my love,
you are within each curling
of my breast, each turning
of my blood through stem
and shoot)

my love, i love thee,
the burnished gold
of your scalp, the
mute laughter of
your eyes; my love,

i am made and unmade
within your hands

      (our hands)


               .

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.

.



                                                            how like
                                                             night
                                                              does the
                                                               intense
                                                                wiggle
                                                                 of your
                                                                  hips
                                                                   enamor
                                                                    me
                                                                     sweet
                                                                      and steeply
                                                                       leaning 'gainst
                                                                        your stomach
                                                                         they're some
                                                                          violently perched
                                                                           ***
                                                                            ontop
                                                                             of your
                                                                              thighs
                                                                               like razors
                                                                                keen
                                                                                 and pretty

sits some thick blushed fitting thighs
around softly become
of mouth and lips

bump
bump
lips
bump

sits
bump
bump
sitting

***** curled
Summer
salt summer
fitting

petals in
doused
quickness
of aching
to part

on stem
on pistil

groans
groaning

the little house
of your hips

(where my mouth lives

.                                               u

                                                        <3
                                                          
                                   blood
                                                       and
                                         stuff
                                                     u
                                              <3
                                                     me

                                              and


                                                          u
                                                  <3
                                                             ***

                                                         in
                                                                        the
                                                 back
                                                                                 of
    
                                                                 my car

                                                             u
                                                         <3
                                                               colours
                                                          and
                                                               *******
                                             and
                                                      i
                                                          <3
                                                                u

it is big how life gradually through speaks girls
tall beautifully

                                 and little ugly perfect

                            flowers and flowers and flowers


in WINTERSPRINGAUTUMNSUMMER reign

and rain

                 from wind

                                        wind shook

                                                          ­       boughs              LEAVES!



in crunching miles of soundless quickly trees


                                                   straight and straight and straight


row on row into the night march(but curl a bit at their finger,s
eager brushing)(my heart's fine dismal smirk
                                                           ­                                                 )

listen i want to tell you something
i want to tell you through merest
weakly stupid body of human rind
my whole self; i want to say every
part of me and i want you to hear its
stinging divine crescendo and i want
to ****** it sharply into your heart
where i hope that even if it doesn't
always make sense it doesn't need
to 'cause that's just me that's all of
me and nothing

To know life is to understand that we, each of us, is a lover, selfless, kind, demure–but also that we are, simultaneously, haters, selfish, cruel, avaricious; and that in that very contradiction, is life.

thyme is a mint julep stirring
in my deep hand between
heat and laughter and the cool
                      
                                              
                 ­                             cool


                                              
               ­                                cool                                                          pen­umbra




of the enormous stiff
hot softly becoming
loose with Spring

C   I   T   Y,


carrying a warm shawl
a vapor like
breath of smoothly etherizing
evening coils around
limb and throat
neatly;

the alleys are alive with
old dirt
bent through
a thousand years of sifting
and grip thrifty of
bums

doused in becoming
night (they grouse
and grumble to
find some body
of shelter ,

stealing into the
weave of
can-liners
old breath and
stale coffee            );


life is drunk a little
me with remembering

remembering the
sudden coo of
the city to watch
it grow dark and
ribbed in shadows;

i am a splinter in the quick of the night.

burning with just the tonic
of vital nothing to be between
grass and dirt forever worm
pursued and forgotten of
lip and finger

(it makes me alive to know i will be dead ) someday.

my hands mix and jingle – i feel their blood and course with them.

And the City
is big
it
feels
like
so many daughters
apart and full of
my tongue:
i eat
and
become it;

my mouth is a silent crescent,
it eclipses sound
and does not say a thing.

i sip of the body of my hand

(who is thyme;

who is a mint julep;


deeply                        )


                 .

Rise
that within
you there titans
of summer invincibly
gold stuff form'd.

Sleep
from which
shall their tumult
sing unbridled colliding
of days in heat's fold.

up

                                                    into

                                                                  oceans

                                               stumbling(oceans)i

                        ceaseless folding waters

                        toil with the wind

                        for nearly i dream upon

                        them sweetly

                        they like sort of you

                        and unlike you

                        they like your body

                        swallow my body

                        into them

to mix as mixing fingers do
that pleasant scape of cut and hue
could only be by perfect hand–
to spill the sky with food so grand;

for eyes to eat for ever more,
ere come the bleakness: acheron's shore,
where stood is there unlucky crowd
embrace'd of apple from knowledge boughed;

and the lark that fell for un-leaden branch
to stain from souls forever blanch
died to live–immortal make–
when each, our bodies, meet their break

.























































                     "You're in love with love.

                                        You don't love anyone."













































.

her sitting through such drunk din poked quietly from between the pages of a book (a little in hand which)"what's it about?"not shyly"post-war France."

door and wall
narrowly divided

lengths and lank)a cat body pours instantaneously


gone

the sky is amorous of the clouds
the clouds are amorous of the wind
the wind is amorous of the trees
the trees are amorous of the earth

so is seen
that each loves of each
but never in return

eating you out in the back seat of my car
your strum stinging
from where your voice
is quickly singing

i pluck and seem
– i reach and touch
– i, still and clean,

finger the itch stitching
of your corded and
dasmer throat .

i hurt with
knees to
garble an' streak;

to make in mouth
(where all sound i' meek)

my fingers
(as deep
in your throat)

as you can keep        .

what waits beyond the edge of a light(idontknow)
there is not a sound but
there is a very fine forest
where a crow is gently
a river is sleeping
and silver through all the trees is dancing

it is the dawn which
(skillfully erected)
light hands improbable

touch


              just


with barely strength

lift and lift

the sinuous lid of night

)peeling vigorously
the closed earth

    ****

are what the heart? some
fresh vehicle of kissing?) i have

broached in sinuous deliberate
matchless chords of straining music
                               ,
to break the fragile muss of intrinsic Spring
                               ,

in twain of pressless spent thrilling flowers

(whose mute crushing sends hardboys to war


)and propels quiet girls to wares.

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.

by the way,
I have always loved you,
unwonderlingly which
I do not think
another hand
would be so nice
in mine

a hand last held
—no void to fill:
(the hand that grasps
is empty still).

so wait this hand
to holdest yours
when shut my eyes
as closest doors

no part, no rent
will bear the breaking
of flesh’s joy
a join making

so lay in still
at slumbers ask
a morn will come
where loves a bask

milkwhite,

                           you're so. and

warm sticky

'round each finger

thick and
white and.
your stomach is

                                         cream

it is bitter an
D soursweet  
it feels like dough
firm and it froths
with writhing muscles Milk