.



























                  "I'm objectifying you–you're an object to me."





























.

A pen is sometimes
(books)

the pages of which(between)



ink.

.




















































" your poetry *****.

it's like you're trying not to make sense on purpose."














































.

icanfeelsome cold
(hard birds between)
in Portland
there is a red brick building
building between
the hard cold
and some birds

(      i  can  feel   )

i miss you are dead
somewhere
dead maybe

you were alive once
unknown
,but knowing  . how

like it feels to dark within
the instant upon looking
through wet neatness of
glass onto the rain

where a city is

and say, "because it stops for no one."

"You did this little thing, when I kissed
you after I had gone down on you,
where you ****** your juices off the
tip of my nose. It was one of the most
****** things I've ever experienced."

feels like nothing that inside which is alone enormously too enormously to be anything felt or unfelt into every corner of being seeps
like a big room
too big
to be
inside
it
feels


                                                      




                                                           alone

"The making of anything beautiful is always accompanied by a lot of difficulty, ugliness and pain."

a something quietly poem does

touching through new lips
sound and says

a something slim
wristed glasses hair
darkly which bunch
around the shining edge

of her cheek

(moon scarred by hard youth) perhaps

which makes me smile
suddenly without
thinking to smile

.

i need but one word to speak
before all entreaty close me:
the sighs of women weak
and all the ladies holy.

turn me off(in your body there is a switch
which
ignites the pale frame of flowers


                                     To bloom,

.




























                                                                            ****'s ******.












































                                                                                                                                                                              .

you're so dying–i love how beautifully it,
where your skin is
i love(i wonder
how
        
it folds .i wonder
is there room
amongst

your dying and folding skin

for me to live;

to lovedie
between such,
breath so?

i wonder)

sweep of swept
in doze'n lair,
where ice is free
and snow has care

.








































"I'm sorry."

I love you.

(I'm sorry.)

"Goodbye."











































.

i still shall repeat
(which is my cheeks)
through this cold
night, where rain is,

if even though

       (here)

is where only
the cold rain is


kiss
.

stop enjoying the beautiful things other people make.

start making the beautiful things other people enjoy.

the very ugly beautiful you
AMERICA i

we the
(people)you
and me
are

("i love you")
        the
sweat smell
the
kiss spitly,

fork tongued
and paired
swollen of

pollen drugged
and cool sweltering

pale chested and
tight limbing

of neck throat
hand swallow
finger filling.

watch    from     go

(something sweet)

to
to                    tally

****           vicious


give  your     neck

around           me
fingers       inside,

teeth hands  full
with,
             "      ****."                                    Look


into his i want to
see you become
how,

           "swallow."

here are some deep in you ideas of living,
they are the rain sunshine and hands
amongst such grass as neatly distilled breathing

(i have often and have you ever wondered how you are a living so

                  nearly of perfect temporary body

)it constantly does seem the as such

some times occasionally will us of mouths
with drinking crisp waters of hurting Spring

explode fawn like into crimson sweetness
of hard dying somber infinities,

that move with what grace into deep ideas of living;

they do not know how.




                                    (but i do)

.                                                                                                                                                                                            
































































­



                                                                                                                                             space


























































                                                                                                                                                                             .

.






























                                      "I will be great."










































.

speak again sea
the ears inside
cannot hear
the certain dark sound

within you
(almost)

as shifts
almost

the air of your lungs
to rise through
dusted night of sleep

and

in certain care
the darkness of your spoken–keep

.                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                      

























                 ­                                                                 ­                                you
                             ­                                                                 ­                     me
















.

"Nobody will ever really love you,
because people really only love
themselves."

One dumb ******* mouth speaks
does eat
the face by

two thin chords
of pink sweating
easily .

it yammers it says
something about
the weather whether

or not
it might rain

heaping into
the pinched
nooseness

the fat trill
thinness of
its head:


sleeeeeep.

who am i
that i have been
my own self

in dark rooms
,perhaps,
reading

or

in silence
only

but

wanting to


SPEAK

only real way 'cause
thick up down:
******* ,



               i'm


sorry                 'cause


                i'm


gonna hurt)hurt you

a lot


                  (tonight

what are to me you do doing
                to me
you youing?

the hard that comes
where soft is key:
(mouths that hurt
on bended knees);

teeth that teeth
through sharp where skin,
pushing self
when clothes are thin.

i think i shall die
that there is a rose in my lips–
the sea everywhere
and the barely sound
of washing over
the sand
it.

over a red mountain sits the sunningly
die gorgeous
of the whole life's world that

where that

i

plunged myster-ly
up into

rising upon

(a thousand quick years)


to set my teeth into


each brilliant folly of my self
(                       –a foible which
all men
share)

.












































                                                                    destroy what you love




























































­.

somewhere (
quietly)
there is a suicide,

the doors won't open,

and everywhere

it is raining.

.































                                ­         "      Let's be honest:

                                                 you're real cute,

                
                              but I'd probably just want to *******

                                                            ­  .  "
































.

turns leaf over who through rain divides the world into muster and bluster of almost autumn nights thick with near darkness; it cannot feel to shift or move a muscle only to roll under the deep muzzle of rain and stem.

it feels the each,
the mouth into which
sun crawls
moon sings
and trees

suddenly bluster
with and with.

a lark
a poppy
and the breaking

of darkness before

a fist swollen of
red newness to be:


(to be hard ; to be naked ; to be great)

it seems the brief
nothing of my
hands cradle
the sweating brow
of my child
sleeping so hardly
within the quiet
of her breath--

the smallest pressing
of her chest the
largest miracle of life.

her hair is fine
and golden--
the light comes somewise
the follicle full
and brimming in
brilliant strands.

my wife is beautiful and i love her:
she has given me the most
beautiful gift in my children.

she carries in her body the torch
of into swallowing enormity:
whole darkness.

on the withers of a pale horse,
riding into that good night,
she bears making.

a maker before all craftsmen,
she creates through effort of her flesh
the most exacting somethingess of being.

i hold the makings of
her hips in my arms
and they are the most
beautiful thing i have
ever seen.

.































































­
                                                  who loves shall not die beyond there body.



























































­





                                                                                                                                                                              .

you.re like me not like me you.re exactly
nothing precisely like me

                                               just nothing
                                               at all
                                               everything like me
                                               you.
                                               re
                                               j
                                               U
                                              s
                                               t
                                                 like me
                                                 (not)

.
















































                                           "Do you like to eat *****?"




































.

.































































­




















                                      "Did you ever really love me?"



                                      "I don't know."


























































­





.

whatayou whatayou whatayou
come on,

Babe

let me

put a finger in ya
in ya lips
in ya, honey

let me dip you
wanna
taste

?


(   "  Taste it.  "   )

it was cold your heel hurt and i'm sorry because we were walking to get some food i was thinking about how you are so nice to kiss and "this is magic" the world and your eyes and the easy body of your silence between the houses "this moment" and my hands full of box with scones i couldn't wait to see you smile


"I know it's ridiculous,


                                                but I'm serious."

seeing this boy:
gets naked
with the hands of
drink.

drooling, vomits
              ––

into nothing

sinks.

who R you the god
i've been
inside several
times tonight

         ?

a beach rose
where one time
i wished i was
seeing the ocean
split itself again
over a man.

did you ever
wonderlingly
upward which
a star upon
pitch stairs
climbs casually?

who knows not me i've never even seen.

kiss has been the turn
the twist
upon
the folding over of roses

over roses

into.

this own self,
which you are live with,
that moves through your hands
into the body of the ocean:

(i am in love with) ;

and quietly.

instead
as like the curing
of soft shadows into
the verdant copse

of a forest suddenly
still with
leaf and sun,

i will love you.

comes not this, my dear because
like my dear because
as like rain as like
sheets of trembling
morning push over press
between pages of lilies
your white body of because

(i live) .

.






















































"I write all this beautiful **** about love but really I just want to ****."








































.