.




























                           Brief,


                         ,

                  Who are

    light dapples o' fingertips
between curling pillars of tight breath

(parting trees;
parting light;
parting chasms

o' touchless yearning space–

                            To
                                feel
                                   To
                                       hold
                                         To
                                             enter

(always light;
always warmth;

  within every brilliant fold of forest–

                           Most
                           tame;

                           Most
                           subtle

                            coil o' resilience,



                                            ,


                          
                             ,



              ,

your lips;   your eyes;   your hair.

this rough sometimes of a star
within the grit of wind
moves all scepters to still

the stirring of their grip to seize

and make loose their hands.

(that they might hold
the cupping of that final flint

where from which a spark shall new
and in colors bright, a morning do.)

giving up of cent;
and bills no more their fists to clench.

(my dear there is world within this kiss;
this breath and dew.

i live; shall feel;
have of body been and went
into fields alive with colors bent.)

make this thy cheek to speak:
this single promise of the earth to break

beneath the tread of stars,
where grass and flower coo–

and with the rain
a tiny song of evening make,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

shape that cuts
(girllike)
closely
shaven

with sweetness pressed
alone a little empty

needswants

filling to be

–inside–so mouth;;;

skin love,

hands dreaming on
pert curving of tiny
white white white

she she

"Can


             I


go down on you?"

the world fits most easily in rain between
the close thighs of light
eking just slenderly

one ephemeral rill of ****
penetrating
to eagerly spill
dawn.

                 (the though world
                   in rain fits just
                   in just the loose tenseness
                   of muscle unbounding
                   from bone, wide
                   )with
                    a sliver
                                of
                            neat

                     ssenlriG

where is my body
i will lie in it
the world

from which
my flesh
trees the heart
and my breath
will come

into the stars
hanging
gossamer and
flung neatly
the pate over

and my mouth
will be the sea
issuing
verb
root
and foam

it will vibrate
from my own
valved throat

a single
straining
word

bursting

through all darkness

a fulgent
burning
FLOWER

comes from the earth
a flower roughly
divulges tenderest
colours in early
morning dew lathered
becoming immutable
unbreaking

                      destroys

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."

taste feels to reach to
tongue
deeply between kiss

      (lipsnotlips)

where least sleeps spring
and calls by mouth

your hips to sing,

                              ,

                              ,

                              ,

                              .

when admits into me the splendor

           ;(your heart)

by quick immutable prancing cloven love
a shall star

                        (within dumb lips contained)




                         revolt against darkness




                                  A brightness



                              more sweet than
                              bitter less
                              and without limit

                              (honey;salt)


                              Dissolving completely
                              the whole of your breast
                              into livid Spring
                              a bruise


                               and become

                               again whole

                               again young



                                again,

                                    .



                                       ,






                           .

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)"?

do like rain severely
smaller lips smaller
kissing lips kissing
tinly divided mouths
kisser mouths kisser
like rain do severely

"People love being weak. They are in love with with their weakness–flaws. This is due to the twisting of their own egoism: when they see someone strong and free of flaw or worry they must invent some way to justify their own value by contrast. They take those traits which define the capable, noble and powerful and redefine them; make them into hallmarks of stupidity and shallowness. They make claim that what is truly good is what is weak, flawed and incapable–what is like them.

What is most noble is what suffers the most. Who is the greatest victim is the greatest good, superior to all others. Thus you can see them in action: arguing for their victimhood, trying to be the weakest and most pathetic. Busily inventing with creative fervor new statuses of being to which to cling.

What is more profound, more deep and compelling than one in pain?

The irony could never be more clear in that the weak grow strong in their weakness to justify their secret longing to be superior to the strong. Are they not after all damaged, and yet still surviving? What is more brave than that? What is more laudable or commendable?"

.  these deep uply
)whom i'm become
              as you'm

i'd like to with       (
achingly clutch
the whim whisper

the sure hum
and crisp vibrance

of white white mouth;

always starrily
always upwardly

           :          body

of snow in June(

whose light pertness be ).

whose own wish nothing ever
so be could:



as white.




as mouth.

let's get differently. Electric let's

(you)sometimes get

,differently your

face let's
get red
hurting

(cuz you want it(




                   me to


ya want me too


let's





                        get,




                        .




                                     ,

silently,
the tress
the marigold
the bumbling of
unkempt bees between
green and green

(a whole forest accidentally
in cool shadows etherize by
pools of mostly light darkness
the tall body of mouth        )

not a sound or not a little
hist wist
escapes(breaks)
the tulle

(and it can't be heard
or said how
deeply loose and warm
it is to be
inside the chilled vambrace
of this big forest everywhere)


                             somewhere


a


                 bird



      is,

loving tried sorrily a girl
to make out
of too much whiskey
something which

loves it too.

my HAND)
                    a drink
                                loudly
                                         was
                                    there
                                          cut
                                       by
                                         a slight
                                  wedge
                                         of
                                             lime
                                    it had
                                       also
                                    a sharp
                                        blade
                                     of
                                       mint
                                   in
                                        it
                                   ,a gawking
                                 boy sat
                               with
                                 his
                                         lover
                                  in
                              round
                                     *******
                                 fit
                                    his
                                eyes
                                     music
                                 complaining
                               and
                                     "the bass
                                    is too loud"
                                 she
                                      looked
                                 like
                                         spit
                                       heaving
                                  and
                                           a
                                      SIGH

"Did I forget dying?"

asked who

hung with livery
of silver youth spun
by rouge turning
of night into day                                    ". Perhaps
                                                                                    "

or because suddenly
remembered summer
was sluiced in body

of hot water around
slim ankles–the opening

of every small vein–
rushing to mix with
motes of dying laughter

the very petite and
fragile model of thy self                        " one day when
                                                                     the incorrigible
                                                                     rough noose of
                                                                     Spring has tightened
                                                                     about every gold
                                                                     trimmed loose laden
                                                                     goosenecked whiskey
                                                                     minute of kiss *******
                                                                     between wide thighs
                                                                     tear tumbling and
                                                                     blubber wonderful
                                                                     life shall with death
                                                                     's vacant fingers make
                                                                      a flower of thy body
                                                                      renewed at the lips
                                                                      of thy grave every
                                                                      morning pearled
                                                                      in dew
                                                                                                         "

when i spill smiling lips i cluster them on yours lady you lady you, like pearls and wine, you are bones deepest and i like you and i play you. i play such tunes as on your hips i tap them lightly with my finger tips i tap a little orchestra on that hard pretty straight blade of bones you have stucking so elegantly out that pale and warm pool of flesh. you creature are a moment exploding and you lady are a star; fallen roughly in my eyes you sparkle blinding me before steps i stumble up them to you Heaven.


            (and U don't kno it(but i do)    )

the more less you (than unsuddenly writhing
with magic)i write for is really not and too
bad 'cause(taking with neat blackest fingers: me)
if you were i would swear a poem of fast
intricate roses(who amongst coyly hidden
scythes take)that swell with scents as
nearly radiant and folded as thy own scent
of swelling(so please waiting too long don't to
finding) enchanted nothing: rolls and rolls

of stink

.































































­




                                                 ok Spring let's ****




























































­




.

begin again
it comes starting
the end, again, begins
newness pressed between
dawn and eve is glued your
fresh smell atomized an instant
and mingles in the dancing dust
flitter mumbling pitter pattering
diminutive motes bump and
carouse in tousled hunks
of light

.






























"What have you been doing these days?"



"Trying to become myself."






























.

hello, today sun

       i

like you


                i
              
                     like the ample
                     pleasure
                     of your skin
                     i like it
                     and it likes
                     i

"Want something beautiful? Make yourself beautiful first."

i have caught on the edge of shadows

               my hands

halfly splayed by quarters and 1/3s
darkness and lightness

(in my hands splayed, caught)

and folded it neatly into my soul

its heatness and its coolness

adroitly cupped in sudden gold:

SUMMERFALLAUTUMNSPRING

what avarice it doth crAVe so greatly in the odor of gold so a flavor is guilded our minds and we make our arms for it so we may hold more, i loved the dawn. gold enough for




                                                                        






                                 i

a tree'd grow
youth slapping
by my garage
and howl green
every noonight
i sleep awake the stars cuddling
                                         furiously
w
    i t
         h         my dreams

the such my hands(yourstiny)they

,as like rain,

they the their

          body itt

                                    e

                      
                              e

                                       ms

                      like with
                      beauty it
                      sings
                      singly
                      it
                      seems
                      unseemly

                 .

Dear it
the cough
your *******
they
point they
coo they
their
fracas is
it soft
does make
hardme to reek
of youth so mad feverishly
i, like coming morning, wash
your valley full
my piercing ray,



                                             i


                                            until do

                                            (as day does
)
                                            break

                                            and hollow fill
                                            the swallowing
                                            of thy hips

(                                           the color of thy bonny
                                            the cherry of your lips                           )

shall die who not
of Spring always?

not grass or leaves.

not the sea or
the tragically rapid
wings of
hottish wind.

not the rocks
or the
trimmly light locks
of crimson eve.

not the fit splendor
of the night
or (the who)
of, "why not?"

when shyly asks
of boys, girls ,
to part them

(in twain of pleasure's hutch
  

   )         (              where



      ,        like of Spring        ,


dying is not so

as vermillion becomes of touch     )

to what unthing new do i impossibly owe my hands to touch?
(its face perhaps its lips or
the body beneath when

it parts beyond darkness

,and some fat drunkard
howls at the moon)?

what if i destroy you
what if i put you between heaven
and hurting
what if i love you
what if you find me dreaming
some morning and lushly
fold me in your crispest singe

                ?

i love you there is
something undark

more

unseemingly possible
to speak which
makes your soul–

it the
noose which
hangs by all the nights and days

to be rough
to be wholly of
hard and unhard made;

it want it to touch
(as inside touches)

each small and trembling
****** of me;

and i want it to feel
(as valkyries feel)

hurt beautiful ugly and strong.

dying's like
(hot between swift thighs)

a gush
of wires cloven

minglin'
(wit' fingers cloaked in)

the *** of youth's wet sublime

there is, after all,
one thing
(after my breath)

–a star–

hung loose
and into the night
(which is my soul)

dreaming through
moist lips
and the cup of flower

a kissing of pale light;
the rough newness of rain;
and the smell softly afterward.

lips cur l l ips a bo u t th en ak e d for tre s s of your s t r ain i ng hips
in w hich resi de s the resi d ueof loves h ars hes tb ase notes
a single molting instant when bodies uncleverly address each
other rudely with loose and tight squirming tissues
commonly beginning muscles
rapid and dismaying
and to fluffless
orchards
scurry

it's so bright in you
i think seeing is hard to

          (too hard too)


                            in you is



               seeing




                    .

when i die there will a star
(wade out)
from my lips
into darkness
and it shall                  burst

it will part

and from its parting

tumbleshall

the sky quick with gold
and sleeping will flowers
touch lightly the etching
that shimmers and boiling
pollen with will mingle
in babbeling and hushed
coloures

the something you alive,
white naked
blue eyed
stranding
blonde
darkly
wheat gold

i run
,a finger,
through

while makes
gladness
sing saying
by voice
the mouth
of your
soul

i (Dear)
am not
without thy
chasteness
after chasing
the morning
on hills cloaked in
crocus and thyme

reach to hold
the crust of your
divine health

a cheek
pallid
struck through
(rouge)
and beating
little by

heart
this my
dear
let
this anthem
of thy breath

ring through
all stillness
a golden tone

exciting every
atom to
DANCE

laugh whole mountains                 ,

you got sinews deep as

rivers in you(they’re sle

eeping down there in y

ou and they fan out toA

narrow hairless delta)an

d that’s where i am

when i,m moving i don't like to make any sort of sound
any sort of short sturdy long fragile careless sounds
and i like to go around
and i don't
and i don't

just when you think you,'ll never sleep
opens up the rough muscles of nigh    t     and P
                                                                            O
                                                                                              oF

i(it seems)am like your skin. or also i like it. the way
y
  o
     u wear it. clever sugar hills giggle richly. in my mouth
soft candy. melting exactly on my tongue. and ravage
my pink. daft heart petals split your cotton wrapper,
      a        
                                                                                               n
                                                                                                  d
grace your tubercles in my hands with fingers splayed about
your quakes. cupping your electric pond blossom shudder queen.
  dance your sighs in the tremendous cavern of my lips; slay apprehensions
                              filigree scriptured on my soul.

you are my only; and beyond all others; are the sun; you; perfect; and horrible; yet; a dream; i would never wake

what the **** have you done

"The greatest weakness of my own character is the inability to bear the suffering of others for the furtherment of my own interests–my inability to inflict suffering."

Therewasthesoundlike(
even though you just broke her)
stillsmiling(and your fingers            R

blud                               ugly

and smelling like                                       )


the sea;

bREaKin,G

on rocks

in the hot Summer

when the tide runs out

anditlaysflat

hot on its stomach

(with its *** in the air
                                       )

theslowlybeginstorot

seaweed and gurgling

butstillsmiles(a very meek


                            rill (one only)



runs down its thigh

Rightbehindtheknee)collectsinto
a shoal



                                     and



                                                 "morePlease"

Χάρων is a nice fellow
by some gate
on the bank of a slow river

in the summer
his mouth
hints at
a sliver of
crisp mint

julep sweating on
the table next to my hand
occasionally a girl
between my lips

and the small body of
the city stretches
'round with
creeping dapples
of caressed heat

(and the slow bank of a long river is
waiting next to some gate i can hear
the boat creaking without weight and
all the darkness of forever at the backs
of my eyes.

.





























































                                                  Let's dance.
  
                                                  (And **** everything else)

i, night, hung about thy cheeks more splendored
beams crisper and wholly brisk with wind
than even winter could. i stroked about the
penultimate hour of your face the little and
stranger carelessly perfect lips of my face
and drinking so stilly the sky is abrupt
with normally clothed stars; **** and playfully
abundant. i lay my heart with thee and i am
increased. i lay hands with thee and i am
between the velour of your not-covered thighs
making, with you, an errant child like Demeter
and Poseidon (who hangs his restless skin upon
the nape of the coiled neon streets. hinted
at his edges just; the circlet of the bay, i wander
in thee night.)

at how does gleam the cherry **** of your cylindric pertness–lips–i beco
    me me in two folds of self on each one pressed the drooping brand of y
       our hands stings to cooly touch with the unhinging of cottoned hurt
           ing in when the sun suddenly of gradual imperceptible dying revo
              lves on the apex of youth its own immortal youth; such dreams a
                 s magic become the ethereal toyness of your wrists that fleetly
                    stagger of whiteness with substance wholly girl with two
                       ******* wine for a mouth and darkness for hair even
                          the night is jealous at their fibers and remarks with
                             disturbed violence a shower of stars to mark
                                its brunt, its curling of tight fingers into
                                  fists of foisted heating)
                                              (there
   ­                                         such
                   ­                     brightness
                                 ­      is a circle within
                                      A circle of
                                     tingling bruteness
                                     you have liked me
                                       to be between your
                                         smart ****** of cherry
                                            pertness–
    ­                                                LIPS