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

with love often
i am more than
with you
more than nearly
love i'm only
more devoted
than to you
even i'm with
only love

& who o          sh                             slippery bunting breath
god softly numbed
                                  ardent sickly tongues
         a night ambrosia
all the world was nestled senseless meat
but higglywiggly the wind went slumping
                                                                              over
ever
                   dreaming brow

imperceptibly delicate(from merest fissure
of night and day)in June
emerged                                          painfully
became              a

                                 butterfly

whose wings  a                               tempest
beat
         'pon
                   shoulder and brow
                                                           a precise

violent breath
silked in the leak of summer's yolk yellow
stickthickly
that lazily ate the skin of a flock of girls
giggling hard
                                                      satted on

the crumpled fold
                                                        of

                                                                            Lust

can i destroy myself in you

2wo deep thighs of night
hold in their crest
my mouth to instantly linger
less than to leave
only

of lust which
to taste
i

(healthless droll and constantly)

am my lips
between secret folds
of darkness
hung with

a crisp shingle
of Spring light
(whom Shakespeare
might said, "A
star danced,
and under that wuz I born.")

tasting as to taste what flavor that
what tastes like sea on scorch'd flat.

I lived while you were sleeping.

WHI
te, ....       your waiting hands are so

     like shins gently bruised

         a pressure of lovely bedded ladies

what else? he's a war of nice arrogance. a boy like
          purple
and he's me. we, we're we,re i; i'm he and we sweat with a demon
in the spiraling helix of our
       dna
how can i **** this kind ******?my desire for some other fruit.

          it's esoteric

4 stiffened, his joists are particularly long and gnarled lances
of pearly bleach. gradually skinless of bones lanky with hands
laid a scythe. he waggles and sheds surly mortal coils we waif
to dust in polite crumbs of rotting health
and his breath is specific. a lash of practical mort

that loves you the terse crushing pulse of hard darkness a forest through
infinite leaf opens the keyless vault of being and parts every vestige of
self beneath the moon becomes livid every cutless blade with white
incredibly fleeting dust of immense light

it wigs

instantly the body

in tons of weightless flower

all limb to dance with coursing heave

of minute electricity

over which
can barely be heard
the mute rushing
of
grass, "

i am really good at can get inside
your voice and neck

i can get louder

and louder

i can perspire from thy breast

              A RoSE

and follows after scarlet hips
stem, thorns, the parting of
petals from come and more

louder and louder say, "yes":
a stem that's thorn follows
into parted petals, your voice
and neck gets louder and

louder

gets

what hot,
estimable lances
of adamantine night

pass drowsily

of exact turpitude
before my hands drunk

in comely seas
of neck clean
and wholly depraved
grasping


                 (the hanging of a boy wish
                   between sallow columns
                   of chaste eve;

                                            a caricature emerges:

                      that self of sometimes dreaming
                      illeasy
                      nymphness.                                      )

breath: there is nothing like you
a flower, the river next to it, a
strain of summer and



                                                      breath
­












                                                    ­                                     there
































       is






























































­
                                                                ­                                                                 ­      nothing

everything hurts inside 21
she can't have a baby her
daddy don't love she
likes girls some times
boys some times
she doesn't
understand
the big
ugly
straining
of the whole
big ugly world it's
so ******* unfair nobody
cares about me **** the amount
of money every girl makes less than
a man makes it's so ******* unfair how

((everything hurts inside 21)


                       except me.       )

the caress i feel

          is my own fingersunlightrainwaveseyelashes


of sweaty and inimitable curling
Saturdays

                     the twine


of their bodies


                                the gusset


of neat and white corners

soft and soft and soft

always



                   always



    always


eyelashes prickling tingle
a multitude of tickle singeing


muscles and hunger

eating and lank

hulking and brutal

skinny and timid


the specters in books
my window suddenly looking out on the bay

ships

dreamily swept upon turgid waters

and a boy(on the edge of his bed)

be being being
–gold sometimes
,Spring never
in winter always:
Summer and summer
go entering

every sunset
their frail whoop
and last gasp
as shoulders unneat;

as boys and girls in garlands
whose hands they fail to keep

and make their mouths as gardens
)with death they hope to beat
(

my knees hurt-- praying in your church

issohard
for

25 minutes of writhing

i pray

my mouth runneth over
with your cup and

my knees hurt

pr
ayingi
n y
our church

"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?"

today i listen farther to music almost nearer
at the sickled median
of fluff and ice
and
"shhh",

"What's it about?"
"It's a metaphor."

"For what?"


"*******."



"*******?"




"Yeah."





"What's that a metaphor for?"






"Life."

"I want you to know: I never forgot."






                                               "I know."
                                                            ,
                                                            .

                                                            '







                                                            .

only it is that
in every vibrant stitch
or cream and leaves of flame
a craven volatile smoothness
the soil unbuckled
unto this day it swelled
a very giddy wart                  (it glowing on her hips )

swearing with repugnant beauty
it's scarlet freckles grumble with the moss

& and of this swooping          twilight
i might say it
is it.                           one large enormity
  ,        small and tumbling
deftly clumsy                             and reposed
                          quicklyquietly
in succulent folds of mauve silence

'pon                                           the imminenthills

outside my window

to seriously know, to consider keenly: my father
dreaming father, lie in my dreams yours, father
lay your fears on me (each timber yoke, to my
shoulders father) each limber fantasy, father
bind to me they all and sleep father; lie in
me your hope, your heart, father place in me
by hand worn, the distinct immediate light
of strength, father, pass into one long night

i guess some day my heart will stop stop
my heart will less
cringing into my lungs
flat drooping stop
breathing my throat will
around not a whisper
fold my lips into
bursting stop
my hands will
more still not
move or
kiss the slender
girl of a

waste life                                                STOP

i have stood where boys have stood
an hour of their body in the ground
from their backs to their hands up
pricking gently a cool stroke of wind

and each parting softly sleep stole
into the easy crush of rain, and into
the always agape lips of wanting spring

you think


                     makes



                                           (hurt


              me

                    )creeping                                      you


                               between


                 fingers' fay


barely and leather

(stud and skin)

teeth against open
your shoulder blades
apart seemingly *****

tighten furiously into
a grin



                 when

                 most
                 is
                 pain

.























































                                "Let's ****."

who speaks?
(that i should hear)
whose own body
is my voice.

some's
a   little bit,

starrily snowing,

sky so

(a rook between
         h
       a   n
          

         g
            i
       n
         g               by


)

i   have   felt   you ,
the           entering ,
of  a whole world
inside               me

   (I am its mouth)

but          it speaks

through your lips

to You,

dear reader,  (who i am)

that you are

the way–the same


risen
of nothing dirt
grass through
stars and fire:

the very finite mystery of life
is a sliver in the quick of the night

burning;
jousting of
fierce lung
to make your body
within other bodies

a new molten slowly
freezing
quip of moments
seized
by brute slender violence

a repeating ever outward into darkness flame;

who'll ***** their fingers in fear of pain
(and find themselves in Summer Rain

definitely probably
we,re all gods
sort of maybe gods
r
t
o
f
  m
ay
be gods

.                                                                                                  



                                                                              O love
                                                                             ,my hushed cords elate
                                                                              at the stroking of your fingers

feel barely(you baby)I
feel you barely baby
I feel you barely breaking
                             (baby)

beneath me baby
I feel you breaking
beneath me breaking baby
I feel you barely
and I break you
(i break you baby)
                                you barely

You beautifully breaking

a one time i wrote something
one time i wrote something this one time i wrote something
that didn't, that one time, seem at all like the sort of one time i'd write
a thing like that that one time but then i did
and i did
               and i did
                                and i do
(tense is important)

feel lipped white,

many of tiny
                        
                            sea

                                        crests

                                        the fitness of your

                                                                body

                                                                 is ruined

                                                                 ,perfect,

                                                                  iron grey

                                                                  with frigid

                                                                   and lipped white

                                                                   many tiny

e

l          a

                 (p freshness

                      over every sense of lightness

                         you heave about yourself

                           and sleep so deeply

                           even dead was

                       never  so still

                   as you slumbering

                steeped in cotton

             i pull from you

          and met with

       your flesh

mine

looking real smart between flats
and a bob (in a sundress)
stands some fun

with cute red lips i
think would

be nice
             to get inside

.                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                      

























                 ­                                                                 ­                                you
                             ­                                                                 ­                     me
















.

palest inch of human health
who fringed at the edges with
hurting and raw pink a little
like a tulip on the faintly
murdered hush of caving night
is slick with wetness
                      
                   (petals, stem, and earth)

digs a root into breathless miles
of rich, wanting,

                                  dirt

we are mostly tedious                                                          ­                                    .
glaring dashes of thick                                                            ­      '
minutia trifling to and fro                                              '
in mental coffins                                                          ­   ,
                                  we like to wear                           '
                                                               ­  as chains of,

by the hours' split (and half of that) the wasted marble (her head) discharged, of her oblong thrusting voice, to shamble quickly silence fingers gruffly wringing all the necks of loud and it was also. it was blithe

of hand, precariously clutched, a heart; demure or pulsing angles richly scarlet. a rose, petals unbent open breathing. to thee, a promise, of hands(my hands. swear them and their means. my lady softly you are grace and everything...

it wAS i came by nervous steed
over valley and time to a stream
trickling sickly between your *******
; and it was

          it was

my mouth; and tongue: a RiveR.
questioning her skinny pride

              and taken

my limpid bride

in the unhurried hardening
      the cavity
          of
slightly
              murdered light
is the pale word of your
         gently belly

          and


the small question of your

            hideously


                                                          AwAke?!

the suns a small fist in its gray stocking weeping steadily bent tears of light. i whisper it my eyes and eat the lucid muscles of its limbs.

never be impressed

in common air i breath this city
it,s stretching streets beneath
cobalt languidly pouring

in every sound of it is me
and in every snuggle of
its abrupt colours is me

(it is usually me
but sometimes
it is me) who knows?(i know
                                                   )i contradict myself
                                                     i am a contradiction
                                                     i (transforming) constantly transpose
                                                     i over the snaking hotter asphalt
                                                     in rivers serpentine
                                                     cuddling my souls
                                                     my converse
                                                     me , i ,
                                                     into summer's bright hands
                                                     am a flock of colours electric
                                                     and a single bird
                                                     roosting in darkness
                                                     the night consuming

like behind mountains
summer slowly Falls
one colour of its face
runs with original
gorgeous irrelevant
and too becomes
cooler slowly ( each new whim of cheeks brinded
                           crisply utters leaves about the rust
                           failing light which gathers 'bout
                           the nape of columns against the
                           moon they grumble with the fresh
                           dithering stammers of Autumn, "you
                           little death i think you look so much
                           better in your cadaver" to which i
                           climb the air to stars a filigree of
                           nubile clinging darkness