closedness
the
tighly
opening of
your
fist is


                   SPRINGwarm

                            wetwarmSPRING

                             cloaked in flowers
                             and reeling
                             with tough ***** tinder
                             to splay as girl lips

                              and




                               r       l
                                  e          ea       s       e

I've never written a good poem.

niTe?

do stars hang from you nimbly

dancing in breezes shook the

apple heavy bent boughs of

laughing gargantuan trees

                                            nite you are first me

                                            and secondly

                                            you are quivering with intense

                                            feverish quips of ladies

                                            so thick and exacting legs

                                            are completely tumbled open

                                            waxy perfect thighs

                                                                             (you are skinny limped

                                                                              skirts of light

                                                                              about the hair of forests

                                                                              you cavort with

                                                                              ***** sighs

                                                                              and you are so

                                                                              indescribably still

                                                                              even on balmy summer nights in the moment of an hour you are a park filled with me

and going about the beauty of your small adept

cheeks i do the terrifically kissing thing

and i love you

)

what the **** have you done

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

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

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,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

"In most people all I find is as sense of vacancy–a vapid emptiness. To call them stupid would a be gross exaggeration. Many of the most intelligent people I've ever met display this same quality. Simple would be a better term–they lack substance, complexity.

I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to meet a person of real substance."

"Goodnight."

(i am alive)there are three
thick fingers of dawn
pushing into the throat of
dawn gags on the spending
of a stream

          –steaming–

profuse
and

        Red.

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        .

SUN,

being you
being sheathed in

                       –rain

that
(drowsily)
purports between

two wet ribbons of
speckled with

impish

darling: ****** of light

            (grey and gray)

,

A city is suddenly.

in fairest spring,I,

         standing

    interposed

              twixt

     lightanddarkness

feel

         Raw

            fragile



                invulnerable

t

                                                                                                                                h




i
     s





                                                           O




hh
o                                                          w



aboutof



                                                                  (half-





)s



                     t

  a
                   r
                                                    edmadlywhichsky



is

2nite


                  ,





                              i wonder carefully with heart


if its

                              most chaste



                                                                   own eyes





might pierce the
veil of youth


and bring where sin is rash
the touch of death

–the dust of ash.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this."

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

that you are
after all
who i wish i had become,

       (i do not know you)  .

the lips neither the mouth nor
teeth between neck.

i kiss,
and again
i am not you.

i make after the rain
my skin to run
with rivulets of sun.

i do not live early
or sweet between you.

i do not make the small sound
of your breath
inside my own breath.

but, after all, i have my son.

and what more is there than that?

nothing.

and perhaps
(after all)
he shall be
who i wish i had become.

i speak let's say i speak and let's say i sing
whatthen?i sing; i say
whitely of your lips
i sing by them
i am lifted by them

they come beneath each foot
they come their strongness leaping
they come, and Dear, you
by them you charge

and Dear

against them Summer's dull

it shines not
it heats not
it feels not sudden or serene

for though it golden rushing thunders
your lips are far more perfect wonders

spelt:

the uneven the
folding of into
mouths–

grass;

between tickles
and niggling
of thigh

sweated and
hot through
muscle of wine,

over the lips

       breaking

a dash of
                     light ;

sound
(and not sound too) –––

there is a doe
a starling
and a
thick beam

of golden wheat

parts the sun
into white manifolds
of burning health:

(wither which,
into each should go

all those summers
afore the snow) .

i love sUMMEr oh i love it like like i do
i think because i love magic and i do
the darling suicide of its breast's between
i laid a crown of poppies and thistles
i laid a forest of ivy and of jasmine
i laid a hand between them and its hips
i laid (at least) 2fingers (3please)

                     SummeR

always tight and wet wants more fingers
between hips (and i laid a girl between them)
she rolls around when you stick her with a
thorn(andwhenyoucomeoutthere'scratches
all over your neck and you bleed a little
but it's ok SUMmer says coyly)


she's a **** and i love her

her mouth becomes smoke
says, "                     ."
(outside a bar;
somewhere there is a siren
mutely i remember my
hands and putting them
into my pockets)

curls and splits
up into quickly
nothing vapor

between 2 cherried
lips–dissipating.

(it is hard and quiet
from the alleyway
smoothness emerges
a cat )

into which bathes
the earth in neon

and the night yawns out
into starlight warm air
and
the thick smell of jasmine
and beer

out here you can be in the land.

The snow is gracefully
in the cool churned
and dark sky.

(you can breathe)

here where
only the smallness
of yourself
can be heard.

your hands will go into the soil.

there will,
over them,
come frost.

and a flower will brace
against chilled winds
its caving stem.

you can be here
and see the toil
of the earth in every
turning of its pail *******.

you can cup to your mouth
the ember of your breath
and pass into the frozen
limb of dead spring
the **** warmth of your lungs.

you are made here,
in the land,
where you can be.

and the toiling of your breast
will pass into livid creations
of quickly eaten, hot.

you will be made and unmade alike.

you will dream of the bodies of girls.

and you will sleep between
the snow of their thighs--
pocked of rose husk
and shattered frond.

you will limp
between the
clean pillars
of their hips,
and your hands
will find within
their riven dirt
the striving root
of life.

(you can be here in the land
cold something
stirring its
magnificent hair
shaking off
the sheath
of stirless
snow...  )

And your hands will become numb.
And your lips will become numb.

and you will fumble between
their dumbness.

and the whole of you will become numbness,

(stumbling)

into the bubbling
heat of
Spring's
arched

HEAP.

It is still here now, I think.
Perhaps.

The land is still.
The grass is still.
The water is still.

(the rain faintly against the glass is still.).



The earth is private in the smallness of its breathing.

It is the smallness of my son’s breathing.

I stand over him and I listen and I watch.

He breathes and the smallness of the world sleeps with him.


(my wife snores.
my daughter rustles in her crib.)


It is still here now, I think, perhaps.

my wife,

you are my flesh,
within your flesh:


            (my son)

who sleeps within you.

i love you that you are me,
and i am you;
inside your body
which sleeps beside me.

glory is to suddenly
hands drunk with
sunlight mingle
moted through
errant beams of
almost spring light

(the steering wheel tears laughing and enormously

    into


                the infinitely splayed
                thighs of flower



                a Pale hand waits
                to ***** the flourishing stem


                and drink through
                near darkness
                the excellent body of Spring,

                                      
                                                           '



                                                             ­         ,


  
                                        '





                 ­                                                  ,


.) Chaste–
doe ears leaf cotton
the twill of starlight
rough kissing between
forced lips of stiff youth:




                                                      ­   i
                                                    rid
       ­                                     iculous
                    ­                      ly that a
                                      m of freck
                                  led shoulde
                              rs lead through
                              by the parting
                               of naked health
                                 bright forests of
                                   dark trees
                                 whose black
                                wood hides in
                             who the always
                           sinking cur of
                      dumbest youth) let me speak and i will tell you a day:

"There's nothing wrong with a ****–
just don't fall in love with one."

likes to be under,
O which
rough hands

grow thicker
more with

hair and fiber
of health

parting within darkness
its plait;

divulging

                      1

effulgent shard
of cheek

(


          through which
          heart and
          flower

                           speak
                                       ))

each noon sleeps through drowsy
and sharp autumn with its hair
in manifolds bright steaming with
chirps of tiny color

waiting for listens to hear,
for her quick feet–a doe
in white skin

thinks it's
pretty to be
choked and

loves
t   o
sw al l o w

You stand very close to me I can
feel the heat from your skin it leaches
into my skin I am breathing (smallly)
your breaths as you are smallly
breathing mine my hand accidentally
touches your hand I'm (not) sorry I
wonder are you sorry I touched your
hand very close to my hand and I
would like to touch it I would like to
taste you between the near wetness of
your lips and drink the fair vial of your
health I wonder why do you stand so
close to me I hope it's because you
want to accidentally touch me 2.

"enjoy what you can," says some curly headed mouth
open over the hard shaft of her camera
a thousand times a day
snapping
some
lookatme's:

                                    




                                         (and never stops *******.)

autumn your neck is ivory straight unfleecing goldly
and brownly thousands neat, flutter
each gorgeous beneath each
piling drifts swiftly sets
on edge
crisp morning

(who is unstrange gentle and has hair thicker than)

i am mostly i and i am mostly fascinated with women and their forms and bodies and the elegant fulcrum of their waists and the very softness of their skin and how the sun mingles them in the summer air they are the very ample petal of the earth and they blossom from the rough soil of it and they sing upon wind and i sing them. they are more beautiful than nothing else is more beautiful than they littlest and firmest flesh i would kiss upon them flowers and in mountains of them i lay at their very feet and i would tell each one how fathomless and perfect are their eyes (and they don't know it)

                                                                                      (but i do)

i'm a straight curve. burning cool ****. and nothing opened breathtaking shutters peaceably. i flexed shattered notions and crepitus crept sundripping ******. a feminine spark ferociously naked. between her ******* i'm god.h!

it's hard the word i'm sorry and
the clouds today
are a bit
cut of light
draping easily with so("

     i,m sorry,,

the way i've notbeen
and haven't said)

the way i love you the way i love you the way i love you. i love

and the roughness of cotton,
the blithe softly flow,
snow and petal broken;

a stream instantly chaste
between the thighs of mountains
(your coming mouth
and how many times have i remembered
the hard droll moment of your intense clovers
parting through a sea of dark leaves
the slenderest gap of life to emit
its thrilling nonsense a gown of roses?)?

i do not or have wondered
on the cutting into the hillsides roads
when driving in Summer
and the sprightly children of dandelions
tumble daftly serene

And want to **** my timid notion
amongst the thorn'd stems of your garden
(where burying is easy
and death never came from the ground
and only life was grass, and flowers, and kissing

forever

                )))(

have you ever seen or felt
or pressed apart the lips
of dying girls who
23 years less of life
split tenderly–
wetly caving
into

         eyes
hair mouth
shoulders spine
a tiny breath
fluttering lids
tense cording of
sinew

dancing sharply
pulled sternly after
wrist
hands onto
scalp

the buzzing
of coarse
tightness
against lips(mylips)

and dies
one dying
final revolution
of ecstatic
breathing

(who
in her mounded purse

tastes of salt
sweet and

                              earths




?

How alive you are,
take me this
in your 5 fingers
the stult and
around of me

the eyes off--
rounded--
complete,
and near
through
nearness

abreast blazeness
(where blazes
2 pale *******)
full and deep

deeply between
fullness and nearness:
the 5 fat fingers
you are
Alive--

how?

when nights collide with me i am

completely stars innumerable

and crisp creaseless lines

ceaseless lips colluding with

your lips(nakedly small and pink

they are intimately open against

)in evening i, perhaps almost

,but then, surely when darkness is,

am your skin aligned

with gently

                  tugging you loose

to foil about my suddenly body

your body

                 and climb each other

into heaven mostly

this coming mouth over softly of sunlight

is subtle stuff and warmly arrives

through cheek as pink as rose
blood,

**** laughing, the

fooling of fingers in dark hair,

the rich surprise of lips
in a dark room
pinkly aware with morning–

grunts rolling over into
my arms and i

kiss its neck

(this small naked

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).

.


























"I want something real.

You know what's real?

Pain; anger; misery; suffering: ugliness–


I want to see you in a moment of complete ugliness."


























.

(there is always this moment)


quietly . littlely

    soft within

bed and thinking
of lips eyes hair
breathing
still and strenuously

pressed beneath breast         .


the heart feels
and pushes against
rib and spine;

(a fan plays
        /
the cat eats)

and lingers little sleep,
for thought is always
and always of thoughts

there is something
somewhere
difficultly serene

improbable to touch
yet touches with
exacting grace;

My dear:

       My love
           of nothing
                Little which


you are
not real
your hand is a vapor

of tense reeling to tingle
under skin which rushes
with clovered spice
of splintered health.

(my love i have always loved you
that you are not something real;

.






























































                                                                 your unclosing was so tight. it
                                                                 tasted like the ocean, brine and
                                                                 went so fast my knees hurt
                                                                 splitting its tense flower.





























.

all the body is perhaps.
is some is; is a some

times occasionally girl of breathless apart.
who's a do you think why not in a
bit of sweating skinny.

(Her mouth is-andherhands-sometimes-a God)
of men let's say who cannot
how much they'd like to be between.)

What's more absurd than that? jazz
and it feels like to be: in her lips exploding

the quick lean of a grin through 26 years of loving girls her body who's some in a piece of unapart i'd like to make unun legs smiling and she laughs, "what do you think of that?"

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

if you're've been the aching

the

occasionally slender

drawl mouth

of

p
e
r
h
a
p
s                                                             :


've you become
my hands
beneath
the
ta
b
l
e                                                             in


a tired
cafe´









                                                                                                                                (t
                                                                                                                             uck
                                                                                                                          ed in
                                                                                                                      to the s
                                                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                                                a,




                 "sunlighttreesyourhandsandgodbetweenitallyourhips"


                                                                .

.                                               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

such hands as amongst
what drowsy bolts
of Summer
--i can recall

them hands
as brittle soft
as tough easy drunk
uncoiling so firmly
their thighs a flower between broke.

(a bright naked flower a dull wilting flower)

it snapped 19 at the little lake of its;
there was a gorgeous sound

and you and i
and all the ******
nights, dayless
splangling hung
furiously through
that tiny filament
of your hips the very small death of clean.

das licht ist

.  .   .   .    .     .       . kinda

kinder

like . like

nacht ist.

like kinda
canis
can
(can-can; you do the?)
canem

                                      edit.

pale spark, cheeks faintly, rouged
thy kiss is the distillation of summer
in the thinplump ****** of your lips
hides uglywonderful snarling fangs
pretty like ivory or alabaster incising
sets totally me at teetering 'pon their
cute painful hushed sharpness
gets each hair of my nape on end
frivolously alight at their queer press

in 1
whole
pale moment
,rouged,

your LIFE dreams

of you holding
a square against
the sun.

looked back
onto the happening
of your mindbody

that breathing
instantly
took the light

from the porch
sleeping a
cat where
sitting

purrrs

indistinctly
under the
tiniest crush
of a breeze

--

A CHIME IS RINGING

--

and all stillness
waits to seize
the atom of your
hand in A square
against the sun
the collection of
its splitting into
thinnest sheets of
brilliance