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

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

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."
                                                            ,
                                                            .

                                                            '







                                                            .

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

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,

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?!

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

against sky feet
tread just nicely
and don't falling
(for in each step
contained love
buoys ecstatically)

somewhat i
am a spacious blade

with infinite
thrusting prowess

into the
cool fist o' mystery

and run
it hot bleeding

i like a sweetness
and but
       a savoryness
                too
and sometimes the other

   more than the one

there's something big dreaming colorful
sleeping inside you i'll put keys in it
slipping turning keys
and it will suddenly

                                         !

Waiting For Oblivion
in a frock of wrinkles sits
wearing through silently
minutes
toward
forever

i'm sitting i can hear the ocean way out over the moon hangs deftly round in all the fitness of chaste and cool darkness my hands are at my waist i'm sure they are and where are my hands i wonder at the split milken and tenderly dripping sea it whispers my heart is in it deeper than a seagirl their ******* are like cherries popping sweetly with just a crisp flens if pinkness at their tips at their **** i'm feckless staring harder than and harder then a star leaps wholly the blouse of night one unsharp button of her quickly tousled hem i'm tearing to by bit by into her tear and a boy is sitting on his door step he looks thinking one day he will make a boy in a girl spilling her full of him

heavy all the quiet laying music thickly between livingdying November

is suddenly stirred

at foot through many

running and laughing children

(wisps of growingfrailing stuff innumerably sheathed in a smalling pat of pale light)they

charge and roll up a hill by the school yard, boysandgirls together

boysandgirls together up going


                                                                     a hill

(whose mothers stand at the bottom and try to catch them when they fall

pink
that immured
betwixt chaste
cleats of girly leg

the hard ardor
of boyly prism
to wantonly beg

it by pale scythe
of membranous ***** reap

the clean growing
of all tall cane
where reason keep

the unsweet substance
of cool and pensive mind

(but by blood and hot lather
in stupid gouts of
scarlet
needing
bind ).      .              .                      .                           .                                            .

harder biging
flowing digging
a river is hardly
adept
with numerous
able tongues

the land through
,with slithering,
rumpus silver

gloats
or meanders
      unquickly a cordial slump of wet and wet
                                                                                                                   to comment
                                                                                               early lately
                                                                             bending
                                                            straights
                                          of lumpy
                            smooth
         orchestral
(
  )
   )
     (
        8

Sea,



                                                     the




                                   gulls

                                           (you)


                                                                                          krashing


                                            by




                  frequent tiny



                                                                                         eclipses



                                                          of



                               waves


                                                     Express


                                                     chips
                                                     of
                                                     white
                                                     onblue


                                                     becoming


                                                  



                                                    (instantly)
                                                     hung
                                                     by

Dying: that's life–who is a boy

sitting alone; and knows,

but writes a poem anyway.

Do you? who in marble stillness,
(thus reposed) under shade of
buckled trees and heavens hand
would with thee let me lay and
into quiet charging gushing
stiffly ever and

        for
ever;

.































































­


















"Let's put it this way: if anyone was
actually honest all the time you would
hate them–you would deride them,
you would do anything to disbelieve
the things they told you. Honesty
disgusts us. Only someone who was
insane or hated themselves would
always be honest–absolute honesty is
the same thing as insanity."







































.