nearly inside I was boldly just leaning, looking nothing like thirty-two would you record her somehow, privately floating by the offices I can recall smiling in my old boyish way again, I got plastered at the monastery without her I was sweating my body framed by her palms and now my friends are numbered birds, and they are all You didn’t come, you couldn’t. you were draped and went swimming embarrassing but you let me see on purpose I stood still on the shoreline, I held your book in my hand I know its not the 400 Blows I took a look, Oh Kafka sure aren’t you wide and dead? the dove shows us beams pure and like her birds catch all my questions is she a girl of passions but don’t tell me, I like to guess sometimes drop your curling cowardness, remember books aren’t written yet you can’t have every autumn and the spring you can try suspending your protection into thin empty air, your stripes are shed where is the violet lobby that we need? my muscles are entwined in yours this is a hard affair we’re working the rue for feeling better has left us crying sleepy in our rooms she is towering love up higher the eye can see it but the tower will fall if a wind can blow a feather as it falls don’t steal the stones or your vision will become undone the day the boy trembles in the air scared again, I’m finally understanding what a friend can really be flickering in the wind or burning bright aware of the heat and the light I pressed my face against your chest you acted like you wanted to but I can’t touch you the way I want I can live with two rings on my hand I paled in the afternoon your body liking me, you said It feels good as tears dribbled off your chin I sang a song for children you sang a song for the wind we sang a song only for us I ask you to be true out of mind, I cant hold you didn’t you say always in the end whoever said we both can’t win didn’t make it but lets try again could you hold on to my wavering hand you’re the girl that I hum for and whistle tunes I wrote to you I wrote on the moon, I want you two strangers can imagine staying all night, until morning comes on like the steam from a cup of tea.

(bottom)

Right the brick and gas

Of paisley ice and blood

Of the positive gospel eater

Bleeding v-ee and working

All day in the white

Factory – some Russian

Peasant that refuses to eat

Or read – no plays and

Bumbling tonic or heat of

The day stuck – weaving

And stuck – unpaid and

Exhausted – some bottle of

Expensive curls – where has the

Ring gone? To tel aviv – some

Devil tape stealing – sprinting

Towards a better understanding

Of a cut off – dub – nervous tools

Bent on fruit – sore skin and

an unlikely red – a beard gives

no breaks and sleep for 2 years

(top)

Sleep in the back – I love

Two girls at the same time –

What a wonderful drowning it is

The bleach will never cash in

Long enough hold on to it for

Good feelings but the plink gives a

Bad grease and large skin hole

Opposites are all you can scavenge

Some sort of board – same tamb-

orine that plays wretchedly for

the most grateful critic and a five cents

tip – the beating ends up being the beginning –

even when its through itself over and over

(sideways, bottom corner)

Wink and flick a

Mature title rub – a

Shower of ice and

Ice being the beginning

Of the stain that will

Ruin the toilet seat

Cover – shag and

Blue and shag and blue

And the moon is now some

Stinky corpse – I love you

Just like that.

Diary: flight
All the brutal days throwing around my wish to stay in control of the visual part of my brain.
coming out, she threw it against the brown word and talked about the dating life.
“i was shot with love from the bathroom. it was a conspiricy." a sensible pair makes sandy teeth forever with mean habits. comfy mean.
now welcome to empty times. two nights of my life are bearable. I’ve experienced one that i remember and it was rusted.
it is spread out on my neighbor’s ghostlimb beach. and in came the surrealist years. me and volumes; I had been dressed but away she came, in a fist of love.
I could BOOTLEG this. sell it as the opposite of eating.


and her arms were beautiful. she is young so her skin was soft. where are the charming nine messages i imagined her whispering into the telephonebox? that i haven't figured out yet.
what it means.


phones drive boxes up - down
the avenue - wait corregated
push forward the seat, the
now calypso wheels - and rose
white line stained bank
and terry cloth light buzz
hot and boozing - shoeless
intrest river walking +
wine - small backpack hole
- living dying - house back
keying + morning reading +
headlight creeping - corkscrew
jumping - transsexual high stepping
on creak board rituals - ghosts of
spite and feathers - scuffing
pocket lending
sideways head bagging -
what wind is trying to do
- unwanted gasing and money
social bills - check in metal
shadows of blue and breasts
- covered skeleton carting -
stealing costumed yo-yo future
fighters - all nighters of pepper
bands and free everything -
man and women
blamed for the fall of petrified
vision - waiting on a friend
that speeds my organs to
fire - darker and darker -
longer and longer until i
dont ever go to sleep and she
never comes to her seat - she
never comes for the movie and
never answers the phone box
- even the box echo, out rings
the whistle idiot! to die a life
less! the back of
your lover's smallest violence -
the protection of lines of words without
recognition of the threat.



August?
Ohhhhhhh, to love someone in this fortieth revolution of summer. No, its leftovers are lusting death.
(be polite to the time station)
summer's hot and imitating. I miss my friend shell. switchblade, promise me a better grave, be a lot like love.
like a tack that holds a snakeskin to my white wall. execute me on the
bed. Bringing Love all back home to my house, so that she can hold on to my crotch fire.
lay down on the window with me. its stronger than you think. get me.

I'm really down, so you can smile like a quiche, spinach teeth.
i'm accepting puppeteers without any experience. my strings need some repair. i've tried simmering
them at night in the snakes oil you mailed me. but the chimney only produces quarter owls.