[From Moments: Movements: & Vapor]

Like it sliver back the backlash. Tokens of yowling in the eyes.  Many sun-lit your 

luminous.  Many plays the salt. [Him] spiriting away like a pallid gypsy.  Books on Greece 

& the moon.  What happens in flesh supposing soil has been sifted.  A far Gauguin we 

chime.  From the reconstructed rushes of you.  Thrusts you.  Spins you on its rotorous 
cuff. As bring. We

                          back the gather.  




[Were Ethos not Candelabra]

But a bathed-in flicker full of undressing.  Or comfort devils in our blue.  And we.  But 

were stars blossoming metallic pentacles.  & talismans such.  Would we white-sheeted & 

pray.   

                                       Beautiful things into them [?]




[No/& Birds]

Not to calmness.  No sketch we can't.  In dance we tongues rescue poem.  In dance we 

pirouette the means.  & dream or have dreamt.  Or have been.  Rather by accident.  & 

spill out thicker music.  No.  Take not calmly the grouse.  Or you can't in the gut deliver 

violence.  I've palms scattered in the brush.  Toes here do not matter.  No/ & then. 

wouldn't touch what happens to frayed edges.  Or what.  The misdirection of waving 

wheat is unbearable.  I reckon.  Certain of my body to this.




[Reawakening & on the Verge of Gasp]
			
Perhaps this moment orgasm rife with.  & wet. Where burst hymen flesh 

with.  Purple-rooted & shudder.  What with gristle & nothing honey yet.  My 

first animal soul's eternal.  Let's not forget not this. Troubles me.  & comes learning 

absence as

                                                    the Lord in every wound.




[The Obscure Designed as Exquisite Tapestries]
 		
		-I am writing these lines after twelve days 
		     and twelve nights without sleep
							-Cocteau

[What] is ravaged & awakened. As such.  Turning up wing-beat & urgency.  & thereness 

among  us carcass tapestries bathed with.  & etch the silky vacuum of our kiss.  These 

weathered architects of the muscles know.  The merest trace of gloss slips bone between 

us.  Even the soul withholds something apocalyptical.  This could demolish the precipice 

just.  Source the burning. 
                                                                                                        Beyond periphery.  




[After Ecstasy]


& she reckons it.  Lips like lizard lips.  Or aching in the desert's spent-&-sifted sand.  

Drown salt & wild-eyed.  Survival epiphanies laced with.  Knowing parch.  She knows. 

Embrace without arms.  She expects the obliterated pavement [& reckons it] cold & 

shallow.  & she.  Her premonitions.  As an earth-haunted face.  Her hair nettles & blisters 

full of Aztec blood.  

	 Need of atl.