We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains. —Li Po
You anglophile prick;
we all love it. I am so sick
of running jacket, what
one thought would be
enough and isn't—but
turns out to be enough.
and he, huge arms and though
through protein and hard work
the body changed, the face
remembers
the neck, translucent skin
that holds together still the marks
of hairs' ends and blemishes
Excess leftovers, the
retaliatory actions of summer
to what the spring wants.
And growing
in strength &
in proficiency
in the longing wont
of summer's coming, and
in regularity. "Keeping
Up Apperances" sucks
because it's only one joke.
the hundred wrist bones
there in conflagrations through
the covering skin. And the eyes
are what I've made of them; bright
as much as fleshy baubles can be
and the irises
What is treacle for
exactly, but sweetnr?
He is what molasses
does, moving slowly
as some peach-flavord
beer or sit on some porch.
And the silence there
doesn't confirm or deny
that this queer sighting
is evidence of
things coming.
What is left
on the road
to Kent county?
or in lofty Donne?
or in Pepys?
bisected by page
breaks? The
words drawn
from the bright
sunlight or fey
dialect of distant time.
Or even further
back when our
English was still German,
or further back still.
We all can here know
what is left in a will, but
what's left for us means little
when the money does not
grow over the ages, but stays low
The changing room
that I was in,
all filled with the song you sung
all sin remembered and begotten
The hair,
as tousled...whatever, on the wind
of train platform. of lake shore. of
the precarious perch on side of ledge.
The fingernail— Oh! why do I focus
on the hands,—cleaninsh, the right
length and squared; as a man's is.
"Living," he said, as though Lord
Henry Wotton, "'s an art, and
I make it." So happen
-stance, so wattage on
wires that can't bear it
hence alight in wan red.
And then having enough
for right here and abroad,
and then smoking the dope
and not going off;
His hip waders mean nothing
to peat moss where he digs
with his feet, feels for the corpses.
And it takes them as dross as
it pulls, and it squelches in
with primordial drive for the win
and it suck the boots off.
and he's naked, from the hips
down, and he's sinking. And I'm
busy, I'm living, these lipids are
singing, they—
They sing. They have lists, they
—
They are a street preacher with
mic. And somewhere I hear in
his meandering blah-blah, and
I see—though reductionist—
the churches that spawned him.
And I see the wicker basket that
collected the cash that paid for
that mic and little amp; or maybe
he did,
but they cut thee
This facade of hate, not
as toward the French,
whose sole effete king
ruled, in the past, over
the Duchy of one heart.
Covering up like a tarp or
construction of plastic
bags and tape over the
broken window of a car.
—and I see a fist bleeding
and is hard for the tumult
as the trollop who sings
inside thighs that invite
just to lead to vagina dentata
in the frilled lilly that hides
all while promising these
earthly delights in a so
conversational tone
with the winks, the neck
bent, chin lifted that thinks
for you.
O! Gilead
or Palleaon
who so devoted to thine dasheeki
seek thee I, we
who never understandeth this, but
respecteth both, silly hat
& circumcision, and the foreskin.
and the vaginal that, whatever
disgusting appendages one has
and these tears, this fear of sex
of the divergence, of the dissolution
of Empire that we're seeing as
rising through the ranks & whatever
middling else these Moffs, these
bureaucrats who will take the iron
hand and still retain the bickering &
be content with it.
Ad infinitum these gunnels
rivers, or trickles to torrents cull
and return to the mouth or they
bore them back out and keep
coming.
What lunch, what wahat made
for What; delicious. Béchamels
kept in refrigerators flowing &
the man with these that cookt
them fore. I,
whore because of this.
The residue of this. I see
fingerprints; I see dust
The knee,
knobbly. The elbow pit
as crevice in some Pennsylvanian
coal hole; Bring out!
Bring back that thing
rented, and dismayed.
Inside the thighs: a sti-
ppling of age spots. &
I'm reading them.The
irony!
and little ridge at end of contct
