[k]night_ 2 Night is always our best ~ friend night yes night. As sweet as air or tender as her chin ~ .
-------------------------------------
BeComings B.W. O Later we're going to discuss this one ~ the idea of becomings.
-----------------------------
"we're not sure what ugliness is and beauty."
------------------------
l'amour A friend ~ une ami très delicate _ m'envoyez cette phrase "Ils se sont tellement aimés que la mort a reculé d'une heure pour les laissés passer" de Yvon Le men, un poète... francais......
_________________________
Someone Said ~
Some one said you were a lover
as night wore day its patches a brilliant red
.
Not armor or suited clay,
but soft to touch,
was an idea, as these tones
don't fit with mandrakes and solo artists,
Heating the broke ruin of space
or that one she hurt the
rift it cut solo
grouped into potholes
rafting a ship down-stream
death rattle to her hoary self
None hears the language ___. When she sleeps.
When you
it carries over . To
me . In
the bed of sleep. Not daytime's anymore,
but folks broken tambour,
melody in death.
Anger took her god, hurling us
from the combined spot,
the behind of her anger,
kicking back the blue,
the Buick which was ours.
Never a lover's thought, she struck out.
Later in the street we met
face to face, she broke down
admitting she was wrong,
sobbing I was her best friend,
ending it all on a comma
.
Not close to bed
she hollowed her spring
piffed language hoax and trickery
power's game under her skirt.
Now my neck is sore with being wrong.
Her wrongheadedness ended our song.
-----------------------------------------
You have been many desire machine. Your body line beauty. Not the great alienation ~ or the sweet whisker of song. But the trite notice of its rapture.
Desire machine work when they break. Body machine?
immanence of flux _ not so easy on line
de fuites.
as the pope has seen this wrong.
we are pseudo light to name.
------------------------------
I don't know if it's summer time where you live,
beloved air settles on your hair like a crescent. A lover
light smiling. Taking _ testing this spring
turning summer or harvest moon lapping later
.
when once we spring the heart
o how it slip and skip
between the grammar of thing
and word
rule as a dinner bell rings
you are tired lover.
this voice speaks your name.
------------------
All poems're paroled A favorite phrase ~ A darling phrase, as language is the being which speaks. Favoritely when lover speak. An inward soul which is woman,
talks back through the man's body.
When night becomes dawn, become s ~ .
I still dont qutie have the hang of posting __ no pun intended _ here.
But for me writing is everywhere.
So make the magic, then Monsieur, and love your lovers.
----------------------------------------------------
later
Sooner or later we grew tired of the literalism of fools ~ .
You stepped out in to raw air, wired by the thought
of our bolding . A stressin' sister to this love .
---------------------
naturally
Naturally they were envious
of your beauty
I was jealous of your ugliness
.
I knew its raw taste
pert in the hour of its trading off.
Hungry for your punishment
my own was a skin
before astonishment
sick prayers for the dead who did not raise bending their spoon, my cheap verses, were lazy straws in the wind, a mere hand-job in the greater crowd. But they were a start, eh love? they got us going, and we knew poetry was ugly
at hours like this, the source of our death,
not prettiness, but the scream of our bodies
bones howled by death in the orgasm of the trees.
Coming you came I came a cameo of loss
between eyes second birth
Berthed between your thighs, I knew this.
Breath to berth.
--------------------
Wld this?
Wld this be our first flower love
beat pulse witch as it felt right across the case of your skin?
as it stirred the hour pressing leaves against your face
you rescued me then as I sipped the
taste of you heart against head
as mine was hard as stock
darker than mules
and
I prayed for your vision then
your body fair before my own
broken on the wheel of its karma
the long let down let
in its far wheel before town
.
Lover breath wore its heart
elbow out
pressed into you
impressed into I.
Language a word then
some philosopher's dime
tossed off .
Well you took me then piecemeal and whole
whole piece-meal food of your love
bouquet of your broken_ness
I've not forgotten this
I've not forsaken
its hipness . Neither by rivers or cities
busing town to town
looking for your body
your yoga your prayer.
Lover was the secret slip of the hour.
Every time you imagined it,
I did too .
I did ~~ .
So ~ then ~ .
---------------------------------------------------
Some one said you were a lover
as night wore day its patches a brilliant red
.
Not armor or suited clay,
but something soft to the touch,
was a good idea, as these hard tones
don't fit with mandrakes and solo artists,
Heating the broke ruin of space
or that one she hurt the
rift it cut solo then grouped into potholes
rafting a ship down stream death rattle to her hoary self.
None hears the language speak. When she sleeps. When you sleep
it carries over . To me . In the bed of sleep. Not daytime's reverie,
but folks broken tambour, its melody deep in the heart of death.
But anger took her god, hurling us far from the combined spot,
the behind of her anger, kicking back the blue,
the buick which was ours.
Never a lover's thought, she struck out.
Later in the street when we met
face to face, she broke down admitting she was wrong,
sobbing I was her best friend,
ending it all on a comma
not near to bed
she hollowed her spring
piffed language hoax and trickery
power's game under her skirt.
Now my neck is sore with being wrong.
Her wrongheadedness ended our song.
