I am soft and a yellow prince
Nature is roofless
Men of different ages, wearing suits, stare at a woman masturbating.
All car piles gravitating like a goosebery branch beating against a seatbelt in the pastel rains rivulet
We call Spring the things ordained that ordered to grow grow when we order them to do so and the careless blooming of buds attached to the earth like a severed hand
A quietude such as only babies and painters of wild life portraits can truly experience.
Two mounts in the train belong to me : one is always out of breath, whoever he is.
The other the joyful experience of swearing and entrails.
How long have I been a lagoon and no longer a man?
I kept on olding
I kept man in caves bewildered
when one of them was borning
one of them deambulated
its shadow on tresses
A shadow is a serpent resisting milk.
Resisting resisting resisting, gently as a bean. I try to look at my shadow
through the spinach leaves
a shadow, strong as a man trying to fly like a serpent
chasing his tail.
Flowers like those that grow by our doormath are complexified by their nightsleep : lilies which heads are like blossomed eggs with the ovum yellow yolk a pistil and the white semen that's the petals. I never thought before about how much alike the egg and the lily were. They are, a lot.
Alike. How more alike can nature make us in the woods by a highway
The statues had moss punctuating them on the mouthses
so I took off my pants.
My shirt was tucked in them so I took off
my shirt as well. Took off my underpants that I threw into the grass
where they roosted.
Thoughts about the son by the highway
Thought about the woods O How good it looks among browns and dark greens
with the herbs holding up throat shadows and I am holding a small flashlight (on) in my
mouth. A mountain is the same height and weight as a man held by the ankles
up above the clouds.
There are kids at home and the air is nice there in the woods.
In the woods fantasy makes home go further away then it really is ; and our selves appear unashamed and all equal in attraction and sorrow and namelessness to the moss our friend and fatherly companion compelled to the tenderizing of our images ; moss that sees us swallow spit that was long preserved for a daydreamed lover, unattained and our cares carboncopied by the moonrays poplaring the resurrecting salivaes of the forest breast.
I feel deferent to the wood that those treetrunks are made off and makes the branches alike to the trunk in which a grey squirrel sometimes stores a root or two.
When I read the newspapers
I saw the huge swarms of girls, oh, they swam, the ominous birds : their flocks moved in circle, to show that something was about to happen and
His touch was delicate, just like a woman's.
I do not know how the woods grow