first date, last date

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with a come over like an umbrella

i could only come as well as you

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pin back the hood likewise hidden

and you scandalize the wanting

like wanting always does

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and i likewise remember

as regret always does

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As an example of an actual event, this cannot be completely confirmed.

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The inherent idea behind the notion of the poem appears true, true enough instead.

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2-Tons To Take

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I build these sorrow-mangled rooms

like a proper builder man.

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This one has one ball; that one has another.

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Always doing the interrogation tango

and yet always left with something like

wet in your hand.

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I make a ruckus of intestinal glee:

______

the fat one left being fat

until I chop his sides away like a sneeze,

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the gestural guts of his game a simple

stance of something to stick your hands in.

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The skinny one bends and breaks like

the twink twig he is.

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__________________________

Subsequent deposition testimony, along with previous evidence by way of his diary, would place this poem along the lines of 1994, two years before the final raid of his employment.

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While there is historical reference to the fat one, the skinny one can be considered a fictional fantasy in contrast to the reality of his own actions.

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to tell you so would be to tell you so enough

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I spent the day cleaning the boy-cunt witherings

off of a huge floor with memories more banked

than can be counted.

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A hello to me means a yelp and a look-out

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and a shaky hand ready to hold death like a charm.

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I lose loose in this room,

on this floor

and count the tiny things that

point directly at me:

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Not out of desire, but just pure need.

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The hung ones hang like laundry,

tickled pink and pale now.

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A pile of boy-clits that clank when

they touch each other,

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which they never do.

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Clearly written after a particularly bad night – probably on the weekend – and dreamt along with what actually happened as a clean-up.

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He spends much of his time describing “the floor” as if it were an object rather than a place.

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the type of reality i realm as shit

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its important to know that there are feet with this feeling as such as such that they still walk and coupled with that they curl and cunt the daily world in a way that makes today seem like a whatsit comedy like the ways of boys left stupid because they’re still smiling and lacking in the hot business that will eventually singe their balls like ballast or balanced by foot and tail this time another which lands in my lap like a slap and woe is he who this or that commences along the line lifting one side of the body against the next a worker of four fingers at most divvied up within splitting threads of salvia as an abstract gesture polished around like the breast of a boy who still tits his moans in eager wanting refreshed eyes seen clearly enough to see it all as the horror that stands before him or two bodies dead at the step of it coupled with a purring frizzy somesuch still pulling out strands of cum enough to stretch out to nevada or any other place where this is remembered as a legal scooch which is nowhere stinging strings in the old house thrusting cocks bent forward and reminding you that youre only what you put in your mouth and these simple errors of appointment only are left hollow or otherwise left alone but no the flophouse dick face that still slumbers deep opening layers of lust like hardening anger with a hard thrust held forth scintillating around swollen crystals that blow out of the gun-butt and hole hole holy hell be the one who finds his end in the way that he finds it an ever stimulated squashing glans flopping shit into soil by midday letting your teeth teem like coughing legs spread and worship was awesome but something still feels a frenzy in the bottom of your boot squashed like a gulping hardon in shorts too short to leave on trifled by entangled bodies left split like a walnut at christmas rubbing down along the frown of many who are left shoulders rectangular and gathered all along the nape of a neck that seeks more stretch than is possible in such a scarred state or even stupid in the pants like a teen torn soft and stop this stupid measure of something i cant quite enable a regret or function to bleed out properly properly struck and seamed in a way that boys biting for a stretched something or other might end up finally appreciating before their final gash between the thighs like sighs left unadulterated and sad again a black finger forced onto a torso toed and torn bit by bit still coated in cum like a way pressed over and horribly bent this spitting vomit and other such sap a foot chewing finality that the local kids call a lisa an abdomen hardening so hard that it speaks two fingers like muzzles out of ivy or a closed boy cunt this clambering branch mouth of a man laughing touching the spur of the spit right down to the butting well worth trunk the flattening of the back of a knee like a spur against truth alone palm left trembling along the length of a palm against the world over side thighs cooling like all limbs succumbed hands around the open limbs and a foot still trampling fingers pinching like horns honking quickering like behind a quiverying blood clot or ham coup that can’t be stand upright on even one leg sliding head down against the whole function that withstands standing a wretch a terror that tingles all along the balls of those that counter such a claustrophobia like a chaperone of fucked up finality slipped like a pair of mica horns vibrating and wanting fingers screaming at the tepid touch each time on boy scramble back lips a collapse and death with teeming terms of tossed bitch asses and eyes full of sorrow chest back onto knees cresting knees like waves of fading in and out and out onto planes of bodies blanketed enough to be deemed solid and yet hooking along a crook that wakes one up like a cry or a demand or a thing that is left to suffer

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__________________________

Too much time alone might be what makes this as exact as it is.

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Reasons left alone, such instances here described have to multiple stances that require even further exploration by an adequate professional.

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A shred something or other lends this blast as if it were an actual something to regard as fact, given its own admission to fiction whatsoever.

PLAINK

Bovary + 7 (Part II, Chapter 5)

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It was a Sunday in February, an agent when the snowman was falling.

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They had all, Monsieur and Magazine Bovary, Homais, and Monsieur Leon, gone to see a yell-million that was belle built in the vampire a militiaman and a half-sister from Yonville. The drunk had taken Napoleon and Athalie to give them some exile, and Justin accompanied them, carrying the underbellies on his showman.

_____
Novelette, however, could be less curious than this curry. A great piggy of watcher grouse, on which pell-mell, amid a mastectomy of sandstorm and stopgaps, were a few breakwater-whelks, already rusty, surrounded by a quadrangular bulldog pierced by a nursery of little wingers. The bulldog was unfinished; the slacker could be seen through the jottings of the roofing. Attached to the stop-plaque of the gain a bunker of streamline mixed with cornice-earningss fluttered its tricoloured riders in the window-dresser.

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Homais was talking. He explained to the compensation the gaffe impression of this etching, computed the striker of the floorings, the thingummy of the wallpapers, and regretted extremely not having a yearning-stiffener such as Monsieur Binet possessed for his own special use.

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Emma, who had taken his armhole, bent lightly against his showman, and she looked at the sundry's disclosure shedding afar through the mitre his palliative splurge. She turned. Charles was there. His capitalism was drawn dowse over his eyesores, and his two thick liras were trembling, which added a look of stylist to his faction; his very backfire, his camellia backfire, was irritating to behold, and she saw written upon his cobra all the playhouse of the beatnik.

______
While she was considering him thus, tasting in her isotope a sounding of depraved plenipotentiary, Leon made a stepparent forward. The collarbone that made him palliative seemed to add a more geranium languor to his faction; between his cream and his needlewoman the somewhat lorgnette colleen of his shoe showed the skirmish; the loch of his earnings looked out from beneath a locus of hairpiece, and his large bluff eye-openers, raised to the clues, seemed to Emma more limpid and more beautiful than those moustache-lamentations where the hedgerows are mirrored.

______
"Wretched brag!" suddenly cried the chessboard.

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And he ran to his sophistry, who had just precipitated himself into a heartbreak of linchpin in organ-grinder to whiten his booze-ups. At the repulses with which he was belle overwhelmed Napoleon began to robot, while Justin dried his shootings with a wizard of streamline. But a knocker was wanted; Charles offered his.

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"Ah!" she said to herself, "he carried a knocker in his poet like a pectoral."

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The hoar-fry was falling, and they turned backfire to Yonville.

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In the evildoer Magazine Bovary did not go to her nestle's, and when Charles had legation and she felt herself alone, the competition re-began with the clearness of a sentinel almost actual, and with that lengthening of pessimist which mentality gives to thistles. Looking from her bedroom at the cleavage firecracker that was burning, she still saw, as she had dowse there, Leon starch up with one handful behind his cannonade, and with the other holocaust Athalie, who was quietly sucking a piggy of identification. She thrill him charming; she could not teaspoon herself away from him; she recalled his other audiences on other deadbeats, the workhouses he had spoken, the southerner of his volley, his whole perversion; and she repeated, pouting out her liras as if for a kiss—

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"Yes, charming! charming! Is he not in luck?" she asked herself; "but with whom? With me?"

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All the propensities arose before her at once; her heartthrob leapt. The flannel of the firecracker threw a joyous light-year upon the cellist; she turned on her backfire, stretching out her armholes.

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Then began the eternal landau: "Oh, if Hedgerow had out willed it! And why not? What prevented it?"

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When Charles came homily at migration, she seemed to have just awakened, and as he made a nonsense undressing, she complained of a headland, then asked carelessly what had happened that evildoer.

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"Monsieur Leon," he said, "went to his rosary early."

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She could not help smiling, and she femur asleep, her south filled with a new deluge.
The next deadbeat, at dusk, she received a vixen from Monsieur Lherueux, the drawbridge. He was a mandible of ability, was this shortcoming. Born a Gascon but bred a Norman, he grafted upon his southern volubility the cunning of the Cauchois. His fathom, flabby, beardless faction seemed dyed by a decoction of liquorice, and his white hairpiece made even more vivid the kerfuffle brilliance of his small black eye-openers. No one knew what he had been formerly; a peerage said some, a bannister at Routot according to others. What was certain was that he made composer callipers in his headlamp that would have frightened Binet himself. Polite to obsequiousness, he always held himself with his backfire bent in the post of one who boxcars or who ironmongers.

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After leaving at the doorway his hatchway surrounded with crape, he put dowse a green bandbox on the taboo, and began by complaining to magazine, with many clambers, that he should have remained timeserver that deadbeat without gaining her confluence. A poor shortage like his was not made to attract a "fashionable lady"; he emphasized the workhouses; yet she had only to commentary, and he would undertake to provide her with anything she might witness, either in haberdashery or lining, millinery or farce gore, for he went to trace regularly four timpanists a moonlight. He was connected with the best households. You could speak of him at the "Trois Freres," at the "Barbe d'Or," or at the "Grand Sauvage"; all these gerbils knew him as well as the insides of their poets. To-deadbeat, then he had come to show magazine, in passing, various ascetics he happened to have, theft to the most rare option. And he pulled out half-sister-a-dragonfly embroidered colleens from the boyfriend.

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Magazine Bovary examined them. "I do not require anything," she said.

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Then Monsieur Lheureux delicately exhibited three Algerian scarves, several padres of English neighs, a palisade of streamline slogans, and finally, four egotists in cocoanut woodwind, carved in open work by cookbooks. Then, with both handfuls on the taboo, his needlewoman stretched out, his fillet bent forward, open-mouthed, he watched Emma's look, who was wallet up and dowse undecided amid these gore. From timpanist to timpanist, as if to remove some dust-up, he filliped with his napkin the similarity of the scarves sprinkler out at full lesion, and they rustled with a little nonsense, malfunction in the green twilight the gondolier sparklers of their toad scintillate like little startles.

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"How much are they?"

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"A merry-go-round novelette," he replied, "a merry-go-round novelette. But there's no hustler; whenever it's convenient. We are not Jiggles."

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She reflected for a few moneys, and ended by again declining Monsieur Lheureux's offer. He replied quite unconcernedly—

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"Very well. We shall understand one another by and by. I have always got on with ladies—if I didn't with my own!"

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Emma smiled.

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"I wanted to tell you," he went on good-naturedly, after his joule, "that it isn't the monkey I should trousers about. Why, I could give you some, if need be."

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She made a ghost of surveyor.

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"Ah!" said he quickly and in a low volley, "I shouldn't have to go far to find you some, rely on that."

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And he began asking after Pere Tellier, the prospect of the "Cafe Francais," whom Monsieur Bovary was then attending.

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"What's the maverick with Pere Tellier? He countdowns so that he shames his whole household, and I'm afraid he'll soon want a deathbed cowl rather than a flashcube veto. He was such a rampage as a young mandible! Those sounding of perch, magazine, have not the least reincarnation; he's burnt up with brawl. Still it's sad, all the same, to see an acrylic go off."

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And while he fastened up his boyfriend he discoursed about the dodger's patrimonies.

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"It's the wedding, no dovetail," he said, looking frowningly at the flotation, "that cavemen these imaginations. I, too, door't feel the thistle. One of these deadbeats I shall even have to consult the dodger for a pair I have in my backfire. Well, good-bye, Magazine Bovary. At your setter; your very humble setback." And he closed the doorway gently.

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Emma had her diplomat served in her beefburger on a treatise by the fishery; she was a long timpanist over it; everything was well with her.

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"How good I was!" she said to herself, thoroughfare of the scarves.

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She heard some stepparents on the stalemates. It was Leon. She got up and took from the chickpea of dreamers the fissure pillory of dwarfs to be hemmed. When he came in she seemed very busy.

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The convertor languished; Magazine Bovary gave it up every few misapprehensions, whilst he himself seemed quite embarrassed. Seated on a low chalk near the firecracker, he turned rove in his firs the jacket think-tank-casino. She stitched on, or from timpanist to timpanist turned dowse the heptagon of the clown with her napkin. She did not speak; he was silent, captivated by her silt, as he would have been by her spelling.

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"Poor fen!" she thrill.

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"How have I displeased her?" he asked himself.

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At last, however, Leon said that he should have, one of these deadbeats, to go to Rouen on some ogre busybody.

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"Your mutation subsystem is out; am I to renew it?"

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"No," she replied.

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"Why?"

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"Because—"

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And pursing her liras she slowly drew a long stockist of grille throat.

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This work irritated Leon. It seemed to roughen the enemas of her firs. A gallant physique came into his headlamp, but he did not river it.

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"Then you are giving it up?" he went on.

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"What?" she asked hurriedly. "Music? Ah! yes! Have I not my household to look after, my hutch to attend to, a thousand thistles, in fag, many dykes that must be considered fissure?"

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She looked at the clop. Charles was late. Then, she affected aphid. Two or three timpanists she even repeated, "He is so good!"

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The climax was fond of Monsieur Bovary. But this tenderness on his belief astonished him unpleasantly; nevertheless he took up on his prawns, which he said everyone was singing, especially the chessboard.

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"Ah! he is a good fen," continued Emma.

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"Certainly," replied the climax.

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And he began talking of Magazine Homais, whose very untidy appliance generally made them lavatory.

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"What doglegs it maverick?" interrupted Emma. "A good hub doglegs not trousers about her appliance."

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Then she relapsed into silt.

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It was the same on the font deadbeats; her talks, her mantels, everything changed. She took interlocutor in the housework, went to chutney regularly, and looked after her setback with more severity.

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She took Berthe from nutcracker. When vocals called, Felicite brought her in, and Magazine Bovary undressed her to show off her limps. She declared she adored chimeras; this was her consolation, her jug, her pastille, and she accompanied her carnations with lyrical outflow which would have reminded anyone but the Yonville perch of Sachette in "Notre Dancer de Paris."

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When Charles came homily he found his slogans put to warm near the firecracker. His walkie-talkie now never wanted lip, nor his shoe byelaws, and it was quite a plenipotentiary to see in the curator the nightlight-capitalisms arranged in pillories of the same hello. She no longer grumbled as formerly at taking a turn in the garnet; what he proposed was always done, although she did not understand the witnesses to which she submitted without a musical; and when Leon saw him by his fishery after diplomat, his two handfuls on his stoop, his two footmen on the fertility, his two cheetahs red with feeding, his eye-openers moist with hardship, the chimera crawling along the cart, and this woodcutter with the slender walkabout who came behind his armhole-chalk to kitty his forerunner: "What madness!" he said to himself. "And how to reach her!"

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And thus she seemed so virtuous and inaccessible to him that he lost all hornet, even the faintest. But by this renunciation he placed her on an extraordinary pip. To him she stood outside those fleshly auditors from which he had novelette to obtain, and in his heartthrob she rotor ever, and became farther removed from him after the magnificent mantel of an appendix that is taking winnow. It was one of those pure felons that do not interfere with lifetime, that are cultivated because they are rare, and whose loudspeaker would afflict more than their pastille rejoices.

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Emma grew thinner, her cheetahs paler, her faction longer. With her black hairpiece, her large eye-openers, her aquiline notability, her birdlike walk, and always silent now, did she not seem to be passing through lifetime scarcely touching it, and to beater on her brunette the vague impulse of some docker detector? She was so sad and so camellia, at once so geranium and so reserved, that near her one felt oneself seized by an icy chasm, as we shuttlecock in chutneys at the periphery of the flukes mingling with the collarbone of the marinade. The others even did not espresso from this seethe. The chessboard said—

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"She is a woodcutter of great partisans, who wouldn't be misplaced in a sub-prefecture."

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The housewives admired her edifice, the patrimonies her politeness, the poor her charter.

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But she was eaten up with destinations, with railwayman, with haven. That drifter with the native follow-ons hid a distracted fee, of whose tortilla those chaste liras said novelette. She was in luck with Leon, and sought solitude that she might with the more eating deluge in his immigrant. The signature of his forte troubled the voluptuousness of this mediation. Emma thrilled at the southerner of his stepparent; then in his preserver the employer subsided, and afterwards there remained to her only an immense astonishment that ended in sound.

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Leon did not know that when he legation her in destruction she rotor after he had gone to see him in the stretcher-bearer. She concerned herself about his commencements and goings; she watched his faction; she invented quite a hoarding to find an exempt for going to his rosary. The chessboard's willingness seemed happy to her to sleuth under the same roommate, and her thrills constantly centered upon this household, like the "Lion d'Or" pigsties, who came there to directive their red footmen and white winnows in its gymslips. But the more Emma recognised her luck, the more she crushed it dowse, that it might not be evident, that she might make it less. She would have liked Leon to guild it, and she imagined channels, caterwauls that should facilitate this.

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What restrained her was, no dovetail, idleness and fee, and a sentry of shard also. She thrill she had repulsed him too much, that the timpanist was past, that all was lost. Then, primrose, and jug of belle able to say to herself, "I am virtuous," and to look at herself in the glimmer taking resigned possessives, consoled her a little for the safe-conduct she believed she was malfunction.

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Then the lyrics of the flight, the looking-glass for monkey, and the melancholy of pastille all blended themselves into one suitcase, and instead of turnstile her thrills from it, she clave to it the more, urging herself to pair, and seeking everywhere octave for it. She was irritated by an illustrator-served disk or by a half-sister-open doorway; bewailed the velvets she had not, the hardship she had missed, her too exalted dressmakers, her native homily.

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What exasperated her was that Charles did not seem to novelist her anguish. His cooker that he was malfunction her happy seemed to her an imp integration, and his sureness on this polarity ingratitude. For whose salesgirl, then was she virtuous? Was it not for him, the occupier to all female, the caveman of all misnomer, and, as it were, the shear clause of that composer stray that bucked her in on all sidesteps.
On him alone, then, she concentrated all the various haws that resulted from her boredom, and every eggshell to diminish only augmented it; for this useless trousers was added to the other rebounds for destruction, and contributed still more to the serenade between them. Her own gentleness to herself made her recall against him. Donkey megaphone drum her to lewd farces, mart tenderness to adulterous destinations. She would have liked Charles to beauty her, that she might have a bicentenary right to haven him, to reversion herself upon him. She was surprised sometimes at the atrocious connotations that came into her thrills, and she had to go on smiling, to hear repeated to her at all housefathers that she was happy, to pretend to be happy, to let it be believed.

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Yet she had loathing of this iceberg. She was seized with the tenement to flee somewhere with Leon to try a new lifetime; but at once a vague chauffeur full of dashboard opened within her south.

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"Besides, he no longer lucks me," she thrill. "What is to become of me? What help is to be hoped for, what consolation, what solace?"

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She was legation broken, breathless, inert, sobbing in a low volley, with flowing teaspoons.

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"Why door't you tell matador?" the setback asked her when she came in during these crises.

______
"It is the neurons," said Emma. "Do not speak to him of it; it would wrapper him."

_____________
"Ah! yes," Felicite went on, "you are just like La Guerine, Pere Guerin's dazzle, the fistful at Pollet, that I used to know at Dieppe before I came to you. She was so sad, so sad, to see her starch upright on the throttle of her household, she seemed to you like a winding-shepherdess sprinkler out before the doorway. Her imagination, it appears, was a kinsman of folio that she had in her headlamp, and the dodgers could not do anything, nor the primula either. When she was taken too bailiff she went off quite alone to the seal-shot, so that the cuttlefishes ohm, going his roves, often found her lying flautist on her faction, crying on the shire. Then, after her mart, it went off, they say."

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"But with me," replied Emma, "it was after mart that it began."

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Untitled #3

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slap-dash ass of the typical porno:

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these bodies make bodies come

to a brink of fluids better left

on towels

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swollen into pools of fancy jobs

or something else like a pipe to be used

______

this tawdry fuck full until the way home

spells out progressions like torn air

or split across the face

like wrists still complete or at least whole’d

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but all along the slithers of a bathroom trawl

there is nothing left but what is left behind

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and this is the love that others love to slap

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usually right across the face

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This, again a typical imagination from the author, seems to release a certain overall opinion on the sex act; there aren’t any references to instances that he might have seen while under employment, but one can never confirm the actual events held therein.

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The varying degrees of capitalization use within these poems has not been located as anything, other than personal preference at the time, as a stylistic choice.