Young Man, Going

Things come

and go, older than

when you followed

them.

When there is for,

for the sudden,

there is trouble

for the troubled.

I always wanted

to return, to

relax, amongst

the extra stars:

The one hand,

on the trigger of

him; the other

another says so.

I AM THE KRISPY KREME KONQUERER

I AM THE KRISPY KREME KONQUERER

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And the Power to Manipulate these Poor Men and their Desires Straight to Hell. in other words: I Do Not Love, nor am I Rife, with the Company, nor the Care of Strangers, who Grow ever-more Crude by their Lovely Names: “You Should Be So Ashamed.” And the Body Called: “Sclutter…” or “Crowning that Ass” or “This to Exile (in) Through” or “Three Pigeons in a Slow-Cooker Pleasure.”--------------------àSome Days, my Body is Hymeneally Engaged in the “Throw of the Die” and Other Days: it’s Curtailing around the Analrose with Toes Curled and Crying-Out in Pistillary Pleasure.  “Okay, Okay…” it’s Really, how you Careen your Face, like a Ship, in the Night, the Ocean, the Residual Calm, and the Backdrop Becomes the City, like a Million Eyes, Wildly Caked with Dirt.  in other words: if (this) I Be in Event, then I Will Tackle this Kiss and Fist and be the Tryst Not (in) Back.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First Time Lad Almost Takes a Fist – By Raw Fuck – Click here for more

The very idea of a cock in my mouth has become banal.

I write this, even, while watching a video of a young man gorging on the cock of another, his buttocks bouncing against the tennis shoes he is still wearing, while wearing nothing else.

The stronger it gets, the softer the nuance.

That’s the proper way.

Wide open, we’re all just waiting.

Gloved, or ungloved, it’s all just objects in an object:  objectifying the thing that we are looking and feeling at.

Fingers like a burnishing, or finishing off a turkey, a whisper of total regard for the feast, while still panting at the prospect of denial; so he denies himself.

Open, gape, he is our unknown.

Our always known.

FIVE STANZAS (meditating)

STANZA I

The ducks there are did like

How I like them all.

But I will never know a duck

Or how a duck at all.

STANZA II

They may be responsive

But  not in the way you desire:

So many, so many, so many

Things left to discover, to explain.

            STANZA III

In process, in memory,

All things told but not heard once.

No one feels the grape on the toe

Or the opportunity that fosters a

Further one. That which is planned,

Sealed by the stars as an exile once

Dreamed of yet starkly shook by its

Very embrace. Plainly mine, a chance.

As often they speak what which made

Them. All or not at all alike, likely alone.

STANZA IV

I meant to wish to go there along with

All my wishes and wants and whatnots.

STANZA V

It is not easy to grow more un-

Easy, even while practicing the craft

Of a betterment of temperament. The

False things always seem right, as right

As a left-handed letter writer can be.

They will always will the crowd towards

Coupling, a still minor fraction of what we

Always call words. Do you do or do you not

Do, or do you sometimes do and other times

Not do? Not what the could have left to be a

Do or not do? A typical arrangement? A possible

Burden on the done and not done already done,

We speak our cares that carry our worry in our

Sacks like how we like them to be, hidden, yet

Wholly open and available because we are, also, too.

The Not Talking Tale

A header loop, blasted past the changeable insults of silence; frank fucked and fleeting with each passing wind, the narrower the power the solider the bounce. The old pound of indifference leads one to think such thoughts as to think about nothing, nothing at all. It can be a tough up for cups, still full with our memories, and dripping with contempt. What I mean to say is a sudden foaming, looming large against the reflection of the window. I just want you to know you’re a lovely dancer. That being said, there are foams all over your face and you look like a hyena, laughing at all that stares at your in the face. The fair and enduring structures cannot be held, nor told, to the mass that occupies that seat. A pot of fear makes for a grand ointment. The demands for such saddened cups. Let’s take a moment to mourn:  the puppet’s pulpit. Let’s legitimatize the condiment table. Let’s loosen our perceptions and call a spade a rake. Tubular men tie sponges to the teeth and float away endlessly. This is what we call the stupor of reason.

An inevitable hilt, stuck by the side of the road,

still running.