do and not and please

There's already a gap - indefined and hazy - between the neat strip we were just not 10 minutes ago, so
I can already see how that swiftly moving jump makes the current's neat curtain slip
and pillowing out might indicate a loss, forsworn by words like I and You and there.

Deeply inhabited cakes, the flaking out of long fine strands of your hieroglyphs on the insides
of my eyes, some things are meant to be - but I've fight in the left and down tank a Bay tree flings glorious epiphets into the night sky.

So I know, when you know, the push away is your come here,
a niggle at the risk and my hello

Paris, that second time...

So, there's still couples fighting here;
sheltering under Deco extensions -
Futurist excursions in signgage -
slipping down the pitfall maps of the RER,
some sweet hunk, a boy-poet in the
Bacon-style, knocks me up
(This isn't the Ramblas)
and we're up for 45 on the Sacre Cour,
the sweet ball-play of beggars, with
trick Benetton rainbow tie-ons -
that's the view, out our out
with a sparkling model-thin whip
at the last run through customs,
a ludite-hill airport and the train,
that's French for a day, Paris for a time,
and you not forgotten

Fall asleep with
In deep with
thinking night thoughts
by dreadnaughts...
Nothing of the kind,
We're a sabre-rattling
Big band
Brass bold-things,
A kick in the joint between
Dark and light,
You and I, the endless warm
Swimming in showers,
A fear of getting wet after midnight
The shock blue of your eyes,
Putting in the morning -
I've never been tested
'Cept you, a wonder at the
Smile, those tones
Seeking hands, felt tides
My own sweet, the lips
On, oh oh
A hand on the lone...
Huh, not here.
A little to the left
And that's a synth-load
Orchestrated base-jump
A flood-rush catastrophe
Over the battlements and
In the weak seep parts of me
Filled with the concrete arching
there of you

there's the stark impulse of stubble only,
the jet of your hair under my skin -
underneath it, me;
the kiss a part of the victory party
in the small fugitive places,
even more than
the concrete distinction will remain as
the night within the night;
a fraction of a kin-house
an uncertain principality -
where in the folds? where
can this neat razor heat
spill on your lap and sigh

jay-hawks

the first girl I ever kissed is dead.
she dies, she drowns, in an ambulance
twice, when they try,
to recuperate her sallow lungs,
the purple hubris of her skin
denies them the sickle celebration
of rebellion, revival.
it took four months for that to be the
story
only for before, the dark, wet memories of
a man stomping a stair-well in disbelief,
the wife distraught, the best friend on her own,
were only distended lessons in truth;
a PhD thesis on feminine grief
(I'll deal with this doctorately thank you)
so there's this sleeping, some voice
a stand-up of the self, in the round
he says - make up your mind on this one
they'll love you as much as I do.
that white horse charge
the still in bed change,
you near, you say things.
my dear
my dear, never
discovered as winter melts, boys competing
for the
sun years, go by, waiting
for a ring (where some snow melt was)
but you won't see me laughing,
those setting suns
those were the
eyes of Sarah Jane