Her arms flew open
and she was against him.
Aroused thought caresses its object until it cries out for more.
I love you inside.
Squeeze the moment.
Mistily moving along this curvy line threatens an image.
Thought shifts its magnetic potential just laying eyes on her.
Two souls in one breast is par.
The oracle explains in tongues, flicked gnosemes.
How thick is this thought?
Without contraries is no ingression.
The needle french kisses the fascia.
"Poets have been sticking their love objects with a thorny lust rap forever."
His first words to the attracting woman were a bounding line.
Love objects are made to ask for it. Ventriloquism of the beloved.
Seeing her surface as is eroticizes.
Thank you for the provisional erogeneity.
How thick-skinned is a line refusing to be known?
Sex is not repeat performance.
Expecting something different is more of the same.
The turning release holds the object open.
Loving words performs a state without saying so.
The curtain either up or down exposes ambivalent attraction.
Hold your tongue to feel its message.
Voicing my own not mine only.
To have an ear you have to take in the tongue.
Syntactic vibrator contacts lingual protuberants.
You treat me like a thing has a mechanical ring.
Rime holds time in memory of what's unremembered.
you can say She came at five is beyond me.
I made up the naked calendar girl who makes me up unceasingly.
My native tongue gets inside you reading this, said in dialect.
Loving words perform a state without saying so.
Come say it inside here so I can tell you what you are.
Any subject surfaces with gender discrimination.
His needle french kisses her fascia.
Unable to tell which end's open--virtual dyslexicity.
Love the blade slicing.
"It's a movie. Get over it."
Who's the Dog/God Now? -- incarnational intergender drama.
See the sex scene rendered in non-referential dialectical Andalusian.
Speak up, an ear is where the tongue goes in.
The poetics of hysterics, in utero urverbs.
Her wild. Nest mass. Mast head. Wed masked.
Lose your way so I can feel my way in you.
I hear what says me, like an echo.
Poetry is language refusing seduction.
Final sex is a death cure.
A waking lingua is never belated.
On this line you know there's nowhere to go.
Looking back -- her vortical center, all flaps flying -- is looking out.
Hold on, there's a message for you, what you hear is the interference.
Pre is the preverb that holds you to your turning word now reverberating.
A talking lingam is never related yet marks the spot.
Catch the telltale wave before it makes sense.
Fore before play is the ur urging word to spur
Breathe to prick nature, suck long on your verb to sound energumenal.
Her needle french kisses his fascia.
The sexy joke is a revenge poem for the belated.
Don't be so verbal (no verb, no coming).
The clumsy spill is a power spot.
Watch for site-specific Freudian slips--mud bath, clay glaze, lingual
mother tongue is telling tales on you--dirty licks, utter transparency.
The charge of grunge: never thought to be feeling.
El Topo, the ground being.
I feel your tongue moving as you read.
Marks are thoughts to prick the lisp that feels her, wild ascending.
Any surface is subject to gender discrimination.
Topologos, the cut space speaks the piece.
Poem spills out of bounds, leaping between two worlds.
If you don't hold your tongue I might.
Saying what you are sets gods trembling.
Hear vajra laughter, her rumbling being, stop short, shake free, fork
How many lines in one equals two, where no two equal, nor one one alone?
Speaking no answers in tongues, shines lingua phos phase beacon, signing.
Only equals two, returns alone, atones, tones, retells you, just now.
bha, bhag, eat light, tongue it to cleave, bhaga book.