part.tenth

(sorta like the third)

(again, for Käthe)

shes sorta like the third

white stripe; laying in

her swedish-made

bedthings, warm and

unclad and offering me

little to cover myself with.

white paper bleeds white

by liquid paper onto

bedthings and i have

had so little white-out

since it has been ages.

eons. decades.

always supposing that she

has always envisioned she;

pulls the goosedown closer

to her neck as she.

painfully oblivious to the

night stars an; then we

make ourselves painfully

oblivious to the nights

scare. and ive still a

faint dull listlessness

where my rib used to

be.

and my head and my

knee.

and we decide to say fuckit

and just fuck

for hours at at ime without

ever giving a moments

glance upward

or forward

or from the side.

shes stroking her/my face

and we pull in for

a close-up and we

check the cards or

dont check them to

see what the (hollywood)

stars have to say.

and i feel the warmth

of her glance

as i feel a warmth

in my pants

but she is so warm;

slipped between whiteness—slipping

between sheets

shes like a candystriper every

time she bleeds

and breathes

and breeds

poetry at the seams.

(and i haventseen enough

of the details to cum

{to any justification}

but the way with all

augen

with all billboards peering

out at the smokey ashen remains

of antebellum jersey, flicked from the

knee of black pants with a racist mentality

inside them.)