brand new balcony

let's get marrowed

dreams not talk, but I have that fresh air

 a fan blowing around you

I dyed the pillowcase blue

it's so pretty now, it looks like cloud springsky behind those little blue flowers

it's funny my immediate intentions were

 to send the pillow in the post immediately

 to pillow you

 but I got greedy

 and wanted to roast in the gone-scent

it's funny, I wish I would have 

 a non-pillow

but I've the bedding to change

because we're never rollin in the club, here

closed ∞

  get yer coats on, take the shit out of me

  the balcony closed even to girls, now.

over the winter the sparkleporch, attached directly to the cougar den which is the vip lounge of gayulz club 

  closed to men

  not because we're inherently sexist, here at gayulz

  but because boys in the balcony ruin it

  make it dangerous

  it just took two bigbodied slams to unhinge the thing

  and it became girls only.

it's like the balcony of the club parked in front of Kyle's

  balcony party

  girls in the back

  like six chicks deep

  could.

I like memory

  it's like a bite

  or sometimes a cut or a bruise or a break

  then a veil

  and a thin little blood vessel

  or a juicy foods

but I'm digesting at every turn

and ingesting them all to marrow me

hardening the arteries of my softbod

the uncut fruits of our little labor

yearn at the corn moon

In the tempts of maize, I attempt to weave around. Maze around in brightest-lit coldergrowing night. Chicha de jora, milk substance, strawlike color. In the americas of the opposite, tantalizing hemisphere it is drunk from a maize fermented by mine and your own ptylin enzymes in our open mouths, our readiest salivas. How it is true, then! The wild yeasts yes, but how forgettable is that of you, of us! Our own bubbling, budding abilities. We have within us, the powers of the distillation. Mine in yours, and mine in mine. My saliva in the fruits of earth, my burbling beings in the taste of a large white moon.

just now and true

And oh so real! It is foggy out but this reflects not on me. The tunings of guitars and I can form sentences to-day. To-morrow in the world to be out. Something like a cloud floats through the rooms, from the strummings of boy to boy. To see I sit and wait, and the breath comes in my lungs with occasional clarity, bouts of unnoticed breathings. Orange juegos but not in fruits but colores. Reminds of life in the pits of sic-beds. The water turned on morningtimes, whence a forward is looked to and I languish in a pretty near-end of the soft and subtlelest January yet.