(from Anthology,   Red Kite Production, https://www.scribd.com )








i believe that people can exist without fucking, with-out heart rock solid holding hands or talking shit; but damn it was crazy. i can’t say it was the best, but close. forced entry, after all evening of feeling regret. it was as if he knew my name. i walked out of the room leaving behind everything, the prom-ise of the rose, shamelessly retreated. the fountain on the courtyard was rounding the clear liquid, fall-ing in circle of unquiet midnight. oh, he was a man, a hot man at that. was i too eager? too honest? what with the panting, moaning, noise that i had never made before? was i an idiot? the soft touch on an-other man’s ass could turn a grown man into such a fool. i was, and still am -a fool. but such heat. such warmness. living in a moment of nameless strike;





he was, what the rest of the world would said, all that. if i was for a moment stood still, he would had walked away and never came back. none of it would had happened. tracing the contours on his body. lay-ing fingers. moving hands. darkness searching for hidden feeling. sucking out corners. breathed. of certain dullness of laying on top of each other, feel-ing destroyed. likeness of skin. safe. the air was salty. none of it would happen, if the room wasn’t available. the light was casting this soft glow, car-rying all the sound around in circles, stirring deep and full. not if it was. with all the heat, steamy dreamy liquid air, all lingering around not wanting to evaporate. the fullness of measuring. submission of desire. waking up-falling down, as of haft-full glass of lemonade. no need to escape, just laying around and feeling up each other as if the world no longer needed. of the smell of the skin, warm and hot. each thrust met with equal reaching, full of full-ness. the fineness of steel, weathered and cracked. none of the existence of the rose, white-red-yel-low. this absurdness of broken promises, among family and spouses. trying out things that a body could never imagine to do, opting for the silver sun and the diamond moon, reaching for the shallow-ness of shame, but touching memories instead. the light was dark, and the shadow was refined, unob-structed, with soft string of light blue smoke flying in mid-air; we both were the sons of baby fathers, never home. the sheet was wet, holding both bod-





ies. none of it would happen if i was too early. i tended to leave very fast when i showed up on time. the loneliness of the untamed. black and unsweet. taste holding, unwined. anything you put in there i will retain. i will distill. hopelessly kept. where the words fail i will proceed. none of it would happen if i was on time. i hated to be on time. the knight opened his silver purple rope gift from the king and the rude queen. the sun casted the light rays on the ocean, filling in the last drops of hurt, waiting for darkness unleashing upon. the bodies were not the temples, not for sacred offering. underneath the skin of our own made-up desire, below the surface of shallow lust, we sunk ourselves down into the bloody earth, in search for our own mother. layer upon layers of dried woods, waiting for the flame. pre-monition for the undead, hollow and empty; never bark. where all thing failed i will offer kisses. monument for the defeat. masked victory. it was n o ta fantasy. he was actually there, laying among the dead, holding back, clutching on our skin with his eyes closing. the smell of rotten meat, heated memories. new memories were in the way of rais-ing up, replacing pain and sorrow. unclaimed terri-tories. unthinkable dimension. dark. hot. and brewed. soft push. the place was tacky, but it served. mute dawn, unblinking. saturated with saturday night madness. the fucking was mere mechanical, holding on along with the intention of grabbing the last taste before old age easing in. the thinness of





emotion. lasting laugh lines. erasing and pushing away. no longer dudes. pushing forward along the edge. no longer buddies. hidden eyes and withdrawn pleasure. biased intention, the night was quite dark and wet. was i too eager? too attached? none of it would happen if i kept running my mouth. when we wanted to, we did it. throwing words out of the win-dow, holding back the tears. unsatisfied lust. satu-rated foaming memories, unsweetened and no longer have a specific fragrant. odorless. wander-ing lights. locked thoughts. it was the smell of his touch, shamelessness of the skin; evaporating within softness. the silence of ocean waves, reaching and pulling back, coexisting along the foggy beach for-gotten by summer visitors. i walked on his body, fighting for the stillness of the heat, being inside my own demand. the firmness of his muscles, ripe and ready, unabashed. nameness of steel. under the caressing night, the shineness of fall witnessing bodies. there the wake, uncontrollability named. numbness of the awakening, meditation of the sub-lime, i reached out and touch his body parts, trying to grab thing inside of him that no body else was able to own. but we shared instead the heat we both created, out of the mundane of our daily lives. de-stroying temples and monuments, worshipping the dying gods. we sat, touching skin, feeling for the hotness. none for the dream, it was all there. it was the darkness after, unfinished song. the trumpet made it way into the vastly deserted room, where





the the rest of the band had not made their entrance. we celebrated, for no particular reason. pushing back the shameness of yesterday a little further into the back of the storage, holding a littler closer to the desire, pulling words. things were hard. his body was hot, disappearing. loud moaning escaped from his lips, unexpected and unfiltered. burnt tongues reached deep into soft dreams, laughing trembles. his smile was smoking, evaporating in midflight, wandering defeated. abstracting the twines of his lips. sometimes in the middle of it we stopped; then forgetting to continue, retreating back to the hard-ness of the floor, saturated salt. of each touch after-ward, of each kiss, all lingered with no intention to reach forward. or deeper. the sunless king. the foolest of the knights. traveling light strikes at the heartless speed, all favor the retracting howl, wait-ing and waiting, defeated. i would had put down the first payment if he has asked. anything, my heart, soul, body, spirit, and my whole worthless being. and my shame. all this for nothing life. the body lay down by itself, waiting for decay, returning of the flesh. undecided. his eyes were hunting for signals. this darkness dream. the constant trap of desire, unfulfilled ninety nine percent of life. the down-pour of memories and sugar. he should, or i shouldn’t... all the same, the numbness of the first touch. nobody moved. here was a verb, transcend-ing the walking dead, not even funny when we opened our mouths, stripping off out clothes (he





wore boots.) pleasure served in silence where memories retreated. the fading of the color, no longer in need to fight. his ass was dark, untouched. the light outside was dark, refusing and washed out. by the time the noise left the streets, he let out a word, so unremarkable it hung around the room. how it all happen; how he managed to lure me into that place, of obstructing light and kindness sound, unweaving fabric. in between the hallway of closed doors we grabbed onto each other, fooling ourselves of being left alone in the middle of the noisiest city. the city that has been abandoned by most of the civi-lized homosexuals, an absurd concept. he left his whole body behind, only the parts that i desired the most. particularly his ears. laughing out loud. moan-ing in retraction, full of shit. men of midnight hour both had no desire to leave for anything else be-side the fact that there is nothing else worth to leave for, no commitment to the fault. few more hours. few more minutes. seconds even. the anguish of undecided flavor. e yes that gave out no detail about what trapped inside. when the street light turned soft and yellow, we shut down the window, pulling everything in. his body was hot. foolishly cooper-ated. burnt by the twilight of the summer sun. untalk. unconverted. with each kiss we exchanged the sum of our own past, language of the lost empire, de-stroyed for the sake of the unborn. he wrote down my name, my phone number, my street. none of the sound made any sense, collected noise of busy





streets; the city was between hours, changing shifts. deadless sea foam, birds with red feathers flying north searching for the coolness of spring, migrat-ing hunger. he wrote down my name. part of the rules was not to engaging, to mind the game, not the players. none was taken for the sake of the ac-tion, stirring moments of requesting lust. the numb-ness of forgetting things. however trivial. beauty of the savage. things that were caught between the eyes. target trip. fun and potato chips. tomato red. parsley and rosemary thyme. the anthology of the sublime, maturing brain-cells. death before dying. part of the pink was the disappearance of the red, lightness of the soft morning sun, waiting to be dis-solved. part of his smile was forced out, from the left corner of his mouth, where language stopped. part of this tryst was neither of us cared. he for his intelligence and me for my lack of it. mindness of the full, mediating crap. sickness of the bones. thick-ness of the neck. virtuous negation. there was that curse, fouling off the realm of the deceit, letting things go. foolish lies, two men of so much past. his for the nameless roses. have i ever loved. name-less pink tulips. the dates we both marked down for the next time, needless numbers. i put out the light, turning off the emotional glance, pushing it. the nameless white orchids. that left the sacred dust laying on top of the abandon altar, worshipping the last of the mad gods. the unicorn was leaving the green hills, searching for the jungle of the first life-





force. mad cats and laughing turtles. running for the defeats. memorizing worms. feast for the saints. he curled his tongue. sutured pardoning, with cold flaps. minding off the yellow hats and the yellow shoes. his talk was cut, no words; just sound. with a nice cold drink and an after glow withdrawal, he lied down. the outside was busy with the heat; the in-side was laying still. the mind of the conclusion. now was the focus theft. baby blue nameless rose. he turned sideway. lying was forced out of the gap between the lips -it was the mouth. meanless talk of concurring themes of foul marriage and pain-relief engagement. memories that were served with rotten flesh, the burnness of the moon. sunless heat. memories of the remains. the sameness of the sicks. reaching in for the emptiness of the soul, learning new signs of hopelessness. the movement of the quick, eyeless dream. he stopped in the middle of the kiss, opened his mouth for air, then reaching back in. white stucco walls of houses that have been sun washed and rain cleaned. the spring came with its own set of demands. boys walked in group, loud and aggressive. the streets shined the last of the sun, warming waiting for night fall. in this heat the night came crawling in forgetting and forgiving, uncharted territories of the soul. the nameless red. so i thought, he was. none of this would happen if we did not share that cab, stopping in the middle of nowhere to hold off the rain, how insignificant. last thing on the shelf, fighting dust, the rain, the tear, the an-





guish. maximizing viper, untested dick. night was yet another hole in the wall, and i had to manage it, with both hands. he put the water inside the glass, pouring in. the flower of the night, raining dark blood red, ha ha ha. ramming the liquid as not with the vine but the grape. i hold his head in my hands for the tears to self contained, verging on the midair collapse. why none contend to be exist among the stars, heaving toward the total eclipse, abyssal fall. like his naked shoulder and back, lighting midnight blue. i hold my tongue. the heat was almost acquisi-tively painful, one in ten. part of the deal was not to pull back. part of it was my need to reach deeper into the box, searching for the nameless violet rose. realizing that i was to leap forward, he instinctively put his hand up to cover his face. noise and sound, night was at its purest dark, participating pulses. language was that the falling of the crystal glass, in multiple falls on concrete hard floor. unneeded of the last drops of the red wine. malice of the dream, walking the dead. hoping that the dawn those keen-ness of the dews will wither, the nakedness of the yellow rose. his naked soul, wandering into the emptiness of the everyday. i walked into his world for a very brief period of couple hours, losing my own living. part of the deal was giving up the un-wanted relatives. the hanger left unattached on the rail, volume in magician vanishing sight. the rest of the disappearance. the last of wine. basic stepping. mine was the rope. the language trap. damn his hole





was tight. the runner that never quite understood the rules of the road will and will forget the direc-tion and the destination. part of the run. part of the defeat. memorial victory. his sweat was the glory of the vowels. the bones of the least’s. nice warm unleashing flow. the nameless color. minding his own thought provoking hands. his left feet un-washed. when i kneeled down the fool started to cry. dove of the street. wingless memories. it was boiling down to the street. i saw him falling in. face covered in yesterday liquid. power of the undestroyable. however trite. however sad. that polished rim. here we were these earthless sinners, part of the rendezvous. the king of the exiles, un-clothed. between the sheets, his body was healing from the cuts for the family life, his undesirable traits for the living in mundane. not enough water in the well. for all the roaming on the streets after midnight, he lust after no moon. the laugh came afterward, the sneer, the knocking of the bottle and the glasses. that paradise behind the wheels, rot-ting sways after the rain had disappeared. soft wa-ter ran deep inside the vein. vowing for the defeats. had that he wanted to cream the would be no soul left to fled. now was then and forever. the blood of the gun, willing red. heart of the rose, flame of need. he sat on my dick, connecting with certain part of me i didn’t know that was there. nameless purple rose. nameless necessarily winged. now he was and will for a while. laughing behind the sad-





ness of the roses. withering midsun for no longer rain demand of the season. the burnt of the stakes. sunless mountain high. dark and no humor. in the heat his eyes were throwing darts into the night, spear less numb. noun and verb. running his hands through his hair for an extra minutes of rumor ef-fect. i washed down the valley between his chest. lowering center. both of my hands needed more room to move, but contended with the amount of saturated hue of the perfect shape. moving into the direction of the feet we both turned each other in-side out, verb and verb, and adverb. this nameless perfection of the white rose. midnight clear in the most unnatural state of stillness cold. we moved into direction of each other, unannounced territories of the bodies. visiting the landscape meat. rotten rot-ten stink, slicing the laugh. midmorning tears. si-lent as silence fucked. his hands were holding on to the brass rail. grabbing the untouched. i wished for a moment that it was me who was sweating and panting. view from the bottom, unnecessarily kicked. this lightness of forgetting the rules, harsh disturb. eyes of borrowing, of taking in, shortening the touch. harden knots. rumor had it that the night never yield; however dark; however cold. part of this game of touch we did not hope for nothing else but the moment of vain, looking into each other without the strangeness of being. without no feel-ing of defeat. of dawn and soft morning rain. of yesterday that never recede. the unusable past.





flower of the dying dream, minus the smell. requiem requiem. reaching in for his own direction of the heat, he felt down. unobstructed until the line ripped apart, showing his skin and the temple flesh. i had done his body between, numbness fooling the color of his city tone, bags of distant past. the place where he came from they had to put the dogs to sleep to make room for the new breed of animal, came from some stupid hill-land. let we make this drink for you, the lime juice would kill all the germs and the virus. my coffee was way too strong for the evening cooling, i had to spit it out despite all the excite-ment waiting for me ahead. this man was a gift, i decided right then. his full set of lips alone set the fire on the roof. we left the words lingering in the air not even bother to put them in use; the light was turned for this very nosy season. summer of the fall, winter in heat. his darkest hole, filling with the sound of the nameless color of the rosiest. his kindness of killing the city with a lot of nerve. trashing down the facade of the neighborhood. veins in the light-ness of the skin, we receded of rotten grapes. this was the highest of the low, merging into the flower-ing mouth of yes. negatives of the timeless steel. owning the bone as if i was out of it. the rain of midnight. the stillness of the darkness. the neatness of the fool. the hours for rent. nobody’s off the hook. i believe that two souls can cry with each other mi-nus the sap of the tears. the greenness of the jade, waiting to get old; then older. the crease in his pants





alone set my dick standing up, cutting upper. the lowest of the low, down into the unfeeling in hope. however covered up. the lightness of sky. the sto-len god. gossiping into the river where the water run shallow; leading forward into the vast sea. he folded his shirt and pant then put them down under the chair. with tears ready to fall out of his face, my face. too much heat for the coldest night. the last leaf on the apple tree. the broken branches. that lonely boy walking down the concrete pavements, waiting and breathing. unfrocked. hello loneliness. hello trees. the rest of the boys had left with the girls, leaving traces of deepest smell, evaporating foul of the sleepless night, the city in revolt. the smell of no soap. this trashness of the trees, this dirtiest wood. i left a deep mark on his neck. suck-ing the story. sucking out the end. we had decided to share the last piece, wine to the last drops. bottle to bottle. name to name. i had to leave before mid-night, but i seemed cease to remember that i was even in the room. his mouth was escaping my lips, hands to the uncharted dimension, blue set of the space. vain in vain. his eyes were so dark i thought i was in the mad, mine in own keenness of the blade; razoring in. he leaded me into the night, running along the streets of demanding rapture. roaming hands for the depart. the breathing out. i wigged into his skin, falling for his unredeemable song. his hard on of the burned up dick. the dumbest bite. i kicked his body, folding into the numbness flower,





dark as sin. lightness of the years had rained on his skin as if the laugh had to end. window of the shit. casting shadow -and the shade. if we laughed too hard the guys next door would had come over. this city of the undead, nobody sings. the language of the curfew of the city in disguise, monumental sin-gularity. we all are going to die a quick dead, those survived the strongest quake will have to wait for at least few hundred thousand years. this nameless red rose, for the weak and the hopeless. mine was in color of the blood. this space less void, laughing into the loudest tear. the noneness of crying. the fox and the snake tail, screaming for the unjust. none none to no. this kindness, this comfort, this high, if i could put it all in one hand. the front of his pant was shading shadow, verging into the naked gasp, the humidity of the midnoon summer day, hope for the icing cold of the lemonade. laugh laugh... for the realness of the sound. kindless kiss. the night has abandoned all the finished dishes, unflavored and left behind. running for the seconds of fun, and a few moments of paradise trapped, we rushed into each other like we were already lost each other once. far way too misty for the words, gushing mo-ments of fluid semen. rising the poles without the flag, with no intention to pull anything thing up or down. this rebirth of the male, nameless of the pinkest rose. the hole in my hand was moist and soft; i touched him with all the earnest of the trapped family man, singularity of the infinite shot. mine





was dark and unnamed. his was the hole that reeked with soft anticipation. moment of undisturbed de-manding, maybe it was his most desirable feature, but it was of course. it was. he was pulling me in for the amount of force unfathomable and with no in-tention to frolic but to erase the witness from the stand, laying flowers on the floating bed, that name-less violet rose. his eyes were dark, uneasy with the glances from the walkers on the falling streets; the city was changing color as it eased into the twi-light space, scared of its own blankness. he put his hands out front, turned them up then down, looking as they belong to someone else. he looked surprised at his own pain, unfelt disarticulation of the senses. then he shut his eyes. that nameless color of the dawn. dreaming of the undead, the unborn, the sa-cred blood. the soft bounce on his ass was lighting in strike, running deep with the pull of the rhyming of the hands, funny with no intention. the lightness of the desirable object, the lightness of the fear, leaning on forward to the untalkable rules. the game. fox falling over the fences. this bystander’s abject. his falling for the fall, naming the laugh that got caught inside the tears, falling falling fell, naming less for the uncolored rose; mine for the take. un-reachable side of the effect, moving into multi-di-rectional valley, pulling deep. i was so tired of the first round. tell the world that my fakeness was all designed, it was all for the sake of the appearance. mystical in the tear drops. seeing his own shadow





in the wall had me vanished. sliding in. pushed. the undertaking of the clutch. this fool was trying to flip me over. forget the stars, i will give you the moon. your own moon, delivered in silver. running down your own cheeks. this nameless color of your own rose. red petals. red lips. memorizing in the digits of the now. he foolest of the fools. the echo of the sound. this soundless bite. room to lick. his folds of the lips were all that i could fit in. pushed. ate. and being eaten. noun to verb. some of this own come was falling off his own body , running off course, untouched and untouched. why we did and the rea-son we were. falling for and falling in. the name-less rose. south of the north. the border to the no man land. snap snap snapping. he grasped; unthink-able things happen. the unspeakable of the de-ceased. the movable motion. lapse of the unneeded. name for name. expected as always, no need to proceed; just remain in his own position of waiting. coiled and bounded. waiting. bonding. taped down. hole opened for the fingers to explore. room room room. that was his song, take take taken. eyes on the darkness of the rood. sideway into the border-line. this wineless drink left no taste in his mouth, mine was the sunken liquid of the fermented mo-ments. his girly touch. harden lines from the laugh-ing sun. sea of need. rain in rain. the foul street had ran into the traffic, selling unquestionable informa-tion to the children of the vanished, page by page. the girl cried out in despair, searching for her own





set of pearl earplugs. no one seemed to understand to codes of the scripture, writing on the skin of a married man. his darkest night was in deed a night of staying alone in a hotel in a city with no soul and no angel; he was just a visitor. he closed his eyes then the world seemed to open up; i was no where around. i was just a visitor. nameless rose, the pinkest red. forget his eyes. forget his lips. forget his manly hands. his firmness of the body. the timid signature of the stillness mass. forget his bouncing muscular ass. forget his quietness of the legs stand-ing still. the first couch he curled his body back into a cocoon stage, waiting to be pushed or punched. tears of the last trick, the one the left with no prom-ise, two by one. untreatable virus, lasting into the new century and the lost. harden tale and the last in remain, feeling in and filling in. sunshine and the cool fish, nothing new; he coughed. broken bones and stony flesh, unreadable in the softest of the light, in memories of the least noticed. we made the bed wet with sweat, the friction of the insiders, holding in holding off. necessarily of the strike. the boys of summer began to pour into the city, holding off the traffic with their unquestionable eagerness, earth of the south, burning flame of the hate. counting the wingless roses, this nameless color of the spring, sacrificed with no virtue of the madden laugh. dark-ness undone in the heart of his desire; his whole-ness of the touch. his hole in name. now when the tongue reached deep inside the touch the color had





turned back into the blood, this namelessness of the parting rose, we had decided at last. none of this would matter for both of us, we were in, both of us with all fingers on the bedpost and the mattress, and the floor. haft of the time we were both lost. his eyes were so withdrawn, tunnel lost. he took his phone out and put it on the night table; i turned it off. kindness of the bed, motoring the engine parti-tions of stainless steel. the city was in shock of the sudden fullness of the male, summer backing into spring of the fullest bloom, boys running out of their childhood, wanting big. the skeleton of the rose, vilest red. unneeded to claim the sum of our tryst, untreatable length. grid less map, the all felled for the same trap, leading into the highest sea, water running into the direction of the neither, below the beauty, under the beauty, noun to adverb. mine was taken in as soon as he took off his. the male of the team, behind the mask. i asked for his whole but got two in return. moving in as soon as the last mov-ing out, rotten flesh of the mold and dark soft yel-low tone of the green moss. lighting felled on the stone and the faces, diminishing gods. he laid his head down on my legs, waiting for the return of the unclaimed. all hands on the naked parts, all touch of leaning in. pinkly gross. he kneeled down on the floor, bounded hands and tangled feet. face of the darkest angel, moving in back to paradise blind, forever untrusted mist. this was the realm of the define, we had shut down the gate, last for the one





and only time unless the gate will reopen by mil-lion spans. kindness of the both, holding new. the dew had returned to the shape of the drops, gravity untrustable. mining the stars in the middle of the broad day light, sunning of the golden red. noun to noun. his highness destroyed was in my hands. his coldness earth, running along the border of the ocean blue, the sandless beach. viewing nude. through the tightness of the light, white shade merg-ing into yellow, clear as red. he dropped down right at front of me, rising the steel knuckles to my lips; it was all for show. the nameless blood. the name-lessness of this whole rose, i had him on my laps, folding the body as if it had no will of its own. the sound vibrated around the room, moving in the si-lence direction obstructing the endless of the light beams, volume in sharp cut. i had none of his touch. he vomited in color, noticing the last words of the day, echoing in from the headless streets, ending in colors. hell in the neatness of his clothes, unwashed by the sun, running with the crease of the legs, dark soul indigo. the night hide inside its own shade of the dark, singing out fro the abyssal depth of its own well. i grabbed his hands and pulled him hard into the direction that i knew he would felt lost, out of his own realm of the real: the coldness of his own silence. his uncared. the sound of his body was re-leasing into the stream of his own consciousness, needless to recoil. that he was in heat. holding in his own set of instruments, violin in d major. the





violet rose opened at his most bloom when the music hated the lowest note. violin in d minor. his sudden realization of living his whole life in death bed. spit-ting out words that who ever listen will have to carry along without his presence. buying the last sell. dumb ox. the line outside of the theater was long, we decided to skip the whole entertainment expe-rience. some of the people on the street turned around and watched as he passed by. the night was dark. the street were smoky and inviting. smell of the summer rain. i hold my own body, hugging my-self in, waiting to be carried and fucked. the earth was releasing its own smell of the decay, yellow brown with soft harsh of the unwanted season. his hands were tender, unbroken and false. shaking at the temptation of the lips. i grabbed his butt with both hands, pulling up up. liquid tension. the nameness of the rose. this violent rash. this vicious lashing of the tongue; his in none, of the obvious. the firmness of the overworked muscles, the ridge of the back. neck in define. i wanted another kiss but he shut his mouth tight, wanting a slap instead. bitten with red. the faceless hunter. owning my own ghost. shadow of the decline. total chaos in the middle of the arrangement. this designation of the virtue social structure, the loudest of the bunch. masculine knots. his mouth opened wide as he sweated. tears rolling off his skin, blue clear light sparkling drops. under the grimace of the soul i had him on all four. afternoon of blue-yellow. midday





diffusion of the mist. fearless in name. his number was seven-eight-five. the sooner and the late. that apology in deform, wanting and wanting and forced beneath. lastly in new. of the only boy who under-stood the danger of the night, the siren was calling out for the victim, unsettled in the bloody lamp-post, softest of the yellow light. midsummer under heat, hoping for the destruction of the autumn. rousing the falling leaves. i had his body in my arms, fold-ing of the burning lips. the kindness of his raising muscles; the nameless vicious rose. the city had closed its last cafe. the streets had closed the mean-ness of the punches. forfeiting first shot. the vast-ness of the sea, unforgiving rain of the grey surface and the fullness of the currents. the nameness of his lips. this hollow space of the blue rose. releas-ing its own claim of the cool night, hiding deceits. this bitter rain. i shared a moment of silence with him, unasked forgetting quietness. his dark piece. his uncut dick. his spit filled hole. we stopped at the front desk. the guy asked two questions, both di-rectly to him. i grinded against his butt as we walked away. the sound of the opening rose, waiting to be sucked. the heat of the land, rattling the tails of the alleys unrequested. the boys ran off, flung them-selves into the darkness of the night, packing the strongest heat of the clear sky of summer. they howled, then laugh. he stopped walking, reached in of the lying earth. i had his butt in the palm of my hands, his most delicious. i had his lips in my mouth.





burning for the touch. holding his very essence of a man in the tip of my dick, kicking the habit of silent screaming. lives of the undesirables. the body has left its presence. unwinding the quietness of the crowd, suddenly found itself in the throng of the unwelcome visitors. needless keep. we found each other in the flux of the game, runners of the last lap, vomiting blood into the circle of hollow dreams; his with a touch of bliss and a full grab of pain. his yes memories claim and the foulness of the winter solstice. lightness of the yarn, bucking the back of the colt and the fox. vicious cycle of walking ahead, tired and dispensed. sequence of the violent clashes, tight knots of the bones. he missed the last train back to the sea, instead stayed in the city for at least one more night. wholesome of the last minute. how the lanes have been drawn for the sake of the rid-ers, all in color of the rush, feeding in the language that no longer existed. camera of the eyes, viewing into the firmness of the sirens, this city of the un-rest. the ugly and the refusal. foaming off the scheme of the youngest kid. his for the name of the unborn, blue green of the rose petals, wishing to be red. hateful counters reacted, finding out. rejected. i was not amused. hiding behind his own fear to be existed, he pushed into his own dimension of the parallel, nightmare from the color structure, ab-stracting the verbs to describe his needness for the same. unresisting and denounced. home for the sec-ond-best. he denied the people following behind his





authority. he asked only for the insolent absolute, singularity of the soul; his and only best. i put some ice on the bruise on his left face. he grabbed my hand and hold it there for a while. hi body was on my laps. falling falling, missing the temple of the beats, voodoo veins of the throb, lasting into the break of the dawn. angel in disguise, wingless mess. who ever the outsider. whoever the last. fine wine with broken pieces, the sourness grape, the greenless vines. whoever the winner of the race, unfitness and deceiving, harmless in brown. this painless thought wanting the rosiest of the pink, fa-voring the home of the smell unmissed. the nape of his neck was coiled into volume of decided strands, likeness of the nomad. when the darkness felled, he ran into the whiteness lighted, straining the still of the fuck. each of us was in, for different reason. he hold his own head in tight grip, making sound that vibrated within his own body, shaking for the next movement. tight white upset. the view of the city, distressful line of the disaster, acapolypse chill. his balls were all wet. i slapped and then kiss him, then kiss some more. the outline of the house plan, i had him sat waiting on the floor. his eyes were so vacant. the songs of the sun whore. the voiceless color. cologne of the misbloom. he kneeled down, never understanding the rules and the structure of the game. i for once almost ignored it all together. i was behind rent. the fear of eating dirt never es-caped childhood. this colorful rose of the dessert.





the needness of cool, the last of the giving; his foolest choke. the loud kind and color, the name. his rose and the color of this skin merged into the darkest of the soul language of the unnecessarily and the killer of the left, hateful view of the unfair, his no name defeat, his vow for the far past, the unrelentlessly damned. the killer and the victim and the bystander and the talker and the listener and the spread... all gave him the hour of the day; all in his corner. this kindless jerk, the dumbness of the hands. his coward moment of giving up. his hope-lessness defused. i understood then he was no good. all the shield was off for the chance to fight face to face with his own demon: me. his own find of the heart beats, the loud view of the unseen. however i listed all the deeds of the night, he hold his own course. no find of the yarn. meat and bones, inde-finable trash. holding his view of the pitch fucked universe, the snappy hole. hiding his face behind his own pain, he found my face. the vastness of the foamy ocean, touched without touch. he ran. he walked. he hated. the amount of friction on the bed was tossed into the frame of our bodies, each for the sameness of fighting hallucination. the count of the particles. homemade liquor semen. did he said semen? undeniable lack of distilling, lack of refine-ment. home of the wrecked. the sadness parade. line of locusts approaching the rising field, beating off the streams of ants and ladybugs. aimless mag-nificent. the countless wine. fuming intoxicated. eat





the drink. he cleaned and cleaned. and he cleaned. the harshness of the followers accused the road that time had forgotten. the vintage grapes. nice to the senses and the unthinkable. unbleached the white and the pink. forsaking soft blue and the last. whole-some realm of the south, needy kitchen god. the less is applause and encouraged, but the rest was in denied. we drank the last drops of the song, goodbye sadness. hello sincerity. cyclone mess. run for the borderline, for the falling steps of the childless smoke. each amounted to the undrinkable poems, the vomiting kid. he rested his hind on the chair, back pulling and neither declaring the stress. he knew the rules but not the game. he knew nothing. he just ran. meatless dinner for two, meatless meal, meatless cut. the strong odor of his desire was re-leased and spitted against the softest pull of his underneath, his balls of rock, cut in rain. mailing back the notes because the intended receiver had moved away, for good. rape less innocent, the false idol, all in decline. all in red. the meeting of the roses, all dress in white and perfumed. then he stopped. dreaming the walk. asked the singer for the dime, asked for less. hateful street of the unde-sirable, dude with no hair, backstreet late. demand demand and more demand. he needed to be had. he just ran. that nameless rose of the last summer, no longer red. the skeleton of the behind, his tone deaf fingers. millions of sparkling deforms, unno-ticed by the long milk blood. the killing sun. the





vicious group of red. the mocking moon, stars, and the rest. he was my second. then i lusted. code blue. the misleading alphabets. shameless run. same. same. and i chased the last ghost, hating much as the shadow, my own. his first. the coldest drink. now was the taste of the unvoiced. rest to rest. the film moved into multi directions with the cast tossed into a field of uninspired, all asking for the presence of the acting god, who went to sleep for the rest of the summer. into the sign, unhitched. messy sketch. the soul of the ghost, atonement of the innocent boys, running off track. he kissed the inside of my right hand. nothing in written. nothing being said. we both understood the magnitude of the situation, this situ-ation. his lost in the reality land, the meaning of the defeated, eating cement and city trash. the cleanest scum. he who can’t not fight, but excellent at resist-ing. deathless demand. fool for the thought. fool for rain. it was wet and humid, smoking came out from everywhere and the sun kindly withdrew. the hope-less cat. unrest unholy. the country had forfeited the city, and the boys sat down on the pavements of the trashy city and wept. tears for the dying sun, fatherless lot. this crime we all eventually have to pay, the leanness of lost virtue, no one could es-cape. homely kindred soulful. virgin for the sacred earth, worshipping the sea, rain, water, and all the wetness. his for the stillness of the night, same and solid. i kissed and kissed. hunting the hunter, this jungle called the city and this jungle called the





modern living, lasting for the new millennium joke; this i do not need. vile and filth. the dumbest jock. we were no longer the kids of the playground fight-ing for a space in the sandlot. bitter end of the grey spectrum. the name of the derailed. this fullest sharp. i was enthralled with his words of the sinis-ter, philosophical trap of the thoughts, unbiased decoding self, virgin exit. knitting gone. the contact hunted my hand. naming the day of the lotus; his seed was indispensable. nice thought of the first cup. the last of the drink. hiding jet. inside the steam waiting his own conceited traits, the lankiness of the spring. holiness high lord crawler. jinx does ex-ists. breath in breath out. breath in breath out. did he think that i would yield, would felled for his charm? the night was unobstructed, electrocuted with the festivity of the summer, laughing all the way back through the walls of the commerce. each of us sat down with our eyes held tight, moving the balls back to the unobstructed. measly weaved. aim-lessly defeated. fouled for the language of his own device, he sat on top my laps. heedlessly won. the time he put into the action of laying still made me smile for a brief second. i rarely smiled. the walls of the unconverted. the back of the rose. the lan-guage of the color minus. the veins in his bloodless eyes. hold on, he said. waited and see. how selfish of him. how divine. cursed with the coldness of his own reflection: me. eyeless witches. the promise of the prediction. addition. more. and more. hateful





speech for the unrest. the crying lot of the unarmed boys, they tornt down the tears of their dying moth-ers. each with his own future to defeat, mindless decided jerking off, alone. back to the bay of the pigs, hopeless blighted and meanness resided. i for once did hoped. and his cast of the foolish cries met me in the gut with no retreat or retract, with no kiss for the tears, no face to turn away from. happiness by remembering back to the days of the wandering lost, thought off himself as the warrior king without his army, desert rat turning into the rat. broke ass man. torn up trash with nothing left but a masculine temper and a firm ass. the world would continued to cry over his ass alone, tears for beauty. hip that lies. one man. one world. his name was written in steel and plastic. i worshiped his name. for that he kissed my upper body with such devotion i could not fathomed, or understood. his way to attract, and to detain. manhole trap. lightness of the sunbeam. the darkness threw. the voiceless heat. beat and pay. witness and unseen of the walkers, they rattled with unkind words, but remained royal and aristocrat. hat of tricks. the cry less tears. false promises. and he with the roses and the thorns, his lean hands and the forcing grab. part of the unseen. paying for his own noiseless demanding. maybe his father was really a priest. waiting for no woman. wanting no one. the soul walk. the filthy fire. rainless streets and courtly summers. all that passed through the city gates would always came back out unharmed,





but thoroughly reconstructed nevertheless. that man of vanity, he who even laughed along with his en-emy. line for line. this naming the color. this cut of the pain. this sign of the uninhibited. his nakedness. the fine cloth of his underwear, his foul of the kinky interest, his note for the rainy nights and cute dog of the cold sea winter beach. he put his head on the crack of my arm, falling into the deepness of the sea. cold fog and misty air for the eyes to rest and the ears to search. high wind reached for his nouns, words touched the space in his mind and the name-less hollow; finer than the tune of the clock. drain-ing the clutch of the meat engine. his hope for the return. the prodigal orphan boy. wholeness of the kiss. he tried not to faint but the eyes betrayed him. his smoke filled eyes. damning the rest of the boys who stole his summers. eyes on the road. main street. the backyard and the killing of the cicadas. hole on the head. running off with the neighbor boy, the ugly cat. he who whispered. i kicked the foot of the bed, unaware that the sound it made would turned me into some evil maniac with some inten-tion to harm. the contact between tow males and the extra length of the furnace, eating up the lives of the surrounding well-feds. medicating on the re-alness of the emotion, high on salt. i did asked him if he wanted more water. the faithful and the lover. the quiet rose. indirectly affected. nice but slow. how the sun had turned against the moon and the rest of us. how he fated. how hate and desire both





bounded us together, me for the rain of the night, hateful shit. i would beat the crap out of any men who had a ring on his finger. this kindles earth. i nicked; he pained. lines of the read and wholesome of the listen, each with none of the refinement of the pain. how he had refused the slap of the bliss. he had called the night before and did not beg but asked and shouted, reaming off the scrums of his childhood. his tortured father of the cross who asked don’t his name and birthday. country of the poor. the quiet roads. the sun soak trousers. lines of red. on the bed we fucked. high curse and the fortitude of the disappear, the witness and the discharged. understandable filth of the floor, the building had way too way too many guests. all in disguise for the stroke of the swords. unused slash. aiming for the throat of the bull but missed because summer had already ended by the gate of the moon. miss-ing chance. sun in decline and forming the lest of the hunters. all desperate and steaming vile. hope for the last of the kiss. my hands were behind his trembling feet, rusty fingers of the fall, unknotted and best kept. happy ending for the reserved class; each to each own. vice squad to bust the neediest. his nameless season. the counterculture of the sexual dependency. his yet defined trick, the run-ning after the bones. he had this idea that i would forget everything and left everything for the least unexpected. there was no more surprise; the quiet fuck. holy shit for the sprung. off course and off





line. hung off the ledge. minor square and the bold of the drink, he licked the sole of my feet. under-stood the magical space of the least desired. his own account for the days when he was young and hand-some. the last in line of the despite. his name was tracked down for the reaping of the profit. those countless corns. high noon but yet reclining into the depth of the heat. the needy sun. wholessness of the signature in his off yet rebeautified chest. he almost headed out and probably would never came back. but he yielded. hating journey, bypassing the need of the flow. the water was not that deep. bridge to the authority. hole of yes. if i walked out on him i probably would never came back. the time and the timeline. dumb walls. rest and reluctant nods. we shared the same shadow; both in renew. high line of the lost. the corner of his sorrow. the finest pain. he just left. the shitless fuck; awed and reject-ing. eye opening to the max of the brows. we hated the roses. minor high game of the solitude. he flung himself into the night. controlling the urge to bor-row. thief for the rick. countless attractive bonus denied. the gift of lost. hatefully presented with the nod of silence, as if we both in no sense to attract them ourselves. eating and destroying. house of the innocents. the house of kings. i wanted to kiss his neck, his firm ass cheeks, his hole of reeking filth. wet moist butt, licking in rhyming. tight ass shit. bold nuts of the vein. i concurred and approached. slapped most in kind. the fatherless and the earth





less bum. he rejected the idea that i was there. i almost choked him with the kiss. eyes behind the shadow. the burning plain. red dust of the smoke. sunkiss deform. the nameless season; and the name of the pink. heel in the walk. he opened his garden for the guests; tonight they all dressed in pink. beige was not even a color, but a statement. we all have habits; he had problems. how could one hold that much inside. no kiss sun steam. i need to hold back a little just to tease him more. he opened it all, the self and the selfless; his strangest vice. the wine had kicked in. whole sale purpose. the shake of the stir. running behind the mask of hate. between the sheets and the bed, we eloped. and played. none of us awarded about the rest of the beats; we were all in for the taste. each hated the other more. hammer of the naked back. the finest silk. broke down in silence and the no good fuck. old shit of the day. the ungrateful tricks. high operation stink. no name no face. resting in peace and roast in claps, the vent of the seasonal furnace, hot of fuel. diesel length of the entrapment, the lashes of his eyes were full long heading to feast. meatness of the firm, whole lap of the pool in the rainy water, venting in the felling of the absolute. meaning the reformed and the deformed. handing in the last piece of the candy wraps. memo ushering the lantern of the night, howl-ing the reef. beach less winter, when the coal ran from the fire. we needed to adjust the chair. the hammer and the sickle, ending of the hellish road.





both of us in denial, bashing the nails to the teeth. sadness of the tail. living war and finement of the unjust, legalizing the issues, not the agenda. we both resurrected... clap clap clap. minus the woo of the peacock, and damn them sparrows were all that we ever loved. i meant cared. the sunless kiss. happy moments of the despair, earning the trust of the defeats. we kissed the nightmare and the trouble moon, waxing off the lines of red pink orange blue, and violet. deepness in the shallow, veiling in the soft lines of the curtain lining deaf. mocking the shadow, hating it for the fact that it was our very own. best in town, the summer lot, each to the sul-try of the lips revealed, all in the arms of the father heathen jerk, the vilest kind. honest between lines, and the leanness of the touch, he rejected me. on the floor the kindless slap. the heated armchair and the mute couch. room the kiss. and room to share. the butt of the joke and in the eyes of his quiet storm. meaning his very irresistible hole. embracing the hurt, casting in the last glance for the setting sun, voicing the need to indebt, his foolish short com-ing. waiting for the rest to reappear in the middle of the mist, his head was in his hind. touching the last. shoulder of the in breed. his festival call for the holiest, each remained nameless and uncount-able. each of his soul mates and play buddies. all remained pushed inside of this very eatable hole, the mindless trap. escaping the coldness to seek for the cold, earring his very own state of blackness,





the name of the blank. releasing the fume, noticing the smoke, he kindly resigned from the stay. the name of the dead rose. the name of the red. the burning of the thorns. summer witches heat. sun rest unclaimed. how he had just revealed without the shame of the cloth, with out a single word of de-nouncing. he had just passed over the lump on his back, walking into the coldness of the fire. the liq-uid in his eyes stayed unbleached, and mounting his own shade of lonesome. buying in the rest of his very fine fingers. loin of the sun. this was where all the men have been selected: warriors for the sec-ond prince. all rose for the stick. three old men and a mouse. his alpha mood. the burning fire. his leanness red. the cat of his own desire and the sharp-ness of his lips, foaming up the boil. untamed fur-nace. i reached for hands but the fingers got in the way. our very much delayed feast. his for the stains on the front of his pants, loudest talk. the smell of the soap, hating skin. emotional delay in detainment. concentration juice and the lime in the lemonade. hiding the distilment of the rain. the land of fuck. releasing realized and the smile for the hopeless. he was harshly repeated. noun to verb, both rejected by the princely adjective. the nameless son. father-less snots and the loud mouth children of the vi-cious king. escaping the reality of the dream, un-able to release a single sound from the sleep. the stillness of the lake in winter, his stately eyes. ball-ing the closeness of his grave, owning the space





without darkness, the space in void. unnamed for the rise of the undead. laughing for the lacking of the desire, we named our own room the kinkiest shit. fucking for the bitch of the dawn, our forgotten fathers. the kinkiest junk. his loin of denial, hoping for the return of his once loving lost high school dream boat. serenading the king with a very smoky meal, his very firm ass. four old men and a bitchy mouse: i owned this place. fearing the return of the undead, they were all in the back of his brainless mind, waiting to be asked. emotion for thee mean-est friend, all were at least once his very fine com-panion, lacking the skill of the unteach. how en-chanting for the crows, and the beautiful of the blue orchids. same as the late king who asked for the last kiss from his beloved knight, the rich unspoiled. country without borders. city in distress. the distance of the sound. coldness of the heat. the eyes of the storm, distant echoing. painter easy fuck. the son returned to vow for the beauty of his exile mother; and the father who never kissed or talked. the magi-cal mute day. the silence of the defeated. the war-riors who lost their weapons and the devotion from their troops; all rested in the shadow of the unwise. the sunset was heading into the corners of the city, claiming for the last rays of the unset, naming the beats of healing. we rested for few minutes, then continued the regret. hunting for the forgotten re-venge. how did the eyes of his should became so cold. his beheading of the unleashed. the slaveless





revolt. house of the fake. humming along the songs of the sleepy prayers. midnight moan and the awak-ening of the drops. the uncut of the diamond. the fine touch of the green. the nameless rose. the in-struction of the red. this kindness and the unkind of the thorns. his holishit for the ass. i rattled on the tail of his very own firmness of our mutual desire. aiming each into the should of the outer space, where his rambling run of the rose, unraveling the seed of his defeat; none of us fully understood. we just did. for the sake of the moments. vanishing delayed. hoping for the rest. the past was never re-ally dead. i hated my own deformity and my own layers of denial, his very much only salvation i de-served. the pain of his and the pleasure escaping his body, soul feathers in the wings of his fluid. harmless crimes. how we deceived ourselves with the crack of the whip; ours but my own. his pink red lips. his hole in finding. the snap of the fine bones. unrelenlessly rejected. flight into the sun. moonlit pearls of the kiss. far off island where the sun was most loved. the shallow of his water. his dents. the nicks. the sand and the forgotten game. the name-less sun, owning his own restless page and the happy fermentation of the least fit. unarmed and nomad in existence. we harmed our own flesh; and the bones always went dry. mouthless cape and the unforgiving sea. we sun broke the land and feed all the boys to the sharks. deaf heat unmoved, ranting off the mouth and howling for the pleasure suck.





the clutching of the hands, fending off unwelcome fingers. his nodding toward the declining sun. how we both hated the clasps without intention to ap-plause. highland merging down to meet the lines on the receding beach. he who beamed. moaning for the finest hour of the sun bitten. rush off the back of his hand to the tender of the legs, burning off the volt in the tendon, holding off steam. i was in enthralled of his own sweating body, heaving off the reexamination of the rotten meat. foul breath. untidy breath. and the wholesomeness of the un-ruly beatings of the heart. his very own laws of con-tentment. the returning to nowhere. lowest point in the deserted landscape, the whitest facade. broken balcony waiting for the fall. neither the loin nor the masculine butt, but his very irreplaceable bound. the place had no style but only rhymes, facing into the back alley of two of the tallest buildings in the city. i rented out from a friend who just decided to stay a summer in some edgeless country, some place that all the leaves are really green. all for the finer things that called relationship. the countless nights of the waiting winter and the sureness of spring. heavy rain and the thundering delete, each night earned an extra mile of waiting. all the the sake of the civilized, and the welfare of the civil. i at least now could sat down and openly fired off into the neatness of the skin. fresh mint open suck head. the sameness of clean aftershave; the fucking soap. the thornless rose. the colorless red. capping off the seal





for the season, he put his feet down on the floor and started walking around me. the parallel flap. the opening of his underwear. his black socks. the shut of the financial worms, dealing the healthy cuts. risking his very own flesh. healing in vain. the rot-ten rum. liquid dark of the sucking blood, unyield-ing and kicking off the dust into the sun. biting his own hands in disgust. this final resentment. his eyes opened into a slit, backing off against the wall. then he gapped for air. this nameless scum. the rose un-cut. the wetness of the dew pearls, waiting to dis-appear into the thin air of the morning. cut down fucking crap shit. he who did not cared. i handed him the string to tie his own hands, but he shaked his head, very slightly. we both already knew. damn-ing the length of the unwilling night, the summer and the heat. movements that led to the fled of the herds, plight of the twilight departure. summer honey paralyzed. the sudden jerk. this song we were wresting with had took us into our shallow grave. the shit of the empirical culture. this seedless word that crawled into our own skin. numbness of the dead fuck, those money sucking eyes. and details of the fuck stroke. owning to the sun in his eyes and i chased the laugh into the festivities the village had offered, no country without the last gossips. how we even passed for that sultry peasant, the one lean-ing on the vacuum of the front porch, holding in the wait for the return of the rebel sons. he asked for the rose, petals in disguise of the repeat. each fall-





ing into the quietness of the false space. hallo fox-ing the counting of the undesirables, those in need of the courting frontier. minding his own business of the flirt, he backed down before i even asked. no ring. no kiss. no nurture. just quiet shut. volunteer-ing to be denied. none taken without the sameness of the last war victims, rested and unclothed. hold-ing his tongue for the taste of the honey moon, i fought back and felled down, rug upturned up in his face. the mindless chest. men in skirt having the greed redone, vowing only the promise to the streets, none was taken as seriously as the fuck dedicating to the honest king; the roseless red. each bitten down for the song of the sun low, holding and denied. high fame mustering beat. the song of the warrior. unbeaten sea. the journey of the no name. the backs tapping of the first lust. he said it three times, and settled for the last unfulfilled request. all heat. all steam. rock fallen and water flowing into the night, impatient need. the restless pace of the protruding guard. the silence of the steps. main cut of the ring; his whole hand inside the front pocket. he said the words. he casted the last piece of stone into the fire, hole in his undershirt. mat of hairs black as coal, tunnel of the language, the in-lay of the foolish toss. menu for the funny bones, laughing without the turn of the lips. he kissed the crown. voicing the meaning of the upset, in need for real minor of the guitar. the reason why we both stood up in the middle of the crowd. his skin unbro-





ken, heating up the fastening underline. least of all the very small neck of the minotaur. father of the groom, he who bended over the table and remained unconscious through the rest of the banquet. red-ness pink of the white. the hopeless older members of the species, all in the rest of the stroke, unable to plant the seed into the stream of the cold. naming the run of the sleep, harmless undeniable, and the cold steam of autumn, forsaking the color of the cold white, hating the feeling for the red. kindness of strangers voicing the unsettle night, hunting for each kiss. i let the cool air coming in. the night un-locked the same earnest of feeling down, unseen despair upstaging naked sorrow. the feeling he needed not have. the torn of the curtain. the far out scream. hope for the last cut. minor in string of the pearl, laying back the rest. a certain peace, pushing me off the edge. the coldest fuck. would he ever remember any of this shit; that dumb ass pimp. the lines inside was even longer. he rested his head on the bed frame, unable to move for a while until i came over and gently stroked his back. his body was trembling, yearning to be touched. earth to the space, far curse of the moon. sinus tick. those i could not recalled. he cried because he could not talked. the cut of the rose. that hole of need, funny without the boundary. country for the tasteless. deaf dog of the kill. the running of the water slug. hurt beat on-coming, veil of the surface. eat and dream. he knocked down the chair and the table. the only chair





in the room. the lines in his eyes lids were wet with controlled tear. he picked the stuffs on the floor up, then dropped them back down. his sense for the surrounding was becoming more acute. rightness of the fear. i took his hands and pushed them to-gether, almost in a crush. the silence of the aban-doned. the unfed child, waiting for the return of the leap. the clock was striking in mid air, signaling the return of the beautiful. hopeless unneeded and the veil of time, all strut into the realm of disaster. chaos rhyme. his thought was untroubled, venturing into the depth of the free falling, running off the strict line of reasoning with the divine. he lied through his teeth, hopping around in the feet of the lusting eyes, mustering words for the effect of his burning rut. he owned his own thought, but the fine line be-tween thinking and feeling he could not defined. so he jumped. the rope lost its tension, falling for the free string uncut. even in the spring of his youth he never wandered, all waiting for the coming of an-other spring. the last in rest. the first in rest. even his summer was long and his own very secret of the eventful winter. loin of the city. the run away rats. fuck for fear, and the seduction of the fire. being vague for the time of dissolution. the last image of the sight. the moving creation. the rambling flower and the voicing lotus. cut of the rim. his sin for the unruly past. the checkered existence. the flaming touch. his hope for the summer never returned. the rumor of the dead. headless sun and the moving





walls, all leaded the sinister vast. cut of the rock, both leading figures for the blind. i could not hold him without pushing him back, eye for an eye. the run away groom. meaning of the refusal lust. i for once understood his need for the far away sun, the least in respect, mostly existed for the sake of the being dumped. pushed into the edge of the universe, where darkness felled into the singularity of the parallel, the count of the kicked offs. falling rocks. the single tear. meaningless touch. the second sun. eyeless of the last comer, who needed no face to convey the state of despair, no frames, and no lock. highest range and the headless summer. foul smell burning into the heartless sun. bitten into the teeth of the flesh. the smoke came after the kill, revenged and tempted feet. there was a very small hole in the back of his underwear. star sparkling of the dis-tant space, voice of the dark, kiss of the no. home unleashing strings of the least talked. we were both under the sheets, playing cool and dejected. aim-ing low for the seeker to be found. down and dirty. touching touch. the extremity of the rose, kingly red. this color we both found in the middle of the night. hiding behind his eyes and the mist of the action. and the humped. he ran his hands through his hairs, earning the keep of the nape neck, firm and alluring. his cold exterior fronting caught the names to be dropped, urge to be kindled, so much intensity of the viewing fools; his manly traits. cool and subtle. cool jetty calm busing in streams of the





water stretch. learning to disappear. home of the timid and the shy. violent throats. naked sun. the highness of the strait, delusional nailing on the cross. the tie into the bloody crime. vicious names of the undefeated. his vote was counted. his name was on the ballot. the search for the willing and the fucker; lining up the whores and the sluts. most of the troubles were the unreadable text, the gift of the dying son. leanness of the thorns, burning cold when the rest retreated, succeeded nature of the veins; none of my motives were good enough. he jerked with a strong shock then felled down on the mat-tress, leaping into the arm of darkness, healing for the waiting and the pain, not the sexless wit. cut of the throne power, the vile of his fatherly kind, his very own power to retain and absorb. moss pit and the lime rusty field. the color of his youth, hiding in the stream of the mostly blue. the names between the strokes and the caress. the sound of the mur-mur, victory for the total. the least of the sum. he rejected the burning torch. he cut the string. hope yet virtue madness of the kindred shapes. the vines of the garden strips, and the cat of rant. summer in the class, under the bell of spring. hole in the trou-sers. baby blue and first cost pearly pink. lest was the joke of his familiar train, where each trip would turned into a nightmare chilly baked. hunter in the trance of the bloody torn, voting for the flow of the flood. tunnel designer dream. reaching into the face-less basement. tallest trap. the trip into the bound-





ary of the sky, and his recent introduction to the abject. sun without the shine. the unfaithful heat. mumbling bloomer. that hateful rose. graceful wrap. witness to the execution of the innocents. the walk-ing of the undead. talking into the revealing of the secret burnt. home and the head. home for the un-freeze. working off. unmotivated with the need to retreat back to the unknown. hope for less. and the reaming of the stink. rugged hole of the damning stretch. earth and the desire. and vile vomiting filth, his gut in the noses of the killing dogs. snapping unquestionable funk. poverty for the noble quest. the naming of the rose. the silky thorns. blood suck-ing red. unheard and unclean. the faintest smell of the early winter. hole and the stink. the reef of red, this color of the damned. foolishly disguised inside the manner of the bashful, holiday to the finished attraction. home fried of the green. namely distrust. i hoped for a little more enthusiasm. the weakness of the knees. the burning fingers on the skin of cut. tearing down the falls of the skin, flesh running off the heatless fusion. if you could run off with him would you change your mind? boxing the weaken legs. vicinity of the boundaries. buffering fuse. must be a cat. the coolest boy in the room. his smoky eyes vindictive and full of yearning. the loudest mouth from the crowd. hollering the tricky yap. wingless caterpillars. the hoping frog. rain for the fullness of the wet night. we both sucked in our lung, venting the seek for the cool air, lusting the fact of





death. i wanted to hold him for ever. the neatness of the line and the coldness of the ceiling fan. un-kind in the state of undress. and the sun almost in decline, burning into the fines of the hour. each day when the moon began to leek out, he stood outside of his apartment and wept. muddy soul of the vul-ture slug, the hustle of the flow, the rimming of the hole in his body. his touch became less absurd; he almost felt like himself. the kind of needle that never went into the vein. the smoke of the cold heat. red-ness of the petals. the rose in disguise. masked na-ture of the color code. justice prevailed, he spitted. the harm he delivered after the priest knelt down in the middle of the garden delight. he worshiped that foot. the displacement of the case. the wildest heat. the hatred of the desirable. the mighty lump. hate and reflex. however quite he tried to achieve, the moment of total despair kept creeping in, the trash-ing of the crush. the total disaster welfare of the tears. he has already felt if he cursed more the liv-ing kill around him would ceased to exist. hunter cutting off the branches of the oak trees. i should had told him the truth. the countless hours of the dream. the finest hit. who just the sound of his voice itself would turned my body into such beat. roles we played. the feeling of the unconceivable. the shut down. the motion of the water. the rest. and the run. earnest in destroying the symmetry of the knots, hot and retreating. back to the first. hills of the afternoon mist and the far away memories. each





hold the other in the arms of the musky body. i went after his ass like i owned it. the shifting of the sea-sons. and the hunting trail. the season. the winter withdrawn. the waiting. the meet. all of nothing. intoxication and memories. the second son had re-turned; nothing and only for the kneeling laugher. we opened the day with this night we shared. the room of lust. victory of the must. necessary in de-spite. honey and sugar. vinegar and salad. haft in the full. the cut and the tear. more and the addition. home under home. how much love the sons give their father if they must fight to be admitted? the hearing impair. must for the least. house unrest. room to room. the passing of the gate. the keeper. the honest flame. the room. the smoke. the burning vines. the space in his eyes. coming back of the first. coldness in diversion. the fire in his eyes. the void. holding the cup of breath. the breeding ground. grabbing his head in hoping for the better thinking, clear and focus. unsettling feeling of his own body in rebel. yes yes and more. the glimpse into his past life. the nodding of the yes. old leer and the setting of the old sun. red hot yellow turning into orange flare. boundaries for the uprising downers. sun-flower burst. head of the gamers. the lust for the rain. the awakening of the fingers. the happening. it was the thinking, not the thought. he refused. the sacred landfill. the holy trash. reaching into the pocket of time, reaching for the neck. reaching for the unnamed. the eyes behind the closing curtain.





the meet of the sharpness. raining fuel. the broken tears. it was the end that i wanted to reclaim. the finest honor. the sun in the storm. eyes of the still water. the quiet strokes. sunless beams. the stray-ing cat. the high shorts of the runner. the return of the lost. he held on for few more seconds and he let it dropped. the foolish game. tears flowing down when it most unexpected. taming flame. high hope for the reluctant, this i had already postponed for the right to meet; the name forsaking the shadow. the rain of the flow, the kill. and the detached. hurt sharper. hurt locker. vertigo on the balcony of the time, the sharing of the secret. each of us held the other in detain, clutching into the signs of hurt. un-less the clock strikes. unnamed defeat. hopelessly undeniable. his ears were vibrating, holding infor-mation for the new millennium. fast facts unchecked for the low down south factory remade. partition of the emotional skill. hot bed of the flux. honesty in resign. there was none of the exists, no flip or sky. lining for the sun to reflect, eating up the last crumbs from the moon. commanding of the unruly truth. cold ice portion of the planet fertile. the escaping rain. unskin and stripped. hotness and the waxing. the lying king. when the sun came back out the fox ran back into the hole and vomited. heat for the winter. the room inside the left, void pitch dark lay-ing still and running off head ruthless and embrac-ing kill. none of this would happen if he decided to kick me out of the car. lung for the air. the filtering





of the smoke. mole undetectable. the smallest part of this deserted moment was including the sign for his upcoming capture. least of all the left side of his face. silky black touch. the role he played. the cap of the hat. testing the heritage of his own odor. un-earth reset. the flowing of the river disturbed. the silence of the last goodbye. he held out his hands, but his eyes rejected. neediness un becoming. the sound of the names releasing last fall. eyes nice shut. the touching of the tp. the vote. the stray. the left hook. the call of the sun. the sum of all tears. the lonely cubs. stretching the right to withdraw. teasing the meet by the river. over the left knee. over the left shoulder. sand hut beach. the find. the cooked junk. silly skip of the beat. untamed memo-ries. best of the cows. inside the rim of his trunk the cow licked his own testicles. hurling the voice into the soap. honesty in recline. into the stream of the touch. the fuck of the victory. seedless semen and boldest fuck. i sun less notion after the kink that ripped his shirts apart. reaping the falling and the undecided. sun tip of the bright. birth defect. the lowest point on the scale. nap best in room uncon-trollable. he held curling the buttless chaps. his lips were bugging the lines of the contour. haft of the crowd already left. sun beaten down unbitten bite. the coughing of the blood. the spitting fire. left hook, again. liquid breath. he sun his back and body on the floor of the prison hall. refusing the call back of the wildest beast. trapped shut undesirable. hope





unhooked. the boat had left the river, the bank and the ferry collided. the river of the left, heatless un-sound. the drunk of the drink. the last wine. the taste-less sun. the vomiting of the light. hurting back kick. i named all, but his only the reason i grabbed and embraced. part of it i did not remembered why, part of it i did not cared. something sometime and then we just changed. and charged. hush hush devour-ing. kicked it with the rest. lips red unkissed and moving into the direction totally for the run. hon-esty sometimes. and the same knit of the brows. his folded creamy text. the meeting of the leaders. how left and unfinished. he asked for the number of the exact. for ever sure that it killed the length of vi-sion in despair, loving the heat of the rug. the feetless feeling of the false, the roaming of the pack. he stroked. cut sharp on the flesh and the kiss. mean-ingful device for the mutants. hushing vein behind the eyes of the problems. he could not forgot the running behind the strut, all for the show of the royal gang. hoping defected. three months in detention. the sadness of the wires. burning left foot. when the rain wept and the sun cried. doubtful request. island and island and island and island and island,


... turning for the beachless sand. he had in his hands a roll of twenty dollars bills. volume and the sound. in fact it was his idea. i just went along. with each found object we rumbled. the whole some of the jungle beat down. fuming concrete streets. the dark-ness of the light. venturing branches needing the




nurturing of the blade. edgeless earth. the worm and the beetle. feetless mammal below the surface trapped in its own slime. tunnel focus retreating back into the source of the no, vowing to come back to reclaim the yes. hat off to the player who rested before the total collapse, closing in closing in then ejected. the sand began its journey into the center of the flame, boundaries restless trick, beating into the circle of the warm sun. ring of death. vicious as the nose hairs in his face. he breathed the laugh and hosing down the gas trembling rose, hunting the ring on his own finger. dealing hand of the pas-sionate. the king of all kings.



Le Tuan




from Anthology,   Red Kite Production, https://www.scribd.com