is for the love is was

Is for the love waist not had in its trickle added to sun
she cannot say how sweet the svelte hipped one wandered
moments ago past a windowed casement her kerchief like an
old hippy bandana and her jeans reminiscent for a moment of then
not now these days this informatique computer technological
gene rat ion rationed on rationalism and crap of


I can't write you these words which make yourself conscious and cowardice rise toward me a dull boring blamed and you have no bravery and no stance but your tightass words as always is this how you greet a friend whose traveled the high seas and continues to travel you fool not knowing the real itch of friend,
but my women know, and my alcoholics and I know their know,
but what you know is the dead that's all so stand
there reiterated and retreated like your salt bowl


reterritorialized by every lie each one of you trespasses and follows her deadline hookline and stinker!!
where as saltedbrined in my moustache look for the mountain.
you will always be the worst kind of minor player, and when
I say minor, I don't mean minoritarian and stutter,
but peweled self-pity and botched,
 but now let that be, she moves on.

O the grass that I want to have under, is yours and mine,
and in China we shudder all the time like mountains do in the night