New Hampshire Spring is...

really something else, the
warm
zephyrs rolled like a perfect joint, ascending
sigh,
the waves of sound
huddling shrubs shiver
bubbles:
tell me tell me that you love me,
your heart
overflowerin' with sheer blood and feeling
til
your eyes dilate so large
an orb
batted out of space,
tell me tell me tell me
as always as always as always
and I,
giving up
only a fragment of what I once was
grow nail by nail and hair by hair
into your bosom.

All those lines, streets of New York, sounds
busy as bees
buzzing into oblivion:
beyond Nirvana into Postmodern Nietzchianism,
reading Octavio Paz, being amused
by Lacan,
it's all post-historical, cultural imperialism
facaded with meaning.
Every minority wants power or rather is engaging
in a contest of power
beyond a will to power...
power is the fuel of the pleasure principle.

Tell me tell me tell me,
your hair will curl as the wind curls
shiver as the roses
in the well of the air
up the fairs and dawn the stairs,
a clear breathainer.

Language structures the conscious and the unluscious,
its meaning is deviant,
multifold
since language is a semiotic derivative
of bad habits...
you can't hate me for being stupid...
so who's to say what meaning is
but a staircase (consciousness) or(
desentcase (unconscious)
into interior structures of -
reality
foamed a reaction
rejection
disturbation
disastation
to reality.

Tell me tell me tell me that
you love me
more than your lips, eyes, and soul.
Tell me at least
that
you
will
tuck me in your sleeve?