Eve within the fruit

waves love bodies. 

I hunger after nebulous lips before dawn. all paralysis of flesh grows into smoke first. if not losing the texture of cold fruit under the female skin in me. 

I reject the senses and the questions that send her poems exposing furious metaphors on my utter lack of fear of possibilities. She is sewing in me under the skin that obliges poems to blow. my native crux is Desire in waves, more physical than the old sofa where Yahweh faces my flow of inner life against all the fruits. How can I find the Fruit of my Hunger? How can I sense the horror of Love in the end of the Night? ...and do not forget the connection of lips and blood with the mouth spreading over the Garden. all the old anchors cry: I am  the snake, the baby, the journey, the salvation, against rotten texts of texts of texts... I work for bread with my trembling womb, see how I bleed and love, bleed and love, bleed and love... I hear the voice of roses on the wrong side of the fountains in me! What do I mean?... fury flows through pages, burnt pages, bleeding immensely, prose and verse, my stories of last night in my hands cutting off trees of Excessive Fruits. my best poem bleeding, longing for the whole fountain, the whole dawn of Desire touching my womb lips. so much to read, your hands, lost for so long, Yahweh, my mouth names it with saliva naked, all-embracing flood. The heat throws tenderness against the rocks. I need a rock to kiss and bite furiously. the tempest sings off the coast, off the heart. we dance in darkness between vowels and tongues. every wound must be a poem, bleeding and breathing, the alphabet inside the ruined body within Enigma. I protest against the juice of loves fuming loves like knives turning pages, madly... 

waves love bodies, the fullness of infinite summers crossing the oceans here, now, in all flexions of my muscles, beyond myself. Eve is an overdose of waves in flame and milky loves into veins.

This text attacks the texture of flesh of my women from last night, still bleeding those syllables of peak temperatures. our wombs endure and endure earthquakes blasting Fables and Adieus.