Sonnets—Realities I

O It’s Nice To Get Up In,the slipshod mucous kiss
of her riant belly’s fooling bore
—When The Sun Begins To(with a phrasing crease
of hot subliminal lips,as if a score
of youngest angels suddenly should stretch neat necks
just to see how always squirms
the skilful mystery of Hell)me suddenly

grips in the chuckles of supreme sex.

In The Good Old Summer Time.
My gorgeous bullet in the tickling intuitive flight
aches,just,simply,into,her.       Thirsty
stirring.   (Must be summer.         Hush.     Worms.)
But It’s Nicer To Lie In Bed
                            —eh?   I’m

not.   Again.   Hush.   God.   Please hold.   Tight