Wittgenstein's lion (8)

prophesying, says

a fallen ox, in itself bovine, and understood as such could be
  eaten, ignored, or argued against all you like;

satiety, misapprehension, clumsiness of it and like others can
   serve as accredited causes of death; &

the weak will die as really & thrash in the sand, under me,
  as sink under the weight of a sort of carnality

hmmm, that cannot be paralleled either by anything watery
  or any silly simum breeze you've got.

       Teeth, breath & breezes, again


 

Wittgenstein's lion (7)

says, parenthetically

further, at the troughs are half a tribe of ankles and
  chins, lanky irregular hips

who've easily passed by without bites and scratches
  I won't blacken the women

It's not their time yet; & it is slow going for a 1% heart
  Telling the greater from the less

like lips from the threatening groin, ear from grass
  is sufficient for now

 I kill & cop with credentials!
 

Wittgenstein's lion (6)

says of the corporeity of love,


if we see each other as two imperishable wholes
  and hide our twin thirsts,

& it seems we do; and if it seems we're not our-
  selves but reeking rabbit flesh,

pushing to possess more of what is very irreal,
   &more of you inside myself,

and if never becoming simply aroused  affects,
   possesses and arouses,

and if I'm barely 1% heart, stupendous as it seems,
    and am barely flesh:--

if  all this is true and it seems it is and you must die,
  a bocca aperta!

              
 

Wittgenstein's lion (5)

says, in a troubled mood,

if I pass into flesh, as if, or for as long as you do
  run & stupidly look

like two elands locked in fear, quietly kneeled:
  if, if...

such a flesh, and not  just yours bowed in fear
  makes me real,

if, if...
 

Wittgenstein's lion (4)

in loving, says

for as long as you're dear you're still something to die for. How?
  Always available, always there

you veer into sinewy culpable jaw with a sprinkle of dirt to keep
  me dry: to give yourself like the ewe!

My spring's erotic, full-fledged & it shoots like a bolt to the very
  nape. I kill by both feeling and feet,

sucking dirt with or without you-- untouchable, unassimilable you!
  Swear always to be you!

Wittgenstein's Lion (3)

says, reflecting on the skull's ipseity,

A killing arises that, while quite banal, leaves me alone,
                                                                                   happily
   that nobody knows day nor hour of--

If I expect you, you do arise ready & skinny out of the plains.
   I can't absent you from me

dead with or without me, soaked in dialogue to the end, lying
   purplish as the jacaranda

Say one word and I will tempt you to me with the paw's split
  flesh. Nothing beyond flesh

Wittgenstein's lion (2)

says, being subject to time

The field is oppressed by sky (Isn't it?) but only insofar as
  it's factual : the point, i.e. is to kill

because under the skies &interstitial palms of the times
  to move about, pass from

one light to the next, is to me a tail's dread limp because so
  bloody (as all the beings

circulating within their own cries know all too well!).
   Then I return to hot breath,

 sleep, just where I happen to be, & everywhere I go

    Unsubstitutable breath

Wittgenstein's lion (1)

says,

    I can roar and blink on four slow feet. The scared Mädchen 
   in the eye can madden like the tooth-sore and gnawed paw.

   My tufa brow!

                          But I long for quince, vulval, grown from the seed .
   I scent you, tho, and am sad for  a time,lamentably til I'm shrill and
   not a single clearing escapes, & not a single whelp

                                                                                     It's pulpous for
  a time til the calm of the head that's been mercifully gnawed and
  chawed, can rest purplish now Shuttered or thrashing, cleaving, you
                         are tired, too, thin beyond belief

  and toss me chickens, snatched in mid-air, for relief