PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
3 days ago

it's time

       to sleep

i guess


i'll love you



PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
3 days ago

dead what's it ?
inside the clasped lid
of never to part darkness
inching each breath
with each breath
towards that titanic chasm

(into which leaps
every humdrum
scintillating eruption
of drab being)

I cannot imagine
anything more absurd than
perhaps fucking or sitting
outside on the pale veranda
of a minute café
tucked into the
silent crease of
a dying city

the light stroking
carelessly the nude soil
with extremely sleepy
every where–

and occasionally
a child
can be heard
murdering silence
with its long shriek
of rapid youth–

i wonder and play.
my hands neatly in the comely foil.
i bend and kern
each brilliantly lashed
marvel of coalesced laughter–

a tiny poem is sitting
slant wise their
across thighs
with deliberate health
of constant sex–

there is a mountain hurled
studiously erect
aggressively swept
by moonshadow
and nightdust:          (amongst the reeds

                                     a tired frog

                                      is lilting

across the ether
its ancient song           ) I wonder,

can you hear it to
ever think
upon the frail note
of its enormous throat
that to live is to die
constantly as–

a truck turns south
into the friscalating
dusklight its shadow
is minute;

and how can it
the insane probability
that we naked forevers
might suddenly be
in each distilled
anthem of terrible life,
the brute
the heap
of chaff
off from the stock
reaped by unthinkable hands

(but i think and i wonder
and my hands play amongst the
cool beds of immortal rivers
endless coils of blinding self

elle n'est pas one hell
of an elle in does
brightly chafe with
dower stocking removal
hastily into thigh as thigh
does improbably hairless
Glide into petite grande
pink pretty pinched heaping
of dryless humped helping
of hump help needing

A quick drizzle of angles that
unsuddenly with immortal pairing
bare the rude stem of Spring–

which cannot unbarley but to shreak
the tiniest whisper of "please into my
house enter the deepest blooming
of red red red steam   "

being i just could only
that at
the naked perfume
of her
seeping incessantly laughter
but to boom as wide and cloyingly
drunk with open health

as God had said
making the world
by one word: she

said not one word
(making my world)
but two,

               "fuck me"

sheet crumpled not
deeply thrashing
with life as a last night did
dead now dreaming
as dreaming sheets oftenly
boy with toy like
fantasies of apart joints
socketed into unsleeping
hips in the darkest of
night's dreamless deepening

sits some thick blushed fitting thighs
around softly become
of mouth and lips



erect curled
salt summer

petals in
of aching
to part

on stem
on pistil


the little house
of your hips

(where my mouth lives

in body whose white lectern
fragrantly to

, i will carve

a notch deep
into your breasts
snow fingers and
dove hands of
love cruelly which
i cannot unmake
my lips for                              .

the not body of Spring feels like
girlhood stroked fur purring
wet between April and May
slicked rain of coming flowers:

                   Not easy
                   Not hard
                   nor needing

for kneadfuly clutch of loosed steam
who makes tearfully joy by within
forests loops of the curling stuff
her own not body

by warmth
by wet
decay of young
foals white petals parting showers of chaste rain and the


emulsion of pushing through
the supple cloud of morning:


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