PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
2 days ago

white dappled easy
O intensely fragrant autumn,
you are the sun who
enormously tilts its brazen

shoulders 'pon the neat
and drowsy mountains. A Titan,
that toppled o'er of bronze,
gild the mute band o' e'r pleasant span;

with pulsed nonsense
of hulking brinded hide,
that wreak'd of tress,
fit where all souls seek to bide:

that wherein all sleeping's never done
(and Virgil comes to lead,
t' whence health's for ever spun           )


                        .

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
6 days ago

to live which what life beyond being

   (is there some I

stagger up with moonlight
the cool instant breath
of standing hot between
nothing and nothing                            )



vast and vast and vast



that enormous when of feeling the wind
around drunk drinking of the texture of a breath:

collapsing the condescended body of the moon stars laughter just inside the house outside which dreams the world of rain darkness and the impossible languor of health–


the need

the urge

the rush

to quietly pursue books of open girlness;

pages terribly comfortable to grasp and fill within letters of self.







how which we desire what to be perfectly exact of easy being:

the frond which stands strong without tending of hand–

the garden filled with the immense flower of youth.




And never to die,
never to grow old
or weak inside.



(what an impossible thing it is to know; to love; to live                    )

what an impossible thing it is to laugh

The first act of creating oneself is nearly impossible. Being that they must erect the very plinth upon which all creating is later done–all plinths themselves been built on ever prior ones.

to mix as mixing fingers do
that pleasant scape of cut and hue
could only be by perfect hand–
to spill the sky with food so grand;

for eyes to eat for ever more,
ere come the bleakness: acheron's shore,
where stood is there unlucky crowd
embrace'd of apple from knowledge boughed;

and the lark that fell for un-leaden branch
to stain from souls forever blanch
died to live–immortal make–
when each, our bodies, meet their break

shape that cuts
(girllike)
closely
shaven

with sweetness pressed
alone a little empty

needswants

filling to be

–inside–so mouth;;;

skin love,

hands dreaming on
pert curving of tiny
white white white

she she

"Can


             I


go down on you?"

Do is everything because becoming by the hands of our repeated selves
(or so i'm told by Nietzsche is a really fucking son of a bitch that can't
Kant a damn thing about a thing-in-itself give one flying shit too
many after hours drinking way low into the bottom of some end
i–means–met by the dark absorbing linger of neon around sign
talk talk talking about how Nietzscher'd teach yer about a thing
made of its own god damn will "you fuck me or what)"?

wet stoops
wet sleeps
down beside
vibrant hulks
of day into night becoming
a persimmon fleshed in robes
of sweetish musk of raging dark:

that blind canny o' comely marsh
where sweats tallly the brisk frigid
smirk of winter coming into between–

i cannot fathom
nor wonder 'pon a thing more
violent nude or primly stolen
than the absurd tumor of suddenly
which every immense second of life
Is.

and how do i call it?
how do i name it by itself?
is it nameable?
is demanded some strict finitude of immutable logic?
or is impossibly monikered in nothing short of illimitable self?

(and who have I been? have i been myself? where did i begin? and shall i ever end in knowing?)

 
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