PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
1 day ago

there is laughter a girl fills the naked silence with her shoulders through
the angled tress of her white flower (a rose that) whose mouth speak
saying to live through careless moments of hurt sunlight: SUMMER the
curling sigh of breasts nude fingers between where sleeps her sonnet and
her hair.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
1 day ago

that winter kills a flower
(there is a song bird
                ) it  

loves(somewhere in the
darkness ) only

purer only fleeter with
(whose beak snares upon)
snowfingers pressed with              (silence)

white lips around
the thick pistil                                                    (and calls Spring)

                                              To Die

                                           (               )

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
1 day ago

"I want you to know: I never forgot."

                                               "I know."



PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
5 days ago

this new
the slim body of
thorough unbroken




like as like
coils of
brute laughter
the languid burst
after fucking


serene pitches of
in the winter when
first grows
first fingers
into tense coldness
of taught muscles

the love fist


through stark air,

A rose.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
7 days ago

comes not this, my dear because
like my dear because
as like rain as like
sheets of trembling
morning push over press
between pages of lilies
your white body of because

(i live) .

sleep this most and Spring to lie
with tired tress and awkward thigh
apart that bit where winter slept
but now where stock and petals kept

a garden small and fragile sleeps
a'tween the hull and meadows deep
tha' bumbles bri' wi' nettled buzz
an' blooms with light an' shocks o' fuzz

a little rill there constant speaks
of need to want for constant peaks
(as like the bee that tends to pistil
the water feels to drink of thistle)

and feel the full when sharply stuck
by root and stem of urgent pluck

two or three cheap men sit saying
about one night
fucking some old
sunburnt gal

says one long thought
of an old man
murdered by
two white lips

chapped lips on the
spit of the world his
hands were young once

nice once on the young necks
of girls made by long drinks
brandy wine and copper blood

(and the shrill wisp of a flower
is in his hair as
the old man who
murdered by
two lips

gets up from drunk and goes
to  the withered primrose of some
summer ago when his long

and cool muscles blossomed
amongst tired evenings and
almost night was quick with
hot music of stars and brilliant trifles

. And looks he the old white
who man by lips

into the distinct crow
of his shrunken
face a mirror

a mirror that
his face

does a single





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