PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
7 minutes ago

this suddenly flesh over me
which saying not words
speaks

              (says)

with brushed by fineness
of slightly golden hair:
back and knee and shoulder

who web between sequence of bone
muscles in hurling coils of, "yes."

deeply and more fair than
roiling plate of sea
seething and curves
with wave of heat;

(turned heat)
curved by blade
of mouth and neck.

(i am love you) the which
parted and swelling
to fit within;

eyes, breasts and freckle.

(and do the undoing thing
from where all newness comes:

the "Dear," the "I,"
tongue into
kiss;

breach the fold
where's silent–bliss       .)

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
7 days ago

"The greatest weakness of my own character is the inability to bear the suffering of others for the furtherment of my own interests–my inability to inflict suffering."

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
7 days ago

spelt:

the uneven the
folding of into
mouths–

grass;

between tickles
and niggling
of thigh

sweated and
hot through
muscle of wine,

over the lips

       breaking

a dash of
                     light ;

sound
(and not sound too) –––

there is a doe
a starling
and a
thick beam

of golden wheat

parts the sun
into white manifolds
of burning health:

(wither which,
into each should go

all those summers
afore the snow) .

.



























                  "I'm objectifying you–you're an object to me."





























.

the nothing moment
where of a once beautiful
woman in a dark room
with her husband only
sits painfully

and says, "I forgot to take my medication today."

this green dream,
of which i think too much,
marked of dint and lurid scar
whose cloven cheek
is comely seamed:

bares the hurt of boyish touch
where felt too full the words they speak,
now lies in frost–winter ajar.

but if could i
return to shoots
the forest where in snow is kept

your ice'n heart, my heat accept,
i'twould not despair to die:

But–

alas,

"pity is praised as the virtue of prostitutes."

i think i shall die
that there is a rose in my lips–
the sea everywhere
and the barely sound
of washing over
the sand
it.

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment