PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
2 days ago


                                       ­                                          t
                                                               ­                as
                                                              ­               t
                                                               ­                 EE
                                             ­                              a
                                                               ­                 C
                                              ­                         h
                                                               ­  feels as shape
                                                           ­    like shape does:
                                                           ­  as like winter fist;
                                                           a juniper wi' holly kisst
                                                                ­         Acurled
                                                         ­                w
                                                               ­               i
                                                ­                    th
                                          ­                                i
                               ­                                              n
                                                               ­ a    curl'd   sphere
                                                          ­                   t
                                                               ­          he
                                                              ­   locke o' love
                                                            ­            an'
                                                 ­                         f
                                      ­                                       u

                                                              ­           r
                                                               ­             l
                                                  ­                      e
                                         ­                                       d
                        ­                                                            fear

                                                               ­                        et, un deux du pleur fus

                                                            ­ that hands should hurt
                                  where love is new


PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
3 days ago

To know life is to understand that we, each of us, is a lover, selfless, kind, demure–but also that we are, simultaneously, haters, selfish, cruel, avaricious; and that in that very contradiction, is life.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
5 days ago

it is dark beyond which
to breath in
the mute foils
of night

churning with
constant cicada–

the vibrating of
two membranes–

i am not lost nor wonder;

i know this moment:

it is time to be the person you were always supposed to be.

PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
6 days ago


"                                                  You're a monster                                               ."





PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
7 days ago

this world alive with night
tinly bruised by
chimes seems to
wither seems to

hold the ready mystery of
life between its hips mouth
full of lips steaming up one
spectral flower of luminous self;

(i wander and suddenly am)

the garden is rough
momentarily i make a fist
of five fingers

somewhere there is a sound
a totally superfluous noise

i yawn and turn through clouds
of just spring air towards the
bashful eclipse of silence

i count my fingers and there is my hand
i mark it and pleasantly ingest the pale
twinkling swaddled of the wide sky;

how many days are there?
how many nights(and a petal
catches in the groove of my palm)?

it's thick
i'm drunk
the night is alive with
world is tinly
bruised by chimes

(And purple easily conquers the horizon

have you ever seen or felt
or pressed apart the lips
of dying girls who
23 years less of life
split tenderly–
wetly caving

hair mouth
shoulders spine
a tiny breath
fluttering lids
tense cording of

dancing sharply
pulled sternly after
hands onto

the buzzing
of coarse
against lips(mylips)

and dies
one dying
final revolution
of ecstatic

in her mounded purse

tastes of salt
sweet and



the house is quiet the light is bedside
warm outside the sound is barely of
chimes (i can hear) i can feel the hot
coil of your leg snaring the almost not
groan of the big room is dusty with the
whisker of a cat shifts your hips (into
my hips) inching slumber deeply into
heat of closeness to body white and
shoulders cut curved of alabaster
grooving into the pale basin of your
chest at the base end of your neat neck
almost like talcum like light powder of
dusting the immense club of sleep is
your wrists are a tiny potion of
thousands of years of silence only to
live through 23 years a girl sleeping
enormously the room doesn't change
doesn't move barely a bit or budge
even more than slightly than a mote at
a time (4:00am) i kiss i cull i cup your
shoulders drinking the burning wine
of your heaped hips into mine
knowing someday you will be dead.

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