PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
4 days ago

little enough world how up Up UP
in your frail face is a pair of slick
rinds coloured in the drowsy dream
of being,

a forest that perhaps
is filled with sunset being sheathed
in rain

its voice that
tinly crawls
on tremendous legs of pale wind

a fine club
is wield by
enormous strength of drunk hands

drunk with vine and pistil
(poppy and thistle)

that PRICK PRIck PRick
the alabaster hull of cloud

(a single star emits
and dances upon fall
all the deadness who
turn their cheecks up

         –even their cheecks up–

at this death more,



PK Wakefield
PK Wakefield
5 days ago

that immured
betwixt chaste
cleats of girly leg

the hard ardor
of boyly prism
to wantonly beg

it by pale scythe
of membranous organ reap

the clean growing
of all tall cane
where reason keep

the unsweet substance
of cool and pensive mind

(but by blood and hot lather
in stupid gouts of
bind ).      .              .                      .                           .                                            .

a thorn gently
eager with which
to meet:


how inside feels moon
when slight suddenly
pricks all nerves


perched on breath
every vessel rages
with intensely purring starlight

each self wholly vibrates
with brief invincible death.

not less spoken than:
;hardly hearing
;barely speaking


"Want something beautiful? Make yourself beautiful first."


"I can be cruel.

But not emotionless–not mindlessly cruel.

With disdain and a true lack of care.

I envy that."


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