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PK Wakefield Sep 2012
the legion of your slumber is a copse of

innight trees

a trickle of moonlight

and petals caught

in glowing tinily

neat messness

(where a doe comes
between hushed eaves
her mouth pink rimmed
with and tongue plucks
from the body of each
flower,

                lust
PK Wakefield Sep 2012
alive's a more than little less dead
dead is 'cause

not life's hot bands

of colour

         a rose

a push of smell

that of holly and sleeping girls

the ocean, ceaseless

resting and

unresting

falls out beyond sight
moves tirelessly
abundant

and

very

      very


                  small
PK Wakefield Sep 2012
walking briskly
clutched purse
brown slick
leather gold
dangles chain
boot to hip
(*** in jeans)
tighter pliantly
addresses earth
beautifully crushed
rouge brunette
hair lips
ivory between
flashes parting
eden A
serpent and,
"excuse me"
PK Wakefield Sep 2012
i've some blade in me lightly
awe full it

shard

glows

              wafting

a hot star drips from

and out my fingers


          EXPLODES
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
city, i have not
for summer been in you,
as snared by
sleeping careful ivy

the surge
and hush of pairing
day emitted
from,

a long opaque
beauty
thats cough is a
dark blossom
holding dim
studs of barest neon

something more than infinitely lovelier

for though summer
i have not been in you

          city

as snared by ivy
sleeping carefully
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
for though burning

turn face

wide open

into

             LIGHT

                             slip

                          

                      thy



                                      falling


                      voice


               'bout

                        flicker


               eyes

                         rapidly


                  lids half

             mouth full


                   juice


              runneth


                          over



              clear sticky



                  more sweeter



              and


                              immolate
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
i have been most alive
when my hands extend
beyond extension, crawl
leaping the air to clutch
in them the moon fairies,
dust magic,

                           and music

o music usually that eats
its no thing and has breath
like a nubile thigh: young
hard hot breath that creeps

o music sometimes the or
loud curving rush of your
mystery it curls in my ears
it sounds like girls laughing

it has legs weak that tremble
for between them digging
fingers, a sound like piercing
emits                                   it

is softer

beyond softer it clings in
fairy moons, magic dust
and a whole muss of
shuddering envelopes its

rushing curve

and hands leaping

extended

beyond extension
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