oh Rose
how thou
art of my
heart always
a part

in fiber
and beating
the muscle

big lung
inside where
interchange
blood air

you grow
your croaking
voice

the roots reach
into soil
unstill

moved
rhythmically
by your being

my Rose
my heart

thou art
the first cause

a beginning
moved not
but moves
all action
to start

.



.










,

i'm going to wake up tomorrow.
i'm going to wake up and i'm going to go into my bathroom and shave. i am going to look in the mirror. i'm going to look in the mirror and i'm going to tell myself a story about who i am.

i'm going to say, "i am Patrick Wakefield. i am 25 years old. i am Patrick Wakefield, i am 25 years old, in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles and bleed. i am 25 years old, and one summer i fell in love. one summer i spent a hot week in a small room. it was hot, and i was in love. and i don't drink normally but i got drunk on plum wine. i got drunk on plum wine, it was hot, and i am 25 years old. in the winter my hands get dry and crack around the knuckles, and bleed."

being just the flesh eyes
make electric,
blue that
the sky
occasionally will be,

or wooled over
in grey,

and A house will
suppose a window

before which
(being just the flesh)

skin will
zing
electric

over from
the palp of winds;

the hair will,
****** between by
some air,
bumble and ******;

the scalp will rejoin
with wine,
spilt uncarefully
in sips
through the gullet,
and the cheek will
renumber the blossomed
heads of capillary and vein:
being cloaked in pallid rouge.

there was a cat in Spring fuzz tangling
morning pallid
'tween paw
and whisker
                               there
                                                 was 2 girls

talking their
small sharp
                                                 voices

blundering
                                                 in sleepier

Spring morning
fuzz
                                        caught

                                                      'tween
                                                       tail
                                                       and claw
                                                       whose name was "bjorn"

**** so little tremble(littletremblingthing)
you rough prickle, 'gainst my lips prickle
your day old stubble(idon'tcareifithurts
abit)and deeper digging mouth does
and those tiny splinters(asyousprout
yourentirelyquakingbody)get so
snugly piercing my skin i (but i didn't
care a bit even if they rip it clean from
my cheeks; those minute spears of yours
)pressing steeply even further i do
to get your fiercely pleasant muscles
up 2 1 startled splendor
(when you open sharply and cave out
one stifled ROAR,

all things build slowly

slow building

into 1 slowly,

all build

all say 1

1 say all

into 1 say

all building

all slowly

all say

all 1

1

some thing pretty
Ugly("man,

                            )tiny



and scurrying enormously
in some big glass(you got)

whizzing to and fro
one less than before

-- minutes each

                        (a light?")

i speak let's say i speak and let's say i sing
whatthen?i sing; i say
whitely of your lips
i sing by them
i am lifted by them

they come beneath each foot
they come their strongness leaping
they come, and Dear, you
by them you charge

and Dear

against them Summer's dull

it shines not
it heats not
it feels not sudden or serene

for though it golden rushing thunders
your lips are far more perfect wonders

this moment is drunk
and occasionally says
dark things of remembering

about pushed apart legs
in April when it was alive
and something loved it more
than living–cooing even

into its soft ear vaguely
promises of forever and
keeping through death
its hands and lips and feet

     (whoosh)

but goes through the mouth
and nose hot dollops of dreamless
wine occluding speech, taking

tightness and smashing it over
the head with a memory of
a coy poem that tasted like the
sea in your mouth when

it sat on your face and
it was the only time it was ever
–truly–
                

                Alive.

"It's bad for you." He said.

"I know it's bad," she replied, "but I want to do it anyway."

i am my own hands,

only when they are alive with you.

my alive:

   this awakeness seems to breathe

of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked

by peach parted
over pit stinging;

the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:

has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,

lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;

whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva

–throat can't

               but to

                    unkeep

unnicest winter die please cold
and let Spring unlaboured
                          unclosed Spring come

please, winter dying, that for you
coats and hats
tightly of bodies worn
from the slick ice
thinly which veils
the limbs of trees, naked, save for
thy

I shall live;
not the world
or my body,
but I

beyond dying
will leap freshness
and taste deeply the health of everything

do you(dust)feelemptytinglingD
                                                     u
                                                        s

                                                 t

do you feel elegant quivering elatedU


                                            S



                                                                  T


in pale and in comely glued arrivers
sharp straight white.do you feel cool
touched (your shoulders nape sternum
) brushed gentler climbing rapidly
quivers AND u            s                                                  t


do you whorl 'pon my palm?as presses
through your body its kiss fastly andUST

do you know, between light and darkness,
FLESH?
                 do

         you

                   know

      lilting


                     fl

              utt

                        er

         a
         n
         d

                                         hush?


(you know.

                        as know i.


                                                         you)

erupt gradually a forest
of my limp and eager throat
green ponders waifish

girl suddenly let's live unthinking
with me          live
without  
               a single fear               Live
fiercely
in brazen                              sating
     live           thoughtlessly
and uncarefully dispose     your
mouths sweetest waste in     my
mouth Girl                       beginning
carelessly       let's                destroy
apprehensions gentler cuffs     let's
unbind our firmer stuff             and
let's find their able tools in wanton
caprice
let's suddenly live unfearing and
thinklessly

i feel not myself the rain or a trees outside the wind or in the dark a bit (slenderly) where.

how dose you think a day begins? its
little teeth
smally thin
(as grass between)
the throats of men?

does you think it green as blades of thinness wide
,sprouted mutely?

does you go out to fields and collect it?
in your hands do it shake and quivers?
(does you bring it up to your mouth,
and does you kiss it?
entering the thick copseness of your pallet?)

who many days you been in hurt verdant roughness of coarse forests?
(you been amongst em sleeping the hot hair is full of drowsy longness
and your muscles slackly follow into deeep chambers of distilled nuthing?

you been out back? by the glade brush and the doe mouths
are white with steep petals of lingering health?

"take itup your mouth," goes the drawn trees, drawing even deeplyer
into the quant tussle of wakeless hours where a twitch don't and not
even a cat.

)the forest goes and does you ever think how those thighs
combed with coarse wreaking of bleeding youth
tasted like copper tastes hot at your tongue climbing your whole mouth
into its neat dumbness?

(the Summers there are millions of Summers left and does you think
how

a    day


begins
?

dyin'

    

we call livin' we


all the

(you yes


         andi  the


              whole)

we're
ya know

but

we call
dyin'
livin'
cuz

it's prettier
to think

but
to think

is
dyin'

(i know

    and i know

       i know it i



                           you



                                      the





                                                      whole






                                                                                     and





                                                                                       it

.    my soul effuses, and things even drunker than Spring have emerged   .































































­










                                                                 ,

the flesh you have been has always been the world beyond me to leap through all mudness such clarity of love i have soared upon the breadth of each timid stroke of it and slept furiously amongst its petals.

without nearly mercy the strange brawn of sinuous boughs thickly forested thoughts. wreathing simple futile furious thoughts. wearing sluggish fatty
eyes prepondered coloured and uncoloured (right in their middles) disks
flinty gristle they're black right in the median outside inside upside downside
left and right and left. my heads wearing them and more flush with nose
and just below them it's there and just below it, lips are waiting slightly
parted waiting to guzzle sickly the ruby hard cords on your face your face
is there with lips and eyes and teeth are there on your head and hair to
is coming right out the top of your head where my fingers go amongst their
limber stocks and digging slightly digging into the pale soil of your scalp
AS YOUR TOUGH STIFF HARD FUTILE LIPS ROIL OVER MY
stupid ugly soft lazy lips, over my dumb wonderful bloodied lips

.





































                                                       Your body is a word that I am mad to say.










































.

i got like 1 heart(red,electric,stupid)
pulse many till sleep long one dark
infinity, till then pulse 1 heart
red, electric, stupid hotly at the
arcuate hip, the comely mile
of a vermillion smile, the
fling of girl face bright
young perfectly
finite that into
dust tumbles
moment
before
moment

colours

                                lurid skeehc era uoy
                                and you are gnillaf
                                of boughs bent
                                (in wind writhing)

you are lovely
little dead things
         littler perfect cluttered
                   dead things

                                                 suoroloc  R U
                              gnittor esool fo bits ni
                        sretnilps

you amble the earth
        calmly exploding
                     (and you crunch
                              so distinctly
                                   under my patient tread
                                               ing soles)
                            


i mark them
and i proceed
living and dying
(like you colours)
die like living
i live like dying

taste feels to reach to
tongue
deeply between kiss

      (lipsnotlips)

where least sleeps spring
and calls by mouth

your hips to sing,

                              ,

                              ,

                              ,

                              .

what Idid is
i looked right
cutting through
the brambles and shale
and into
your very chest
and (
          what
       saw
              i
        were
              such beauty
                so
             colours
            and
              deeply
         stitched
             ) in you
               i have spied
               almost breaking flowers
               about whom i'd draw my
               careful hands and cup
               them carry them
               in my heart those
               nearly caving stemmed
               roses i'd
                               love
                                      them

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 am
(after all)
alive in you

                       this day .

the soft brushing,
the course fiber,
the flaxen hair.

i kiss you smally.

you do not stir
more than a pale breath
around your nostrils.

my son is inside you.

i will always love you.


(...sleep)

this rough sometimes of a star
within the grit of wind
moves all scepters to still

the stirring of their grip to seize

and make loose their hands.

(that they might hold
the cupping of that final flint

where from which a spark shall new
and in colors bright, a morning do.)

giving up of cent;
and bills no more their fists to clench.

(my dear there is world within this kiss;
this breath and dew.

i live; shall feel;
have of body been and went
into fields alive with colors bent.)

make this thy cheek to speak:
this single promise of the earth to break

beneath the tread of stars,
where grass and flower coo–

and with the rain
a tiny song of evening make,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           ,
                    ­                              ,
                                 ­                 ,
                                              ­    ,
                                                  ,
       ­                                           .

cup sudden winter and flakes crinkle sweetly the earth or by cold hand of unday the freezing is gently in all the moisture and she lavishes their molecules and unslowly disseminates her breath in varnished perfection of frost saying "now is coming the season of lovely unheat and blessit with thy loaf of burning lips and kiss kiss kiss every noun

              "

muscles slung blonde strands
tawny straights snuggling
against your *******(like me
on the clump of your
unrigid stomach taught
over your creeping)

           I hast spake
           with thy timidest
           notion
           briefly
           small pouncing
           wrists
           on your hands
           supple so
           chambers
           flung wide
          
your bones
          are the words
of every poem
                         i have
                                     writ
                                                                                                                                 (not even the wind
                                                                                                                                   has such soft

a something quietly poem does

touching through new lips
sound and says

a something slim
wristed glasses hair
darkly which bunch
around the shining edge

of her cheek

(moon scarred by hard youth) perhaps

which makes me smile
suddenly without
thinking to smile

.

.




















                                           ­                                                                 ­                






                                          ­                is this real






















                                      ­                    (am i really alive)






























.

to mix as mixing fingers do
that pleasant scape of cut and hue
could only be by perfect hand–
to spill the sky with food so grand;

for eyes to eat for ever more,
ere come the bleakness: acheron's shore,
where stood is there unlucky crowd
embrace'd of apple from knowledge boughed;

and the lark that fell for un-leaden branch
to stain from souls forever blanch
died to live–immortal make–
when each, our bodies, meet their break

rife oh do you the new totally unique
obscene with low lean muscles Spring
feel not so near so far when stocks of
earth are steeped in deep so roots a'dying

(the little glad hand of sun outstretches
and into reaches the noosed purple
of aching darkness' ancient peak

the unfurling nuisance
of its ardent beam
to let of golden crimson
a burning rill to pour from far above)

all wan glory

all feable living

in the broken body of the shriveled Dove

if you're've been the aching

the

occasionally slender

drawl mouth

of

p
e
r
h
a
p
s                                                             :


've you become
my hands
beneath
the
ta
b
l
e                                                             in


a tired
cafe´









                                                                                                                                (t
                                                                                                                             uck
                                                                                                                          ed in
                                                                                                                      to the s
                                                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                                                a,




                 "sunlighttreesyourhandsandgodbetweenitallyourhips"


                                                                .

a thorn gently
palm
eager with which
to meet:

red

a colour what does spurt
t0 from the eglantine sprite
;an undarkness puddles about;
                                                          iknewthesummerand her lakes
of vibrant tousled marching hair
                  that giggled from her heaps
and groused with sweating men
                                        who liked the fashions of her flesh
      and the ponderance of shes daughters
wearing mostly skin
                      they flaunt to catch
(with velvet flagrant manacles           )
the ardor of passing boys
                                               them that march about
                                                hideously pedantic
                                                their carefully fastidious
                                                grooming hands
      they'd like to grip with
      ladies
       and wear them for the night

2x2
they're flouncing girth
it jiggles less like rocks
the hard barrel
a great and hulking steed
billows on the hillside(
m y lady jouncing like mercury(
f r o m   GODS mouth
)on their withers )
liquid thick as glasss

what R,a;In doth make
                                       this hollow sOn


              quaking of

daughters(unflowered)                                  .     ­             buds open


           craving a tenuous meting  of flesh

you,ll find some agreeable. who shalt salt your petals.


    little whims

                                                         y  :



(your sugar is sour)

h

      U

     n
       g with

just the moon your
shoulders up hold
the round round
round head of

your

                                      body
            ­                          bodyy
                                 ­     bodyyy


holds the down *******
of your naked chest's
white hilt springs
between round rounding
head of
your shoulders' point
pinnacle, pinnacling
at the white white hilt
of Your neck

fit fits ****
(droop obliquely)
swelling twixts
the rude triangle
of your hips
                      hips
                              hip­s(


and the white hilt
of your neck
blunders
with
the course forest of my hand
suddenly grown around it                     )

grown up it the
pillar of it to
the neat neat       neat neat

***** of your mouth. There

h
a
n
g
s

the yawning chasm

where
all throats
lead to
. Scream

oh don't dream

lift my mouth to kiss
every various coiled fantasy
in you sleeping

i have or will you

whisper a single immortal thought of nothing

fair skinned with a slight corona to each iris

drooping clothed in slumber

and i will( if you should let me)bring
more nice than dreams
into your head
each night, but oh don't dream

each eye precise;
each eye cut with
the dull rub of
sharp blackness

(eats the skin overunder)

the pale chip of cheeks
peppered and kissed
with freckles the mute
bruise of youth and
21 years of girlness

(it smooth lips rubs over the teeth
and says,

        "I really like your tattoos."

occurs that should a day Spring wet
nubile prim laughing with tulips
geraniums roughed sorely heads
bobble in a light breeze jouncing
some buds opened unopened
tightly shut petals a fist of colour
like a girl golden brown texture
like sun for whom both day and
night long to touch ineffable
shoulders wrought gossamer
unpale quaffed of morning
brightest hot Springwet and laughing with tulips

"hey, where are you" i walked amongst the sea to find you sleeping in a flower i"m outside, **** i missed" to stoke between your roots "i missed your text" a spark "ok" i felt when our lips were furred in kissing's "i'll see you in a minute" unhurtfullest punch

"I tried."

After all, "I love you."

(what more could i do?)

"The only reason I haven't committed suicide is because I'm terrified of death."

when i've tripped a star
whole over night
the silver flinging
of its crispest muting has

a daughter shed
of lightness
eyes its
their
teetering upon
perfectly easy winking

and her hands are so
they feel like
like when
night is so long
and hot it
stifles moving into
a pinch of stillness contained

by the exactness of my square room
struggles to retain

that lovely burning
o' 'er
splendor splitting

wings so gentle
i painful pinning

have neatly to keep
their body's wonder
to my sheets

sweat so glowing
as like the yowl
of dying day
it cleaves easily
darkness

and it rises 'pon
love after
love it
soars