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PK Wakefield Jun 2013
the it need
you and by
febrile coarse

"****"me

the



you





your frail
uncommon
heat


it




feels
(*****)

the like
an eating of stings


feels grossly wonderful
(herking jerking wonderful)
to choke

to choke so nicely
to choke so pretty

grinning hot
a flash of sharpness:

redbeautifully scratching
me my oh why

not
   the shaking

          you


are not unlike
a very bud
split
at
the nape
of crowning

lussst

(a flower of my bed
so delicate shook

by cruel thrusting
the parting;

                      hip's crook

                                             )
PK Wakefield Jun 2013
somewhere i am sleeping i can hear
the wind across
the span of my ear a flower
is bending in it is bent
bending in the wind
it is white
its petals are
its body is
thin it's green
it's yielding very
nicely

somewhere i am sleeping i can hear
PK Wakefield Jun 2013
what the **** have you done
PK Wakefield May 2013
don't go
(the world is)

i am


and sitting


miles away

(tick tock)

in a pale room
buzzing

(tock tick)

a fly

violently


( waiting )

where are you?
i love you.
don't go


(i can hear sitting) miles away)

a fly
buzzes
violently
PK Wakefield May 2013
when i the you sweetly
sublime of
knees fleeting intensely

kiss inwardly
the entering sound

You
the perhaps exactly
shed a sliver of teeth

by catching skin
gag
upon a sliver
of ***** shyness

and seem feel
the arms by
youth hard

hands

crimped skinny hot
vulnerable teasing
to swallow
PK Wakefield May 2013
this world

does it see the feel need
(as a child does



                                         )flowers?


and does it see them?
the stems by coloures eloquent
bobbling tiny thousands

each a poem silked in light
each a vast array of smell


and does it feel them?
the curving hollow
of rushing soft

to gather in a ****** plume
the tease and romp of hue


and does it need them?
the sigh and quake of fragile dying
the least living
the most loving

and does this world
(as a child does

a flower )?

and does it?



























and does it?
PK Wakefield May 2013
there is the world so much i think i have felt it

have felt by it
and by it felt

so much it
(the world)

who in droves presses ugly Spring against me
who in heards comes dying and immortal
who in sleeping flowers laughs most
(the world

by sting invisible
impulses each rotund death
of lungs upon heaps of dying
to go out and wear more gladly it

it girls laughing
it boys sweating to be first
it arcuate of hips
it thundering of industry
it of millions tinly each


each pointless
each fathomless
each more than last
each next than other
each the other than the next

i think and i have seen by it
and have i?
way north over the barn where goes the winter
when in neatish crimson hulking ****** comes

first small coming

then steadily gargantuan

Summer

in deep veins of failing gold
only to brittle
only to fold and tousle
only to rubble and quake

alas

and i have thought

alas

and i have read

alas

and i have felt so proud to get at the meanings of poems

) but ever have i known it?

No.

i have not been my feet to push of it a million splendors

i have not been my throat to scream so loud my body shook

i have not been amongst its people

i have not tasted

i have not been by the skinny bank of a winding stream in the middle of Summer when the cool water tickles across the span of each toe the wholeness of being

i have not kissed so long to love

i have not breathed so long to speak

what then can i say?
but do i say it?
of course

i say it by hands between quick thighs
uncurling hurting bruises of hot sharpness

i say it in the hunched play of a girl's wetness

i say it in the calm stroke of a withered dog's scalp

i say in quiet moments as in loud moments

i speak(and i always speak)

and i think i have the world so much by it felt as to know it

and i think i do not know it

and i think it is not so much

and i think i have not felt it
PK Wakefield May 2013
new was sitting across from me
her skinny was wider hips waist
hair by face was precisely framed
in the neatest skin of comely youth
i was talking my kept my mouth was
to slaver words dear as quickly heaving
as to her ears i might impulse the livid inch
of her pristine lips to defeat my useless sound
PK Wakefield May 2013
lips sit
lips on lips
sit lips
that lips split
by split lips

lick X lick

to where a bead sits
between lips
by lips split

lick X lick
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
there is i have said pouring full of mountains

LOVE

full and mountains

in the east of my heart they are

in the west of my heart you are

and between them soares nothing is
flat  for though rain

which falls and nurses barren dirt
a seed each drop
flutters into bloom
and love between
pouring mountains rains

EastandWest
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
all the streets in girl things comely
arms a bit are haired in

               (tan and tan)


the golden crush of whose mute fingers
make blithe the spring
and against
find the night homely

piercingly the mooon against
into slivers thousand make
their drooping slender of cotton haste
as cherry petals,

                             a branch from shake


in the wind to uncurlsome
neatly wan ankles
and fists o' skin girlsome

crease and crease alike(andunlike)

gossamer



                          faintly





                                                          of




pinkest aching to part


To enter loving


To exit heart
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
i do not know a word
having only written i
can only say i do not know
how to read or a poem
perhaps in a book
where i thought i did
was a dream of
words and poems
amongst men
who know words
but only i can say
i do not know a word
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
i am nothing the dying of closeness to perform
jet

          arrayed in ****** o' quivering lightness

my own body softly

in her living muss to fay

mychestherchest

or to bleed a stuttering rill o' life stuff

where carefully is laid a garden o' sleeping children
(uncreated

                       unlivid


                                              faultless­)


lust yet incredibly to fill
crease and crevice burns
and all muscles
the tightness for hurting yearns,



                                           '




                                                           ­   .



                                            

           ­                           ,






                              ­                                                        '






 ­                                                   



                             .
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
dance me into entering waters

           (the sea)

i might dive or very cold
it is too hard(to swim

is though even steely wild
shifting ever for

                                     )

grey and grey and

(the sea)
who is steely wild
and very cold entering waters

dance me into

(and even though)
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
is to see strangely
the rain hanging

by a most cloud
grey when
behindit
lays                      
only

blue
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
i can hear the old body of a cat creaking between my ears the rushing of the wind outside is enormously pale breasted i cup myself into a fist of warm andream of almost you nearly more than farther are i put my leg over a pillow the tension in my hips release remembering a pillow used to be your hips my hips tension



Releasing
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
it completely staged was your throat
1/2 broken perhaps yowling by a
long mouth inching rapidly

in eager please to
tell a boy how much he did
your cherry knees to wobble
(the anger of his hands
and the thrusting of his bobble)

for 6months wearing
a back into his sheets
only your inch mouth long
saying to darling I
for  a 1/2 year didn't

really ever come
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
all wide open big Spring mouth
the slather of your creeping


is clear its

full and

teeth are

white slick sharp

tumbling with
the smell of
sunscreen

                     (a dribble of
                          rosehips
                                           sweetly


                                                            )



        the clamor of a boygirl
        too early
        in the sun
        eyes aching
        rubbing them from crisp
        sleep into ragged waking


              THE!SEA

and miles of it a car
warm too
much a stirring of dust(laughing next to me about suddenly how one time she broke a boy's heart
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
it hurts too loud
my teeth
the grinding
and ****
sound pretty
when


                  GULP!!


about your throat
my fingers
fit nicely

ybab em rof tips(on it baby)

and cute the slightly
tearing of you
cotton in neon

freckles apart shaking
little brown
legs,.!
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
.































                                ­                                          *** UGLY


               your cheeks are rosy splotched itchy with a bit of seeming lovely "please put
               your fingers inside me"

                                                          ivy and flat

                                                         green long  
                                                         snare shining
      
                                                         and thickly lush


               (you "ooh" is "baby, please" my fingers are "ah" while your tongue is "don't stop)"

                and, baby, you smile like you want me to hurt you like you want me to hurt you

               like hurting is pretty bleed a little, baby, and **** sticky with your thighs and sweety

               you look so nice when i'm wearing you between the sound of a train outside my

               bed shakes you're sleeping and i lean over you and kiss your shoulder              .
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
that first which out of nothing comes
warmly steep and comely dripping
in easily breaking and confused hands
(but though which are still are aching
needed to have on lipskinand) LOVE

                                                           ­         

                                                               ­                    is dear I


                                                             ­                           Have some i

                                                              ­  
                                                              ­                i have some



                                                         ­                                 dear of my




                                                          ­                    love in hands




                                                       ­                                       though which are



                                                          ­                   breaking easily





                                                     ­                                                   still needed





                                                     ­                                and aching






                                                    ­                                                           dear





                                                       ­                               too of mine






                                                      ­                                                  "please"





 ­                                                                 ­                     dear





          

                                           ­                                                             have­some
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
morning
you cruelly who
in lust Springfully come

your mouth wet
feels in dew lathered




uncurling

brutish





pinkat
the fringes
cool steaming
in the jeer of rounding light
pierced at the aperture of closing
darkness by a ***** of slothful mounting earth upon earth
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
"You'll never be as pretty as me." She said.
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
what are you?

are you as me?

areyouwhite?does your body sit easily

inchairs

knees skinny
not awkwardly parting
and fresh in grey light
spill young
out between your
thighs



                                   SPRING RAIN?
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
i have stood where boys have stood
an hour of their body in the ground
from their backs to their hands up
pricking gently a cool stroke of wind

and each parting softly sleep stole
into the easy crush of rain, and into
the always agape lips of wanting spring
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
the opened not mostness of deadeyedgirls is
like life half unlife, and no between thighs stem
can make their cherry


                                            


               ­                                          po!p
PK Wakefield Jul 2012
you look at nice at body baby not mind dear but you look like fast in lacey nothing baby you have eyes like you've seen ******* you but and baby i like might also to see in you me dear your straight short creaseless hips skinny broken are whole angels of nouns where i'd like to put a comma
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
you think


                     makes



                                           (hurt


              me

                    )creeping                                      you


                               between


                 fingers' fay


barely and leather

(stud and skin)

teeth against open
your shoulder blades
apart seemingly *****

tighten furiously into
a grin



                 when

                 most
                 is
                 pain
PK Wakefield Mar 2013
"Do it." She said.
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
"It's bad for you." He said.

"I know it's bad," she replied, "but I want to do it anyway."
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
.                                               the only thing we have to fear is apathy
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
"oh hello"whose shoulders are easy darling *****
sloping"hey"
                      down
                                "what are you doing Saturday?"

way into ******* neatish comely pristine

"I'm"deftlywonderfulslender"going"bycalvessupple

"to a show. you?"


"probably nothing."
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
the caress i feel

          is my own fingersunlightrainwaveseyelashes


of sweaty and inimitable curling
Saturdays

                     the twine


of their bodies


                                the gusset


of neat and white corners

soft and soft and soft

always



                   always



    always


eyelashes prickling tingle
a multitude of tickle singeing


muscles and hunger

eating and lank

hulking and brutal

skinny and timid


the specters in books
my window suddenly looking out on the bay

ships

dreamily swept upon turgid waters

and a boy(on the edge of his bed)
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
.







































                        ­                                           ceci n'est pas un poème.































                           ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                  .
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
little                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                     bird



                                            

                                           the






                                                       ­                             tinly



                           ­                                                         kissing
­



                                                             ­                         of your wings


                                                         ­                             in the always






                                                    ­                                   stooping to kiss






                                                      ­                                  brightly morning are










                                                   ­                                   a perhaps song











                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                    like
        ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                   (little bird)
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  the velvet
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                 pocket of a
                                                               ­                                                                 ­                           violin



















                                       ­                                   rising























­
                                                                ­     chord
























                                   ­                                 'pon























    ­                                                                 ­             chord

























                     ­                                                             to the
























                                        ­                                         slender fragile aching


























                                ­                                                        immeasura­ble pretty



































                       ­                                                                 ­    of sky
















                                             ­                                                forever
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
fast;

   the hyper
          critical
            athletic

rushing of perfectness

                    stretched


                    tightly


       smoking
         from
           between
              neon thighs
                        hips
                        waiting

           glow barely
                     skinny
                     painful
                     rose
                     bud

for ******* too long
                     makes HuRTIng
                     sound
                     where your
                     mouth
                                      suddenly

                          crumbles



                      into




                                        spit
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
i was 23 in the middle of winter there was a sound like creaking the whole world was hot and nothing was at the same time everything came stiffly in your mouth and you




                                                      swallowed
PK Wakefield Jan 2021
where in this alone
which you are
thinking some
of empty

air air air
over the rolls
and fluxed
earth;

the soil
in whose body
hides each
small seed of the grass,

dispersed again
and again
in root, clover,
thresh, and tine;

there is only
air air air
here in this
alone where
your body
finds the
caved silence
and the sluiced
arrow of a flower;

(it is a hill)

there is a girl somewhere;
far and not far,
between the hollow
of her corded belly
and the curled
chamber of her lips.

she makes
(who is a maker)
that will not make.

alone alone alone
in the
air air air

(who thinks some of
empty hills
where no seed
of grass,
dispersed within soil,
lays the earth over in
teeming abundance).

only alone,
in the air,
where the earth
fluxed and rolls,
thinking some
of empty.
PK Wakefield Jan 2013
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."
PK Wakefield Jan 2013
DEstroy(of)er(whothe)

               earth


is slender waisted gaunt
pale skinny horsed
and short

                       in leggings
           (smoKING a hard
****)wiggles pink at the


folds and heaving
in youth


wears some glitter on her
over the balcony
*****
PK Wakefield Jan 2013
ugly is more

real pretty than is

'cause pretty
(though skin and because, also is)

always but ugly
inside always too


always
(always)
PK Wakefield Oct 2015
flower the hands and lips cannot
contain the pistil always running
red over the cusp of your budding
blossom,
              .

Even in notSpring,
when it shouldn't be full of pollen;
but little bee by mind of flesh
reminds your pricking to always
burn a little needling with
incessant urge to fill the
dark space between thigh:

(there is something slendersmooth
and easy to be inside of–

                    (like the earth)––

                             ( like death)–––
PK Wakefield Oct 2015
thin listening
(the moon is
thinner than)

       A blade

turned whitely through ending
air of night upon its sharp shaft,

only to deflate
in beginning which
erects the dawn by

its own most thinness
of a blade of light
light that cuts the top

of trees into day and
                                     Night
                                    (night)
PK Wakefield Oct 2015
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.
PK Wakefield Aug 2013
thatsh itlitt lepunk


           bitchshe

herfuk


                    inhair's

shortshaved


an

           dfu



    ckshe'


******>


                   'erhandssmall




fit so easily

inmy'andssmall that





fukkinbitsch

punkassshiiit.
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
you speak
says the rain
very heavy
out of the north
over the tops of
trees into the
forest becomes
the soil filled
with nostril
of pine,

and the street goes
merry outside
the classroom
the wind and pane
groaning with
rain

a single tiny
figure crosses quickly
into the warm
hands of laughter
coat filled with
themselves

and outside
Autumn is constantly
dying constantly
pushing into
glade and fen

her colorful
mouth and
long thinness
of day.
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
let me think,


you are flesh
not flesh as
blood or
bone entwined

by limb, but
flesh as soul
through body
and lips–
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
some kissing,
of flesh parts
under my tongue

–finger fulll–

tastes something
salty a little
musk and slick
through curtain
of sharply

tiny, cut
closely to skin

and rubs my cheeks raw.
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
"I'm so tired of being alone. It's like a weight; just heavy on me. And sometimes I almost want it to crush me. Just to get it over with. Just to be done with it."
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
i still shall repeat
(which is my cheeks)
through this cold
night, where rain is,

if even though

       (here)

is where only
the cold rain is


kiss
.
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