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PK Wakefield Dec 2012
on the steps of an old house sits a bright boy
(his hands are full of sleeping and flowers are)
he is in the summer a bit and there he is
sitting a bright boy on pale steps with his hands
full of sleeping and flowers are carefully and
he plucks each from and each from he plucks
their petals on the old steps of a house in
the hot pash of sunlight sits a bright boy, who
PK Wakefield Sep 2016
i believe in a story

               (it is my love)

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.

my love
you are without skin,
your eyes do not see,
your lips do not kiss.

my love
i love you–

         (and where

are you?

my love you
are the whole neatness
wishing within me

to feel the slight pressing
of heat beneath your skin;

the pulsed flexing of your vein
and hem. my love you are

the small darkness
and tiny quiet of my
heart to fill you kissing;

the crimped weakness of your knees,
the playing of your eyes after nightfall,
the winking fleetness of your cheeks.)

And, my love
are you

  where ?

(i can feel you)

even with space
between breathing
and heat between us;     my love

i can feel your someday lips
within my lips the
waxing of your palm
within my palm.

my love
(and i have always loved you)
will believe
in the story

of your hands and lips:

the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.
PK Wakefield Jun 2015
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."
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
of

(do you suppose)?raintime morning with

creeping.

                               shadowlightshadowlight

crreping


strands,


                      hands as



soft can be? the inching,

caress,
and deeply?
PK Wakefield Dec 2013
Spring is tight between her thighs
((with DoeAndStag)
together

                  leaping           ).

Winter's nice her fingers deep
'round comely sickle
slowly reaping.

)Summer's **** her mouth is sleeping(
open ******;
swallow all.

(But nice is neat,
and **** is sweet,
)when all the trees are rapt with Fall.
PK Wakefield May 2012
the sky is amorous of the clouds
the clouds are amorous of the wind
the wind is amorous of the trees
the trees are amorous of the earth

so is seen
that each loves of each
but never in return
PK Wakefield Jun 2013
.                          



                                                                                    fuckable






                 the





                                          haireyes





                                          morning roll



                                          her pinched





                                         cleft

                                        wafts hard
                                        smelling of seagirls; i splitting
                                        wet
                                        crack
                                        stiffly her the


                                        fingers

                                        ENTeringleAVE
                                        dewed
                                        in
                                        A
                                        Shout "yes"
                                        (ok again
                                          i will)

                                         push her up
                                         me to
                                        
                                         sighing wider
                                         apart
                                         yawing
                                         thighs
                                         extremely
                                         taste


                                         li(ke
                                         brine tastes sweetly sour
                                         )marching through
                                         mouth across
                                         tongue

                                         throat and hand
                                         "please"
                                          tightly
                                          "hert me"
                                           and
                                           "ok" i'll
PK Wakefield Jan 2013
let's all ***** who spring
(feet first)
climbing the swelter of
prim night



                        a bud


back ribbed in sinuous
muscular colours
rising drunk tingles
on quivering odors
lightness; darkness mingles
in single singing petal
revolt faster into

a cherry (stem clothed in)
crimson

and faintlier moans
ever

       faintlier
PK Wakefield May 2014
there is by you occasionally a mouth,
i would like to climb inside(.)it Spring
under it the red pink occlusion: stupid
                                                          ­        youth

hanging by a hangs on a string,
of smart immutable dumb loveless loving

careens and gestures (which of) there is
a thing not like a thing i have ever. (have you?)

                     an ever have you a
                     dumb youth wanted
                     to immutably break
                                  ?


i that might like could you like to to.

if you'd like to too.

i could climb too into you
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
in me there is a grand heat
it's the purpose of my blood
hot stinking rivers
adolescent steam wafting
serenade a pile of burning ***

    a word tremendously whispered
shatter my lips. savage Gravity my cells
scream for thee. (lay open the stuttering
of my heart and place in it your fluid
                     i'll **** every hesitation
and blast your skin with shimmering agile
pulsings of my lungs; emptied upon thee)

make me raw little knife. the serrations of your
nails dance and please my flesh. motes of fire
         dimple the vassal of my will
how sharp thou are

please hurt me
PK Wakefield Feb 2013
in winter there escapes some

tendril of whitely bent curlsome
vapor


                  overcoming


crispness into immediate sunlight
a twig of life

                   glowing

(nothot


                                                          )IT


barrels toylike against the sea
and is eaten quickly into mute
indelible



                      No Thing
PK Wakefield Jan 2014
her sitting through such drunk din poked quietly from between the pages of a book (a little in hand which)"what's it about?"not shyly"post-war France."
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
it was cold your heel hurt and i'm sorry because we were walking to get some food i was thinking about how you are so nice to kiss and "this is magic" the world and your eyes and the easy body of your silence between the houses "this moment" and my hands full of box with scones i couldn't wait to see you smile


"I know it's ridiculous,


                                                but I'm serious."
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
heart, it's
by you the

     such does:

rainfingerskissingsunlight.     the

**** gentle,

and the winsome easy.


(heart) i
have climbed
by the steep winter
of your ribs,

into the crisp tumult
of cringing heat

my hands to make
(in your nakedness

    ,trembling,

)a coo


to halt the quivering of your stomach
at my entering sound. (that


**** baby

i want to
fill you, and

please       not

to hurt you when,

baby,


i love you
and because (he( u )art)
i don't want to i'll

stave the eagerness
of rain

to


pour.
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
open me your hands
fists cruelly which
their tightness conceal


                                                  a
   ­                                            Slender
                                                 blade
                                            Of
            ­                                         spring

                                        In

             ­                                                heat.


                      (a cut distinctly of certain cuteness bleeding)A


dolllike limpness
of stiff
cherry breaking.



                                 a branch of sometimes petal bearing stems.

                                                  (a kiss and roughness)

            Open me them
                       there
                   slightness
                       will
                  bare
                            a span
                of
                      lewd innocence.


a strip of easy with parting rain which sometimes in April feels like dying
feels like pusshing apart of lips, hot redness, and ***** of steep fuzz.
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
some's
a   little bit,

starrily snowing,

sky so

(a rook between
         h
       a   n
          

         g
            i
       n
         g               by


)
PK Wakefield Oct 2013
I shall live;
not the world
or my body,
but I

beyond dying
will leap freshness
and taste deeply the health of everything
PK Wakefield Mar 2012
which does rain a lot but rather sometimes nicely also sun giddy for legs arms napes slender fat new old is eaten and lovely for a bit is virginal a young girl like pink with a short skirt purple tights flats and a smile from across the room I'd like to get into for about 4 weeks raining sunny and smiling : April
PK Wakefield Apr 2015
1 hill
wide up the ways
from the foot
in a dark wood

there is a mangy
old leopard blocks
my path to make

up into where there
from which
all surrenders come

and hand not makes
but breaks;
and all lips are lovely dumb

. (i wonder where not which
this glad and homely even stitch
such rouge perhaps to be
in golden morn and noontide's lee)

for there is borne upon its breast
that wager which we all must test;
not known but leapt
–from where within–
the leaping that old Denmark guessed.

and walked by nine for harsh travail
rings that cut at entered nail;

O this guide is poet made
who meets me in that sullen glade
and pulls me forth towar' deeper paths
where life is still and sin is paid.
PK Wakefield Aug 2015
i think i shall die
that there is a rose in my lips–
the sea everywhere
and the barely sound
of washing over
the sand
it.
PK Wakefield May 2014
.































































­



















what are you some kind of monster kind of some kind of monster are you





























































­


.
PK Wakefield Dec 2014
The first act of creating oneself is nearly impossible. Being that they must ***** the very plinth upon which all creating is later done–all plinths themselves been built on ever prior ones.
PK Wakefield Nov 2012
who, by first light is fingers
each deeper fingers than last
through grass rushing fingers
pressed (and wet of tawny
dew cut 'pon the softest pebble
howl) a very straight forest
from where darkness easily
wrests (its thigh open

                                        its petals tousled


                                                                               )more
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
say not rightly(withme)the name of everything
i won't say it not the way said it to say by everyone
nor will i

                   nor will i

                                        nor will i, so
                                        say it not right
                                        with me
                                        the name of everything
PK Wakefield May 2014
is           is
(the way)
your
hurts hurts

me to(Dear apart

          )****(

the clenching of thy fist   )

you hands around the neck  (

'nd release the torrent held at Christ; )


tighter                        tighter
till
breathin'
can't                             (

DEAR, and
in their pearl'd unfurling
crimson run hot of burning

)
)

in your mouth full of me

(
(

at the twaining of my touch;
in the cloak of youth's cloven clutch)

hard spit thick as tongue swallowing.

up ***


down head
PK Wakefield May 2014
.






































                                                " This has got to stop. "


                                                " I know.                        "

















































.
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
I.

do you know?

have you been?

have you been by the slant ways behind the hills there is store and have you
wandered much in it?

have you gone down the little rows and counted them?

have you looked into the tired eyes of weary mothers and fathers?

have you seen in them your mother and your father?

have you kissed with them your thoughts and wondered on the small
mystery of their being?

have you wondered at them looking at you(and what do they see)?

have you thought to reach out and touch them and ask them how they are doing?

have you wanted to look in their eyes and tell them that you know they are tired but there isn't much left to go and you know how hard it is and that you are sorry and that they are as soft and as infinite as your own self?

have you dreamt much?

have you gone out from the store, into the nice mouth of the city, and have you seen the same tired look in the same weary bodies?



II.

where have you been in the Summer?

have you been by the bank of a river?

did you let your toes in it, and did it feel so cool as to rush across them you suddenly want to pull them out?

and how did it feel, the first time you were kissed, and sweaty between the arms, you pushed in even tighter?

have you laughed much?

when was the last time you laughed?

did it feel as if it was the last time?

did you watch your laughter curl away into nothing like a vine of fume from a smoker's mouth?

did you watch it curl away and wonder if you might be lucky enough to laugh tomorrow(and did you wonder how many more days and nights you might be lucky enough to not laugh)?

did you cry after you laughed?

did you look down at your hands and marvel at the intricacies of your bone and flesh?

did you ever hold them up against the night sky and marvel at the tinniness of their work? (have you held them up before your face in a dark room and wondered what it would be like to not see?)




III.

have you struggled much?

do you ache, and are you sore?

do your muscles hurt?

do you feel heavy with obligation?

do you feel tired from living, and with life?

from where does your pain begin, and where does it end?

did it begin in the hands of someone you thought you loved? did it end in the empty stare of someone you thought loved you?

have you hurt anyone?

how did you feel?

did you tell yourself it was ok?

what did you tell yourself?

who were they?

why did you hurt them?


IV.

are you awake?

are you reading this?

will you wake up tomorrow (and every tomorrow until you don't), and will you remember this moment?

will it fade into nothing?

will you recall it suddenly in some still moment?

will you look out the window of your car on your way to work and catch the sliver of some stranger's face in the quick of your mind?

will you wonder on their life, and the sliver of your own face, caught in their mind?

and will you remember?

will you remember?
PK Wakefield Jan 2012
(dreams)
                  just
                           thickly
                                        and
                                                  copious
                                                                 what like pale
                                                                 towers ascend
                                                                 nights to heaven
                                                                 in which sleeping
                                                                                 fair
                                                                 winds ma
                                                                 gi
                                                                       st
                                                                 r
                                                                      a
                                                                 t       e
                                                                 the lewd buds
                                                                 of lilacs and
                                                                 poppies un
                                                                                     opened
                                                                                                   buds nudely
                                                                                                                        before
                                                                                                             crocuses
                                                                                                                         and
                                                                                                                    between 2
                                                                                                                          sheets of
                                                                                                                                  softest
                                                                                                                               cotton
                                                                                                                                     the innocent
                                                                                                                               sugar petals
                                                                                                                                      of their bulbs cleanly
                                                                                                                              is sundered
PK Wakefield Oct 2015
waiting for listens to hear,
for her quick feet–a doe
in white skin

thinks it's
pretty to be
choked and

loves
t   o
sw al l o w
PK Wakefield Sep 2014
i want you. the
coalesced flower of
Autumn in
wriggling manifolds
of
freshest
death,

that by who
paints with strokes of crimson
their brush becomes
the coy feather
of once a month
between
your
thighs:


                                                           blood
PK Wakefield Mar 2014
you feel closetotheskin and
fuzzrough

between the stiff dribble
of your thighs

some mint freshly biting
like balmy when Summer; nights

****** with droll pulling of
pale light Mischievously

which was like the stretching hard
camber of your spinemoutheyessweat r  e   l      e      a   s            ed
PK Wakefield Apr 2021
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.
PK Wakefield Dec 2010
stand tall stupid arbor meats
peacefully deadened pursuit
of apathy grandly posited
a smooth unmarking
the soil goes
plunk",
PK Wakefield Jan 2011
like writing i like writing like i like
cupping
a tranquil fever
my electric quill travels
skin piercing inky talking sudden innovator
so how i'm gonna go
in the first house unlit burning rupture
and gasping with quipping death
i'll ravish nouns
  and verbs
                         nouning
the verb
of bulbous empty cotton
i call my head
PK Wakefield Jun 2013
what the **** have you done
PK Wakefield Dec 2015
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
PK Wakefield Dec 2013
there's some



            (destroying) inside you that

                              

                                  i
                                l   o
                                  v
                                  e

                                  i
                               l
                                  o
                                      v
                                          e

                                 and

                                 i ' m

                                mad

                      to have inside me


                         (destroying)
PK Wakefield Jan 2014
o to breathe
how it is i love you:
your little quiet which
do not your lips betray
the slightest music.

o and quiet
how it is i love you:
the mute pressing of your body;
without words which
for saying nothing

is louder than all the world to speak.
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
.































































­




















                                      "Did you ever really love me?"



                                      "I don't know."


























































­





.
PK Wakefield Jan 2013
You--


                           th--


             at--



                           im--


       elapse--




                                                dest­oryin--





                      gre--







                 ­               worms through loam fidgeting crisply
                                of fingers death

                                an inch of living

                                 crawled the pairing chilled livid night

                                 (to the moon)

                                    


                   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­        unstoppin





--g





                                         ­                    whispers




                                                    ­                  

                                             ­                                          whispers






                                                  ­             whispers






                                                  ­                                        


                                                              ­                                       whispers
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
quietly mysterious and far away i love you
i love you the big and small unnearness
of your imagined hands i wonder which
on your body's wrists (and the head upon
clothed in shortness) are skinny so nice
and never to be known by my hands you
are so unloud will not ever close and


                         (i will love you always even though you will never know)
PK Wakefield Apr 2013
speak loudly silence lips less
about a word more dumb
and shiftless

forever

in the habit

of perfection
PK Wakefield Jan 2014
it is the dawn which
(skillfully erected)
light hands improbable

touch


              just


with barely strength

lift and lift

the sinuous lid of night

)peeling vigorously
the closed earth

    ****
PK Wakefield Jan 2014
.                                                                ­                         Q
                                                               ­                        u
                                                               ­                             i
                                  ­                                                              e
 ­                                                                 ­                          t

                                    ­                                                        O,

     ­                                                                 ­                       though
                                                          ­                             woh
                                                             ­                                little
                                                          ­                          ylgnis
                                ­                                                             you
                                                             ­                            era

                                                            ­                                :
                               ­                                                   soft and crisp;

                                                         ­                    won't you enter me

                                                             ­                 the gentleness (your unsound)?

          
                                                                ­                             I
                                                               ­                                 n
                              ­                                                                 ­    c
                                                               ­                            r
                                                               ­                         e
                                      ­                                               a
                                                               ­                             S
                                  ­                                                           i
                                                               ­                             n
                                  ­                                                          g

    ­                                                                 ­      by voice and unvoice
                                                         ­                  the white song: living?

                                                 O Quiet and you are so i think you are beautiful
                                                       ­  in your shoulders and in your neck i think
                                                           ­      you are increasingly beautifuler
                                                     ­                      than doused in night
                                                           ­                     and stars earth.
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
some broken poem lives(idon'tknowwhere)won't let word or sound touch its thin thighs and scarred knees from being on them between the knees of boys too many times; demure and easy as rain in April where Christ is born again to the rough feeling of a broken poem in the backseat of her car running with face of eyeliner and still trying to be pretty.
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
not matter does whatever this world thinks(i

will go by flights of angels
)on

their breath

i will go by florid gasping of soundless immutable
waters into

              waters of. i

will pass my little ship its sails may bend
but
i will go o'

i will go shall not by the whatever the world thinks

despite angels (on whose breath shall carry me

into
PK Wakefield Nov 2021
it seems the brief
nothing of my
hands cradle
the sweating brow
of my child
sleeping so hardly
within the quiet
of her breath--

the smallest pressing
of her chest the
largest miracle of life.

her hair is fine
and golden--
the light comes somewise
the follicle full
and brimming in
brilliant strands.

my wife is beautiful and i love her:
she has given me the most
beautiful gift in my children.

she carries in her body the torch
of into swallowing enormity:
whole darkness.

on the withers of a pale horse,
riding into that good night,
she bears making.

a maker before all craftsmen,
she creates through effort of her flesh
the most exacting somethingess of being.

i hold the makings of
her hips in my arms
and they are the most
beautiful thing i have
ever seen.
PK Wakefield Mar 2012
little pools completely of ink
your shoulders are laughing
trembles of over my desk
eating the grain your
miraculously pale splinter
divided divides
body from mind

                        to add sin the former
          removing the latter

i climb your mostly fragile
completely of sweat
arching spine's cute minute
valley cut softly from skin
and imbued most ardently
by hands insatiably to eat
the webbed writhing of neatly
bunching muscles
PK Wakefield May 2012
frail i, in moonlight shall, march
up wisp of spring
into gabled spilt
juice
of curving dawn

orange
whose rind
like the human also
drys

           withers

                            sloughs
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
it's dark a cat shifts
springing the sheets
stir you the cat
and a branch outside
the window taps taps
taps the window outside
a branch it's dark the cat
stirs the sheets spring
and it's dark you roll
over and somewhere
a dog is barking
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