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PK Wakefield Apr 2010
O, little thing
little thing softly
you breathe so nice
breathe so nice beneath me

you quiver so
(little thing)

like dust in light

you ache so
(little softly)

like a ****** darkness

you sigh so
(little softly thing)

(i will make you:
quiver/tremble/sighing)
little softly thing
beneath me
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
little throttle, the impulsed danger of
your noose is slung my neck 'round
tighter firmly, the string is bound
hungry: i slobber at liquorice glove

tangy sweet, its dew, fragrant shoves
blue jeans through luscious seep
its serious caffeine on which unsleeps
i, sup at pink split cotton white as dove

feverish the kitten wet shudders love
shaken flutter, it's fur shortly cropped
exactly few my cheeks roughly slop
pressed hurting, skin flakes removed of

still i(andpressharderdo)my face eagerly trips

            their between open wanting

little throttle's impulsed dangerous hurter
ll
PK Wakefield Mar 2010
ll
lucid light
you're
far
too bright

i'll slit
your
throat
and
drink the night
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poems_by_poet.aspx?ID=12828
PK Wakefield May 2010
loose shadow skir.t
bough broken light

      pillars

hide our crafty finger
painted cheeks

            (lilting grooves reposit
             shady bones rolling
             grave bound)

we won't be for much longer
so just giveth thy. in verdant
dark flecked chastity
PK Wakefield May 2010
)sensual shelter(
love house man
sc
    u   r
       r
    y
scurryscurryscurry
button up cloaks
drip into: streetlight splattered night
hope they don't see your
newly hot skin
as your swallowed by
inky mawed toothless
PK Wakefield May 2010
made just for me
          (young   skinned heart)
                 please loaded voice
         beg a clutch o
                                f
  so lacy palms scraping denim sheathed
thighs.
                                                                   every
vestment ripped serenely. sensual laden edifice.
i know only this valley invited in: i travel gentle
grooves. & so if wanted i will give your canvas
               my crimson
                                         stroke.
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
make for me a glimmering speck
in the folds of scarlet chambers bruised beating
capillaries splitting puddles of purple
writ on its sleeves; i it seems (and strangely iam)
oddly are. more different is the cool love of sun
for earth. his wife. whom he does pleasure every day
a tongue of infinite light wrapping her every
curve and sin. s
                           o
to is this how i shall love your delicate mechanism, every cog
placed lovingly in balance to bound deftly upon my eyes inall
your correctness; you piece of lightening affront death with
the majesty of tremoring *******. hot tingling fuzz shocking
my fingers: you are neatly piled blooms of ancient fruit
who doth etherise my sanity with the pushings of your sinew
PK Wakefield Jun 2010
mark the crisp mirth with wrinkled cheeks;

a day comes sun gilded

                                                              glowing golden,

a stroke of brilliant star tears
               playing lancing

d                                             a
                      ppl                           e                            



                               s


on the neatly

organized floor of a forest reposed

green


                               languor
PK Wakefield Mar 2011
maybe i'll go
                     go all hard and wiggly
when the bread of earth is suffocated
perfectly the surly bending twig,
my follicle of sheathing mortar
     and you.ll be soundly
quiet too
and you,ll love me more than god
and maybe
                     together
our softs will blunder
irrevocably against the sun
who's on our in's
our outs
                 and stapled on the supple
tweed of grass and laughter
(our fingers in the earth
  the righteous
     who think with hearts
       of copper vermilion hush
         ) i'
ll                 call you heaven
                and you;ll just
      just
                  just
                               just
              just
  just                                       just
                 just
                              just



          just









                 t       s                               u                                          j
PK Wakefield Jan 2011
came it to a shade
what doing
as fickle cheeks
then all blubbering consternation
rode them snaking crystals
PK Wakefield Sep 2012
men
          ,
                   i've

never met one

of those but

                boys

every             i

have         met
in some   nice

suits,       they

had and shoes
were polished
clean   leather
talking about
"how          one
time he ******  A
Girl and"   he's
sitting    across
from me Greek
his hair is white
a little and  his
eyes,

                No

                men?

never


               met one


but,

                     boys
PK Wakefield May 2010
pitter-patter
p i
  t
t    erp     at
t
                er
      pit       t  e      r
p   i t t  e     rp a     t        ter
minute feet
  
                  a s
       l                  h)
  p              
(s

in dappling puddlespuddling
in
half lit
hallways
as grandfather's clock coruscates deep
vibrations through this midnight hour
i
peer
         through
                        the
                             vine
                                   caked
frameless translucent notion of thought
                 onto
the pasture of this my memory
                                                      of
                                  a
           midnight
past




                                                         ;
PK Wakefield Dec 2011
i mean slight difficult slant ways
rhyming friction
(between 2 almost verses)
creating
that impossibly beautiful err
when it just won't Miss Dickinson's
brain funerals
fabulously feel
like a church bell
struck trembling painful resonating
notes in my skull pleasantly
PK Wakefield Feb 2011
i like to mostly play with words. or else to play with me they. or not at all. or sometimes. or yes,,,.
'  ,
         '
    '   ,    
                                          ,
                 '


         ,                                        .
                              '

              ,.,                            ,.,

                                                                       '

.
PK Wakefield Mar 2011
this poised indelible knot)

(of untranslucent lodging rock

that mets so eagerly

                                    a

         n

              d

shorns the tousled bed of sky

a circlet of watching cobalt

supreme and rigidly manicured

wi

        th

the stormy lips of god

they(who;are,a,marvelous’girded.fauld:of gray)

speak

with whitish freezing voice

to say upon the noble cap

                                         this organized heap

                 of lean sinuous

stone

their icy tongue

which laps the bare skull

of the untremulous mountain

irrevocably spouting on the horizon
PK Wakefield Apr 2010
bittering every sweet
thusly shifting arrogant flavor
seems to make all the tears
a dusty eruption over
tongues not built to
ever know such obscenely beautiful oral
PK Wakefield Mar 2012
mouth lingers body fragrant

     (dreams peculiar)

violent of redhair sits pretty
alone awkwardly of nothing
precise in a corner quietly
shifts wonders of skin and
reads a book looking like
naked would be better than
PK Wakefield Jul 2012
mouth quickly incredible tripping with youth meekly feels
moist, single, and crimsonly accelerates two bent velvet
lengths of lip, mouth, singly imports a kneading on my
short lanks of uncoloured. Dear,

                                                          who small, wan, paleness
                                                          of cheek is writ with the
                                              quiver
                                                          of
                                                                cupid's
                                                                               pricking,

                                                    treads
                                                               of thy nostril, lip, and ear silver
                                                               hangs a curving set of beads from
                                                               thy nose

                                                                                 and the back of your
                                                                            head
                                                                      is
                                                              nice
                                                     under
                                                 my
                                           hand
                                     pressed
                                  thickly
                                 into
                                 cotton
                                  and
                                    your
                                       back
                                         ,which,
                                            slithers
                                              and rolls
                                            says,
                                                      "hello, destroyer"
PK Wakefield Nov 2010
i ladle and belch the **** of my manure cloud sphere clad with
serious hair up to the lip of 2nd speaking red and receding in naked
i growly split tenderly aching muck and i open my mouth and
procreate assuredly my twin vibrations of love and death and i'm
also as they. or who is the bursa inflamed digital crunching sapphire
      
               and

only my fathers know also what. they are only old. but took me
in their ink and gave me blood and gave me words and they are Eliot
or cummings OR hobbes or deScartes and plAto   or Nietzsche'
and they showed me. and they showered me. and they make me
or only(itseems) they do: are likened unto me and the machine of my
thought making grayness...
                                                     and only my fathers
they know only like me and we are 1
PK Wakefield May 2010
my lady,my lady
when you come MY lady

        all

the skin of my scents brittle
and the nakedness of my soul
is alight in your smooth purity
(stand with me next to the neat
trees) alabaster leaves whispering
a
                        sudden

benediction to your delightful frame.
how? can you be my LADY? what god
blessed me with your careful drug.
                      
                                                        olive
heaven: i love you love me. loving your
                                                     precious

my lady hither coming come hither my lady O,
my lady you breathe so. marry my veins with your
rich blood and take my apprehensions. if an oblivion greets my
crystal smile on the morrow if you were by the side of me
i would welcome it grinning like a fool.
PK Wakefield Nov 2010
my
     my light
my lithe light
                           my lithe lady
daily devotions: i attend with my lips
your marriage of heat and (callous sensuality
unerringly lavished a spit of phlorescent marrow.    .        .    To the salt

       of sunlight light majestically freckled your shoulders

who's so pale hands are grippless plums juice bursting off you're onyx hair
         dimly.

         who i'm enamored a foolish

                            girders
                                                  of my rib

solitary pumping scarlet

                                                carve my amorphousness to
            symmetry
                                 the
  ****
                      breach
                                                 of lavender
                                                                                   sound!
PK Wakefield Jan 2012
my topressdeeply lips
hunch kneading
on your lips love
(with the sun   ,
                            with
                                      its
shearing invincible
                                   diaphanous

marigold heart) who cares less
when feebly earth consumes
the rightly,
                    naked unfleshing
                                                    waif
of i
is amorous to playlips
bunched folding
into unfinite heavens extending
beyond

                   extension

the decreasing miracle of your
temporal furnace
(so lady unslowly dissolve
the uncouth packaging of
thy lustful canary
and admit the frivolous
**** splinter of inflaccid
heaving)
PK Wakefield Jun 2011
Neck totally lips hot continuously over
and
       over
            aNd
                 o'er
                     ere
                         the splash
                  ,great and yellowly gargantuan,
                coming invulnerably the earth o'er
             (I kindle mightily snoring lungs with
               tightly wrapped binding skin burs
                ting simmering glaciers topped
                 moistly with me,) under you
                  when i have been
                   i liked my body more
                    with muscles snaking
                     impatiently
                      pleasing
                       the body of you
                        lady Night
                         ;you lake of bumping fire
                          hideously i'm a plunging
                           into thee
                            , thy into
                               thighs totally
                                smacke
                                 d with mine
                                                       o
                                                     ver
                                                        me
                                                     W
                                                   h e n
                                                        U
                                                    have been
                                                i li(c)ked
                                             your body more
                                          precociously than
                                        A
                                          n
                                        y
                                         Dulcet electric buzz
                                            your crown of moans
                                               lungs from erratically sprouted
                                                 gilding splendidly
PK Wakefield May 2010
neon simple lights littered street
               well glowing;
                                          deeply
          purpl.e
tired bodies roil
                              clustering
    for warm liquid spouts)
they don't ever stop
                summoned by loose
whim of smooth youths
     to dash their minds on wet rocks.
   what shallow indulgents

those
PK Wakefield Apr 2012
never originally I
borrow myself
from minds

             friendsor

notfriends even
I get me
                      from

                               not me

                               but from what they

                                                think

                                                   I

                                             only
                                                         i

                                                            am
PK Wakefield May 2010
next 2 straightdullsilver
                                              (shafting from concreteish
                                               landscape)
wrests a swollen *****

corpulence molds in cylindric fashion
to attain the shape of comfort
as repose consumes her physicality

a man chirps in iridescence tones
to gather her heed on his beckoning

she shatters the womb of stillness
bulging in animation
step
    step
        step
           step
barter at windows sill

(she:)
just a vehicle of pleasure
PK Wakefield Apr 2012
noosenice night come
come kindly
and ****** me
of normal
whim and wit night
purple easy
                       night crusted
                                  in casual
                                       Spring
                                       the delicate
                                       stiletto of thee
                                       paled tween rib
                                       and sinew
                                                           The
                                                           quick sliver
                                                           of the moon
                                                           which by affable
                                                           stupid violence
                                                           is a smiling cudgel
                                                                                                That
                                                                                                stumbles brilliantly into
                                                                                                my skin
                                                                                                where the prime magic
                                                                                                of fairies have also
                                                                                                been and split their
                                                                                                thighs
                                                                                                admitting
                                                                                                                      LIFE
.o2
PK Wakefield May 2011
.o2
what is like the abrupt subtle cleavage of day and night
, a dale sloping downward sloping into a dale, a cool
and prim sleep, a crimp of foil aloof and serious with
the pale column of freshly failing light and the waxing
***** of the moon? the fluff of somber and livid
flesh, the notes of music that are your skinny ankles
catching the sallow still strips of slanting sorry
moon's ablest kiss. she kisses thee a flower forever.
a bed of teeming poppies. you are the sap of whom.
a venom of those soporific buds. you who are sleeping
like a lock death forever young and nubile, in the bed
of mine. in my very skull. your name is always at its lips.
i say it. and i eat it. it is mine. forever.
PK Wakefield Jan 2012
O creators
  O makers(O ye, who by hands deftest,
    hew the earth with thy hearts
      extrapolated)thou art blessed

           (and a blessing)

for by the imperfect notions of you
more perfect becomes me

             (in me gathers
              the coalesced
              intensity of
              your exact
              infinite stuff)and
                                             i
                                             'm thick with your heady music
                                             which bursts out my body
                                             and i'm flung into burning
                                             indomitable human fire
                                                  (and i become
                                                   like gargantuan
                                                   sleeping flowers(whole rivers of them)i become the
                                                   hot sigil of the human singing
                                                   *****)with drunk beautiful darkness
                                                   i sing across the folding eternal
                                                   abyss and with merriest volition
                                                   i add the coarse sound of my fracas
                                                   to the body of the electric people
                                                   chorus
                                                                 (the makers
                                                                                        and the creators
                                                                                                                      who by pleasing distinct
                                                                                                                      colorful blades scar
                                                                                                                      me wonderfully
                                                                                                                                                  )
PK Wakefield Dec 2011
O eve
             O 1st starting nubile sparks
                                                          ­      O thrush and warble

         you skip tremulous and encroaching
       puddle o' dankness rushing oe'r blade and mountain
      you race the wind and gather up all the finite bodies of earth
     in your illustrious cool mouth and blow each face and stem thy
    kiss o' your illluminant clutching docile lips, which fornicate with
   the merry spades o' silver stars a digging the freshest grave of day
                                       (i'll fit into you
                                        the stuff of me
                                        in creases o'
                                        your foldless
                                        heaps and
                                        coiffes
             ­                           your hair marvelous and faultless
                                        staggers brightly
                                        from the pale splinter o' the moon
                                        and it eats me into
                                        the playful gnash o' its reticent
                                        fists
          ­                       )
         O
         eve
                             O
                            valley  and stream
                      
             (meet with me tonight
              beneath the pallor lady
              and we'll make love)
PK Wakefield Apr 2010
on bended knee proffered
golden hoop

burn lurid 'gainst
pallor palms

saying: nothing

her silence
the loudest quiet
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
Of her, the softening strength of hair her minute bowl of light is so majestic. Cleverly upon her shoulders and making little creases her lips break the flaccid cheeks and. Maybe I will kiss them
PK Wakefield Sep 2012
.                                                                                  o
                                                                                  f
                                                                                 hu
                                                                                man
                                                                               thin
                                                                              gs: ma
                                                                             ny doin
                                                                            g, thing
                                                                           s human
                                                                          are more n
                                                                         eatly couth i
                                                                        n Into-Dust co
                                                                       ats of polite var
                                                                      nish and their ha
                                                                     ats hang at precise
                                                                    their teeth ivory and
                                                                   the smell of their colo
                                                                  gne catches back at the
                                                                 throat wearing finest silk
                                                                s (but time, time looks bru
                                                               tally through their and prim
                                                              shoes and trousers. knees sag
                                                             eyes hang instantly
                                                                                                 languor w
                                                           ears them like cheap perfume and
                                                          laughter unsuddenly from nowhere
                                                         crisps the cheeks of everywaiting sou
                                                        l creeks with soon to be dirt bones and
                                                       amongst them sprouts something gener
                                                      ous. Less close to nearly dead, and has (l
                                                     ike a frond has) demure sturdy waifish. its
                                                    timber is clothed in blonde lips and eyes lik
                                                   e waking almost never(no like daffodils; yes l
                                                  ike more them) only daffodils, they are not so b
                                                 right, nor as agile, i think but who knows i was o
                                                nly a boy who, from across the street noticed, a girl
                                               pressed between death,
                                                                                                     laughing like a *****
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
A.

afore the blush of placid cheeks is A
proffered crop of luscious fancies
limpid groves of silken corpses (mingle
deftly apathetic death) maligned posies
stinking of bloodless roses; their amorphous skin
blotting dusty shelves pages tumble
briefly sleeping verses profess loving tongues
rasping effigies unlike the clamour truly divine
milk of feminine ambrosia

grotesque the statued poses, a love writ tawny
embers litter blossoms strongly and indolent
they sparingly divided, ample thighs crossed,
leak no pleasure (but taunting accurate plush
). so to luna breathe in the excellent pools of
lipless fantasies piled in ardent devotion about
roots deeply sensual aphorisms. and metastasize a
plaguing remedy breeding steadily in residence
my cracking synaptic core. every thought enamored
to her cause

2.

a symposium of muscle more perfect never did
reside in flesh as well so as this splinter static
in repose sighing hues unsightly, a rainbow of burning
sin blisters the empty air between our pumping
artifices;  CHAOS: a tumble of dry nothing spits
from an oral sanctum in ownership of I and numbly
splitting vocal cracks i dare pray to evoke your
crass symptom of beauty, in every hillock it doth lash
your frame, to reside on me its angles.

cHEW the gristle of my fatty words, if be the flavor
to the liking of your buds may i lay into your
frame the vestige of mine will and blossom about your pearl, hid
in denim armor, my mouth in every effort of its loyalty
to the sanctuary of thy splendid yoke. and yoked to thy
the chain of my hips. weaving dainty clouds of "yes"
from the soft cavern of your prim voice?

*

Froth, the sea, my lady in waves of festering verbs
a shore, mine, they do land in manifolds of colour
loving every cut of these sharp enunciations; some claret,
i do well from the clefts. cells reticent of the screams brewing
in their nuclei, it's an ideal clove shod in scents somnambulant.
a territory of my libations to your flexing presence,
may always be you by the side of i

but waits the coldest sleep and the heaps of soil
generous on our boxes; so shall i make to you an offer
of my life. in hope, thou shalt accept its filigree and
decree it upon your soul as have i so we may be
in eternal blessed sickness of our amorous lace
bands fingers circling, do denote the promise of
my hands.


                 TO THEE. TO THY. me
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
of me is constituted some muscles and some. Nerves tingle coolly and
about my waist is her arms and the coffee is ready and vivaldi won't shut
up and

her breathe is a dangerous serpent and my nape is she touches it. a grooming my skin and "ouch" this coffee is too hot

      and

she,s kissing my and the mug is cold (i love its skin with) and my fingers
hold a lock of steaming minutes or she is her hands are a carnival of laughing gypsies(in my jeans) and...

what was i doing?
PK Wakefield Nov 2011
how would i know claw or feather(myself or myself). there's me only and also me. like claw sharply or feather downy.
me and me also. that's what i am like. both neither or either.

i again return myself to hands of thoughts and returning again i arrive and look on them.
and they are wonder.
meekest starting; hulking ending. they begin and they rush. they end and they abey.

not so nearly as a frond, more like a leaf, just new and trembling on his mothers arm.
i dance and i am collected.
i repose and i am disheveled. i am cluttered with words mostly. they collude like

grass fresh in springs nicest wetness on early mornings(they gleam and enamel
me). my stuff and my
artifice. they are the magic of person, of which i count myself amongst, and am

counted by. i squish their numbers and margins between my toes when i walk
on balmy summer nights
through soakness caking through my shirt. the dew of god's breath enamors.

and pleases the senses. such aromas(which waltz from buds opened in the silverset
moonlight)confuse
and collide me. i like how they smell. they are richest and fullest health. on the breeze

they mingle and bumble perfectly. they arrive and taunt me. i stand by lakes(wreathed in them)
and i would eat them
as soon as smell them. stem and berry. loch and grove. these things are innumerable(and terribly

few). how do i reckon them against me? but just bones and flesh i wonder on their bodies.
i note them and i bring
them into me and place them in my soul. they, like sleep, are posies and fancies gorgeous.

i ramble and i elicit. i trundle and i fathom. i look on people and i see them busy and
infinite. they progress
and urge. they collect and they divide. like oceans. each's a droplet and a whole.

they make me and i make them. i know me by them. and how shall i any other way?
and them by me
they know themselves. we are bound and seamless. i lilt and i think on them.

sometimes foolish i think. other times i'm so in wonder at each infinite self i nearly tumble
out myself.
and where does the truth lie? both of course. nothing was ever one thing. except for exactly

what it is. except for when it's not. then it is another thing. which is exactly what it is again.
i think and sing.
but i'm not knowing. i've never been. i just flit and prattle(i am the wind; i touching nothing

leave no trace).
PK Wakefield Sep 2010
OF this I,m sure:       my hands

     are

little hammers pontificating on your head
a hard oval split and ******* of your tender blood
i wonder maybe why you don't try(atleast)to move
a bit. shift maybe slightly. but i don't think you can
so i guess

    i    will maybe

          keep maybe

yes(iwill)

               keep gently


    smashingyourface
PK Wakefield Apr 2011
o
                                         ,
little star
with fingers
  gowned nimble
    fickles numbly
     bickering the
night with
perhaps slamming
      bruises off white
         fast timidity
                                                   o,
           simply dusting
             forever lovely
               without mortal
                 err ere the dull
                   mother of budding
                     s
                       -tupid unheavy
                          light
                            what slashes
                              night briefly
                                impeding
                                 darkness flaky
                                  flaking breaking
                                 in summer
                                making
                   ­           sorry ladies
                            who sleeping
                           fairies dote
                          'pon slick
                        penultimate
                       spheres
                     where
                    heaven
                  whitely moors                                                            ­                                ,
               her softly
            and her
      deftly
marvelous                                       ­                                                   ..............­..........
   4ever                                                            ­                   ,
     and 4                                                                ­     '
                  ever                                         ­        .   "
                                ever                           ­  ,  '
                                         ever                . '
                                                   eVEr : '
PK Wakefield Apr 2011
once
                            



                                       i
                                         was (not
                                                         )
                                                          in love with youw
h
   a
        t,Happened?
PK Wakefield May 2010
one eternity awaits the final heavy lidded collapsing
                   breath;
PK Wakefield Dec 2010
scream absolute violet
the vehement throat of night
blisters insanity
                               and some little reds
what talk like death
      wriggling skulls
full of strobing darkness   &

              angry blood

scarleted in superficial heat
                                                      a thrombosis
aligned rickety knees knocking
      weak lipped fire
                                   ,        at sonorous clouds waspish dint
resting aggressively supine starlight
  in crusts of vibrant tears
   spotting ardently the quavering note of black
PK Wakefield Apr 2012
one time there was a last night
of stars moistly spilt by sabled
cheeks of eve there was a starling
immediately two maybe yes 2
starlings perhaps there were
raucous cruel and winged starlings
that stood briefly against the sky
trees and a small path twained
them there was clovers and a whole
field of them looked so nice in
that last night they looked peaceful
and i almost laid right down in them
and slept
PK Wakefield Mar 2012
one time there was a summer(right before it)where
deliberate of short and blackest hair came a girl
between familiar and un arriving in a slender vessel
feeling untouched a bit raw virginal needing of
hand's barest singe took off all her clothes in my room
and was so cute a tiny wall of blood

                                                                   snarled
                                                                                
                                                                                 sighed


                                                                                            broke
                                                                                            a little ocean scarlet
                                                                                            (from her hips)
PK Wakefield May 2010
in                  me
only 1 rose
      (read heavy petals)
blistered impossibly red
PK Wakefield Nov 2012
,only don't hurt   me)  
                                          
please cuz          you  
even still                  i
                                      
though for        ages            
                                        
and for         though    
                                            
cuz                 please        
a year and almostA
                                      
since felt you          i        
                                      
little and          small              
                                      
even                  many
black with   cropped      
thousands        softly
coiled in my  handss
you                       cuz
a year almost it  was
cold like        outside
novembering     Rain
now though cuz      a
year             ALMOST
octobering           and  
                                        
even                though
a year almost       still
lingers (though now)
small                 many
still                  lingers
your smell in       my
nostrils
                     instantly
recalling           when
(outside        juneing)
sun you me         and
Oregon  every  night
drank plum       wine
and                  ******
(I'm writing to    you
PK Wakefield Apr 2010
supping from
cups filled
with ill
darkness
the demon
on my
back
lacerates my
fleshy
shell
as he shifts
his horror
PK Wakefield Jun 2010
on the lake goes scuttling all the sanity
miracle frolicking tingles jaunty sails spread
as do the pink bits of *** splashing in the shallows
shiny toys why do you have to move like that?
plucking the young cords in my head with your
long skin sweating correctly oils that bitter sweetly
in my mouth. i can't keep from the rude giggling of
your heavy ******* my eyes to wonder on the ether
of their succulent tiny hills. sharply ***** the absence
of my lady and bleed away my devotions mouth watering
lilies watering in the mouth of my cerebrum. but so comes
the touch of her polk-a-dot lacey correspondence on my nape
and forgotten are the little delicacies as enveloped in the sugar
of her cinnamon wrists glad hands grasping about my knotted
tissues i am drawn into the unbearable perfection of her metal
lips.
PK Wakefield Apr 2010
i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i I've
to
u
c
he
d
something
(on the other side of
understanding}

tasted its tasteless
colors

writhing 'neath
(time time time time)'s
translucent skin

it(')s ageless splendor
drip(ing)s hot little whispers
into my fleshy conscious

but, thoughting
i wonder:
"did it find me or did i find it"

?
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
"oof," i said,"what are you?" got nice

****                                             gotnice

calves backsofknees and       got nice

eyes "i bet" said i said eyes

i bet you taste real good

(between winter) and spring

i bet wet

petals split by wet petals split

you taste good

like salt and rain

next to the ocean(betweenWinterandSpring)
PK Wakefield Nov 2012
ope n al l t h e smal lt hin gs (between)
th ei rmiddle s i swri th e ge n tl         y
m yst er y (that which tiny wanders
awe) brigh tfast bl indl ingly w i t h e r s

                   faceshands

into dust stumbling minutely though
g   r   a    s  p in ga nd b    i   t  i n       g
so open all the small things (boys and
girls open them they have empty which
like you have and faster more colorful
nothing they) s                                        o
open all the small things boysandgirls
spilling from them running rivers of
poppies splayed out in raw pallid eve
rushing through cambered fragility
(that instantly with precise mess flair
with the curving orange of death       )
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