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Apr 2011
the dew of some mornings is a thing which is not unlike the kind nuisance of my lady's graceless feeble miraculous fingers. who are not unlike the starting end of day where **** and silent and hulking quiet tremble viscous muscles
of pure unlight, teeming with wondrous gleaming follicles, pimpling the
evenings tummy lapped with luna's rapid fortunate tongue. the chittering
globs of arms waxing ferocious. in climbing steeply valleys feet middle in
strange streams. the common streams. the unerring crooked and corpulent streams. in there, between between, 1and1 (you and i) our ventricles beat
insatiably voluminous leaves. from trees of amorous fruit bearing fronds
slapping silence(whileWeBeneathThemIntoEachOthersMe'sDepositSlushyViteWeWe­remore than god's unfound children returning into the cherished cherry red
steaming glue of our very and very clanGlorious howls repeatedly again angain andgain and gain: an earth wholly more to the liking of "which is not unlike us")
                            1
                          !    I:,.
PK Wakefield
Written by
PK Wakefield
770
 
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