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Sep 2014
what hot,
estimable lances
of adamantine night

pass drowsily

of exact turpitude
before my hands drunk

in comely seas
of neck clean
and wholly depraved
grasping


                 (the hanging of a boy wish
                   between sallow columns
                   of chaste eve;

                                            a caricature emerges:

                      that self of sometimes dreaming
                      illeasy
                      nymphness.                                      )
PK Wakefield
Written by
PK Wakefield
379
   rob
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