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patrick-wakefield-1Poems
A                                                                        heart is where its                                                                        gaggle of appropriate nerves                                                                        tingle singing nerves                                                                        single teeming nerves                                                                        a tumult of aching skin                                                                        towers correctly sublime                                                                        a balmy twinge of evenings                                                                        who curl with clearest scent                                                                        about the firmer freshly body                                                                        of the thighs quaking totally                                                                        (a face that twists heroically                                                                         churns adroitly                                                                         in adoring pleasure                                                                         wreaking fragile sturdy                                                                         crescents                                                                         limping on the hotting                                                                         chalice of her febrile                                                                         brink. she totters just almost                                                                         at it. right at it fiercely.                                                                         her flush groaning                                                                         her garden parting                                                                         ),i flay the difficult ugly                                                                        that wears on her this                                                                        common uncanny second                                                                        i turn her sorely into naked                                                                        flavored robes writhing                                                                        between her thrashing together                                                                        i stab her forever giddy                                                                        my placid crashing”
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May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 1:24 AM UTC
Untitled
A                                                                        heart is where its                                                                        gaggle of appropriate nerves                                                                        tingle singing nerves                                                                        single teeming nerves                                                                        a tumult of aching skin                                                                        towers correctly sublime                                                                        a balmy twinge of evenings                                                                        who curl with clearest scent                                                                        about the firmer freshly body                                                                        of the thighs quaking totally                                                                        (a face that twists heroically                                                                         churns adroitly                                                                         in adoring pleasure                                                                         wreaking fragile sturdy                                                                         crescents                                                                         limping on the hotting                                                                         chalice of her febrile                                                                         brink. she totters just almost                                                                         at it. right at it fiercely.                                                                         her flush groaning                                                                         her garden parting                                                                         ),i flay the difficult ugly                                                                        that wears on her this                                                                        common uncanny second                                                                        i turn her sorely into naked                                                                        flavored robes writhing                                                                        between her thrashing together                                                                        i stab her forever giddy                                                                        my placid crashing”
patrick-wakefield-1
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patrick-wakefield-1
American
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 1:24 AM UTC
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