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 Nov 2012 Vidya
PK Wakefield
tonight


                 walking


     i see


in

                   the


passing

                 tightly

     gusseted


                      human things


a very small pretty

        which

is in their lips


      hiding till their


lover turns


        (whispering sweetly nothing)




       or laughs abruptly children



          causing one causeless


         unnecessary grin


    to perch instantly


     ) the wind against my coat


     presses coldly



               November and.
 Nov 2012 Vidya
PK Wakefield
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       )
 Nov 2012 Vidya
PK Wakefield
your mouth is a pale crescendo
about which mutters beauty
(lipscheecks;eyes;hairandbody)
easy with crass eager nobility
and just a bit of intense fingers
culling fleetly every atom of
girl fleece into a singular punch
of lush dangerous silence

that caves when rushes your
neck into my mouth its crisp
foal (on awkward skinniness
suddenly) blisters engorged
with scarlet and strenuous rapid
sound

            BURST
 Oct 2012 Vidya
PK Wakefield
.


















                                                              i would **** even stars































                                                                                                                                                                               .
 Oct 2012 Vidya
PK Wakefield
how you feel in the dark( uneasy
imbalanced weirdly strong) feels

like ( coy unearthly howling) rain
feels deep with smelling after (
prickled millions of cold and hot )
mingling with the seaair and is
gently acrid salty wafts of gulls
crying scattered threading the
moonlight through their coarse
throats ( little tiny trillions of

kissing droplets slightly ) like
you feel in the dark ( imbalancing
coyly acrid howling ) feels like

THE SEA
 Oct 2012 Vidya
Lucan
Say you want a cat. A dog's too easy,
would wag when wag is inappropriate,
and slobber on the guests. You'll take the cat,
so different and strange, it drives you crazy,

its shiftlessness, its ins-and-outs, its chi.
You call. It does not come. Is this a pet,
this Dharma ***? You say you can't accept
its vacant gaze, its scorn, who yearned to be

at home with feral grace, with all you're not.
But you're a Body safely locked from Mind,
that Problem no Mind solves. This point's defined
for you by ****, who's not the pet you thought

but Otherness, one owned by God, or none.
Cat sleeps for hours, wants out. A job well done.
 Oct 2012 Vidya
Lucan
1
Congratulations
on your maturation:
now our lust's "love,"
not infatuation.

2
Romantic "deficits,"
confiscatorial "trends" --
**** your "benefits" --
where's my dividends?

3
I tried to really kiss you,
not co-impregnate a tissue.

4
I must confess
I love that dress --

more or less!

5
-- I'd die for you (you said)
-- I'd mumble you in bed.

6
you  me  us  me
us-me-you  you-me-us-you-me-you
us-me-us-­meyouyou-us-youyouyou
youyou-us-me-youyouyouyouyouyouyou!
you-me-­us-us-me-me-me --
us

7
Three coins in the fountain?
Who in hell's been counting?

8
Nod, smile; I'm playing along
while they're "playing our song."

9
Monogamy
demands its peephole:
Maybe we should see
other people.


10
"The last time I saw her
she'd hired a lawyer."
 Oct 2012 Vidya
Lucan
An auction just last month -- no sale, I guess,
for now a square of white on your window says:
"Building Condemned, Order of the City..."
A salable family place, and there's the pity --
your roof and sills square, the clapboards straight,
the windows shining -- but an enemy of the state,
apparently, too good to live. So, bang --
you're dead! No one loves you, home. Go hang.

A house needs people in it! But your soul's gone,
your family fled, flat broke, or simply broken.
What a waste -- and one on every street, forlorn,
contrite, like jilted brides that none will visit.
Still, you're left here, waiting. Who is it
loves you now? And not one word is spoken.
These abandoned houses make me crazy; perfectly good and yet they'll be torn down. The banks get to write them off, and then, in the next boom cycle, there'll not be enough houses to go around, and the cost will be too high again, remaining out of reach of most families. It's a scam!
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