SublimateSpeak and breathe it, slowly, singing strangely to my innermostSublimate by AntoinetteGiulia
from your outpost in outwardly imposed sacrosanctity. i'll host
your potent parasitism exposed like it's an ode to my body.
Christen me common voluptuary with your curious lines inside me.
This is how parallax paralyzed in a state of paradise
and your undivided sense still sinks in slippery as Delphi,
worn warm in your domesticity and worn thin in mine.
A cashmere blend of supersensuality, strangely silken shame,
and fuzzy phantasmagoria redolent of childhood games
steeps what's left in sex, leaves the rest as excess
to flounder in an inborn sort of way,
marrying disconnect with your intent to introject,
to flower in an ingrown sort of way.
Mulling in the dewiness of semihuman skin,
awakens a synesthetic hallucination
of your animal heat in my animate pores,
lolling open to welcome your adoration.
Your vocals roll drolly from your alien tongue,
makes me want to crawl beneath your pedestal and find communion
in Nerudan conf
Tapsi let roseflesh brush his dead forehead from my lips.Taps by AntoinetteGiulia
i kept my sickness at bay, let the alter girl pray
in her solemn face, stripper heels, unhidden hips,
fingering the sweet thickness of cinnamon incense.
"God is nigh."
there stood his quiet coffin, sugared with oregano from home,
sinking to sleep at the feet of the greediest stone he'll know.
and the trumpeter Tapped crescendos into a world of proudest crows,
low-tide irascibility, and the unmistakable tyranny in the slowly rising fall
of his lung, breathing
"day is done, gone the sun" like it lived beneath the breadth of his
carcinogenic sun. Beneath his stars and the sky, God is nigh.
Alto, bluethe alien urge for empty words on once-friendly tonguesAlto, blue by AntoinetteGiulia
had possessed my homeless body. unsung
promulgators filled my cavitary lungs
the best they knew how [square pegs, oblong plot holes].
held hopes high in my shallow breath, ribs sunken low in my summer breast,
held hopes high in the twos and threes for news two or three degrees
warmer than the past had bade me believe would subsist in even my Sunday best.
let alone my absurd and abused frame, i am less
easily deceived than am i received, and a diseased entitlement entitled eustress
overtook naivety, bade me breathe with the same captivity
that captivated these critics of my northwest.
today i tasted loneliness
the way an alcoholic accepts
Echolaliacyes, he broke my freshman heart.Echolaliac by AntoinetteGiulia
he wrote my spine like compromise under
idealized fingertips gripping model female citizen
three years ago.
two years later i tasted his baptism sterile-sweet,
so we brushed feet under tabletop stares.
i never told him to wear me so smugly, he was a
harrowing echolaliac suckling lilac bruised pride of
mine three years prior.
gently now i slipped two doors down in his
stifling anonymity, slowly sipping him, him tripping
the light fantastic with my left footing in an uneasy
animal, sultry soft and clinging like a thing lifted
from my obsolete dreams, he seemed
less distinct than i ever could’ve dreamed and
less distant than his speech tugged meanly
from an extrasolar means of invertebrate dealings.
Untitled1. her sunset hair allUntitled by Nullibicity
hell-bound and flickering
like the memories of us
at 2:00am trying to spark
she never screamed.
That’s what’s different about us:
I’m all lungs and April
until the showers bloom
cornered in my eyes,
and I praise God.
I praise God.
she quivers in a humid silence.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)short history of the universe by ProtoRepublic
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
|Welcome to my page, if you have any spare feedback, I'd love to have it:] I study operatic vocal performance, draw, write [words, music], play piano, and busk with my accordion, Barnabas.|