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.
Elapsed.NOVEMBER – lightElapsed. by AntoinetteGiulia
has been property under
the title "propriety," sub-headed
"self-promotion" though i taste it like
DECEMBER – this light,
stewing between lungs like parentheses
enclosing goodbyes to skins barely worn, still warm
on October's breath, is
JANUARY – my light
and i sell its anatomy
like unripe strawberries.
FEBRUARY – look me in the eye
of my hurricane sighs and capsize.
i am a catalogue of what lonely people do
with their melting insides.
MARCH – ask if light has
room to breathe, make me
swear to disbelieve that any
wear their strawberry skins the same as me.
APRIL – ask intercostals
if i have extricated ambitions from ambiguity,
if i've determined sanity in this cacophony of symphonies,
of untried, untrue remedies to unfelt blues.
MAY – heart is a warmly over-ripened fruit, heavy like
JUNE – weight enough to sink a
20 years or 20 mishapsyou are20 years or 20 mishaps by diddlyhohum
sexed in a thought
without the action
your belly grows
white as the years
eat me eat me swallow
me whole, spit out the
bones and relish
didn't anyone ever tell you?
didn't anyone ever warn you-
i am thick as water
when it sinks to
you can see
to my insides,
they used to
boil when i danced.
you used to
compliment my hair,
you used to grab my hand
and call me angel
or 20 mishaps?
it's hard to tell
it's hard to care
the autobiography of lyndon johnson's johnsonBeen busy undoing, she says,the autobiography of lyndon johnson's johnson by ProtoRepublic
then the puddled halogen across the floor.
I think I'm in love with all the people you are
and all the people you're not.
But then what else is there? I drink and the piano steel
on the freeway in our illness,
I drink and the back yard like graffiti,
I drink and the illness like our back yard.
And what of the city beneath you?
Existence becomes deeply controversial for the fire starters.
This is a Promethean metaphor wrapped in a crazy-bitch allegory.
But the trick is to view things like a magician,
or a lawyer.
The city is an answer and not a question.
The revolution is within,
we go to work on ourselves
and are replaced constantly except for those who replace themselves rarely,
and that is a different kind of tragedy.
There is a connection between this
and the disappeared queens of the emerald triangle to be sure.
The epidemic of bee hive thefts,
the [economic/respiratory/take your pick] depression.
Many of our famous palm trees are invasive,
much of our
veterans of foreign whoresIt's like this. I have so many dreams where everybody dies. But that means nothing.veterans of foreign whores by ProtoRepublic
You ask me what we are, something like the internal video store, going out of business.
(in defense of the semantic contradiction in disappearing permafrost)
Instructions for my ultra-dimensional alter-ego:
A piano yields to a lake of graffiti as the sun multiplies in its surface,
remember these things.
Fuck more paranoid women, do not go gently,
haunt on as slowly dying trees, take years,
watch as spectators are drained from the scene like light.
(Statistically, many of us will write about cancer)
I believe in spirits and souls and ghosts. But then I think maybe just the fucked up lens; the blurry, overexposed photographic evidence. Arcing palms, bent bridges,
near-instantaneous images rolling across the silver skyscraper windows.
I want you in me like this illness,
leave nothing unwrecked,
all tables reaching upward,
all radios blasting static.
What this means is you will go on afterward.
|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.|