MeretriciousA sinkhole of foreverplay declared its own futility,Meretricious by AntoinetteGiulia
maybe in quiet reference to the sheer superfluity
of twin fertilities, her body and mine
(a subconscious breach, my body in mind).
In time i am drained of my fermented fire: my evenings expire,
having been atomized into prepositions to propositions.
Former selves surmised i'm made for this kind of faithless fission,
volitional hands deft with the slickness to
shatter that supposition:
i could never love like this,
shoved into casualty by this sickness
wearing my likeness like i really like this,
stripped of stomach lining and scraping off clothes.
i'm nose to nose with a displeasure coined
from the warped loins of what I've claimed to know.
Love Poem No. 140.5Sometimes i want to choke on all the poems i will never show you.Love Poem No. 140.5 by AntoinetteGiulia
No matter how many times your laugh makes me want to touch you,
i can smell the human on your breath and feel the tension in my bottleneck
from all the nights i've pretended to have something half as beautiful as you.
This summer i'm making roadkill of all the poems i've written for you
on the highway stretching my second string heartstrings across the midwest
until i've got nothing less than a desire and inability to sing.
[i'm beginning to think being human means holding doors open
for people you know are not going to come.]
Still my body's twirling around my overzealous abdomen and
i've got to learn how to keep it to myself.
Still i'm sick and picking this fiery fruit of a sun from joyless skies to
warm my downtrodden insides because your eyes are my photokeratitis
and now i'm blind
see if there's anything you want in my pink and spastic underbelly.
I wouldn't call you holyI have an obsession with bridges—I wouldn't call you holy by Nullibicity
San Francisco where I first held love, skyline-spine bending with my hands, muscles saying “I can hold you. And Him—and whatever else is under your breasts and skin,” and we sat with the waves and talked of how we were little ants and drowning in Chardonnay and time.
Then, there are the ones I’d make for you, in the mailbox on gloss-paper, my hair spilling over the floor in midmorning worship. You’d breathe me from the air, the contented sigh enough to unravel me in diaphragms. Then you’d lick me back to postage, and kiss away my youth.
“Add a cut for me, babe; next time you’ll listen—” the ball I made of pain, and the curl of dimples made from shame… and I almost can’t admit how I’d yearn for you erode me to my knees, again. (To this day, I still can’t bend the same, but a bridge is a bridge is a bridge, and I’m not looking for your feet)
and I wouldn't cal
|Welcome to my page! if you have any spare feedback, I'd love to have it. I study classical singing, draw, write [words, music], play piano, and busk with my accordion, Barnabas.|