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
Big Fish Syndrome.My vainglory-pierced tongue-ideally-in-cheekBig Fish Syndrome. by AntoinetteGiulia
or up against his:
these are the ways i agree to live if i must string
together nights for which i might plead intoxication if
i had more or less pride.
A mere stutter in an otherwise definitive pontification,
my self-awareness is hardly the rut for which we'd been waiting.
Damn my blood to an eternity of Icarian anticipation,
i have been a fish so swollen by the rest of the pond,
i must eat myself
to keep myself alive.
Myself and i isolate ourselves in a self-imposed Elysium,
in a tug-of-war with complacency. My soul is an island,
my clothes are on the floor, my mind is on his eyes on my door.
i am a mountain who wants and wants to be held
nine hundred miles high;
i am a molehill whose bruised complexion is
a thousand miles shy.
united fruit companyEvery orchard you spread, every sudden jolt in your system,united fruit company by ProtoRepublic
the furniture of your body quaking like pigeons
in the other room. How we struggle in the drought,
how the rain never reaches this valley.
And sometimes there are so many hands in my thoughts,
the graffiti in drift the slope stirring a skyline of your porcelain,
piles of clothes, wrecked and erect,
a bare tree reach against the window,
the palmed sun in you smiling and writhing across someone's sheets.
And sometimes come the shadow in stampede, see: wild chernobyl,
the way you build yourself in my absence
toward the bluing lakes; our condition: Weather,
wandering and hungry, the arc v. arch v. ark-
glowing and floating island in the xray.
What you must know; the ache we feel is voyeuristic/animalistic/fatalistic,
the dream is real and surreal
and there is no difference,
the exodus is internal
|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.|