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.
Love Poem No. 142You sank my fingers ocean-deep into this confused gender of me,Love Poem No. 142 by AntoinetteGiulia
daughter of achingly imperfect circularity whom i'd rather not know;
she humors endothermic sighs turned halcyon at your avid eyes
and languid limbs.
Your stare is a watched pot, disobeying forget-me-nots. Forget
me not, though your hand is perhaps as frank as your heart.
You treat me like you owe it to your ribcage, unconcerned by my
devious age and often thigh-high ambition;
My melancholy shifts as you vein origami rivulets down
wrists and barely-kissed brandy snifters.
My forgotten pulse is
alcoholic, a warm, erotically erratic beat begotten by your breath,
seated deep between my lonely collarbones, your throne.
How many times have i been thwarted by the remembered scent of your skin?
And how many times has remembering
been dismembered over the doubt
stitching itself into my devout chagrin?
You are submission to a narcissistic plea to be found lovely.
[pay as much attention to me
as i do.]
Refined sensuality locking l
Monkeyshines.All but deceived by the easy reception, i cry for theMonkeyshines. by AntoinetteGiulia
ambivalent column of bones that is softer than it is wide.
He fattens me giddy with his wit sharper than my tongue, i
am a Narcissus wilting against an abstract six foot seven.
This is all not to discredit the epiphany realized as it stamped itself
into the bathroom floor, all but made it to the bathroom mirror.
This is all not to say i could swallow it;
So i didn't, and i hid it as i danced on principle of amputated limbs,
singing soporific hymns as encomiums to my congealed pride.
[Drink to me, i'm too young to drink to myself].
[Sing for me, i'm too low to sing for myself].
i nodded to his prodding, my cognac-coffee partage clawing cloyingly
at his tuxedo sleeve;
[look at me], [look at me], [look at me].
And their teeth retreated in the face of such stale charm, unsettled even
after its rolling embellishment in my sleeping eyes.
So floral am i, i cannot be seen in my fairytale hedging i have grown
on the carpet of my mother's sto
|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.|