Tussivei incubate acceptance for one trimester.Tussive by AntoinetteGiulia
When it comes, it is quiet and forgetful of luster.
We greet it with a mouthful of sedatives,
seat it with compliments on its additive pigment,
and with other words flatter than empty flattery
we sell the sole remnants of a pregnancy
And though the air says this is acceptable malady,
i choke on Despair like a nonsmoker.
Pollutant, It curls from telephone receiver,
from familiar comments on an assumed future over
sugar-rimmed glasses clinking vacuous approval;
i’m chastened by the taste so embraced by the locals.
They disdain the bold shouldered and say roll over,
roll “closure” in this paper skin, light It up, and breathe It in. Slower.
Release Hope’s chokehold and let the civil disease put you at ease.
Don’t be bothered by the odor.
Just before i am smothered, i and their venture sputter.
Gin and TonicThe leftover taste is unexpectedly blue.Gin and Tonic by AntoinetteGiulia
The juniper traced it into my veins like a stamp or a stain of things thought through,
or something equally untrue.
My .08 sings rhythm and blues late into the hours, Interchangeable You.
(I grow cold outside the notion of his valuable use; I blame this on youth,
and not on any criminally negligible tumbler of truth.)
But these remnants of blue are brighter than the juniper berries that bloom
in bunches behind my ears with the permanence of bruises. Feel it deeper here,
and with a fresher, less green intimacy than what gin and tonic committed to memory.
But these remnants of blue burn lower, more slowly
than my quixotic concept of love, ill-conceived in absence of desire and in a pleased
immaturity that playacts well with only those who speak quickly.
This perennial blue rooted fast in my feet, I no longer stand between empty and emptied.
I'll let instinct carry me through amity's frightening new anatomy
and hope that next time the blue will be
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.
propane and propane paraphernaliaEventually all trembling comes to the building. Mostly,propane and propane paraphernalia by palaeochannel6
the risen are given away by perfume. And my bad for the drama,
for this brutal existence, for all the wayward definitions of leaving.
But I guess that's the species; find a lifeboat in the floating debris;
see a face in an ocean of randomized metadata; hear angels through an abyss full of static.
They sat me down and I thought of nothing but the sunset
bleeding across your mountains, begged her not to go, found out that freeways
hold no memory. Is that what we do, Dean Young;
tread and make noise and promise to remember the way rivers don't?
I'm not sure how much longer we have but I'll tell you this:
reaching into the accident and pulling out a planet, dazzling your confusion
with absolute defeat at the arms of a woman, in the theater of this bedroom,
looking for fathers to the edge of the universe
and finding nothing but our own busted hands, what else
could describe this? Realistically, what is the probability of collision,
|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.|