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Deviant for 5 Years
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Literature
Love Poem No. 136.1: Tattoo
in high school,
you had your forearm’s radiograph painted and restrained,
ribboned and lettered fetters around its twin bones.
what you chose to have woven into your frame goes:
we accept the love we think we deserve.
don’t carry these words as prophesy,
because i will still disburden my body of its plenty
and i will tarry endlessly to read you the poetry
you laced into my heart.
don’t wear these words as insight reaped
from an actual x-ray, because i say
i know your skin better than its stains.
i branded it with a sticky sweet sheen of me
and electromagnetically saw into you.
you are perfect familiarity for my homeless body,
an electrifying likeness of the stuff of life that knits us human.
recognize in it an utterly redemptive beauty to whom
worthiness is a worthless word.
so i spent the summer trying to rewrite your tattoo
because i would never want to rewrite you.
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Literature
Love Poem No. 136: Hyperaeration
The relaxed state of the lungs and chest is partially empty.
To inbreathe, overthrow frictional resistance to flow, knead
pulmonary tissue into submission, and hold potential energy 
within your elasticity. Let go only when you can't withhold release.
Behold the poetry of your breath, splayed mechanically,
your exquisite vitality di- or vivisected by analogy
– and here, an apology for my own personality,
the perfect symmetry of Libralove, its immense physicality
willing slave to the tyranny of ‘intellectuality’;
but within your elasticity, you show me a different kind of poetry,
ineffability explained patiently by mechanic’s hands, masterfully
you bi- or trisect or in some other way command function into formosity
with an artistry I can hardly understand.
With your hands, you gradate me in shades of surreality,
knead my tissues into their constituents, make ingredients of me.
You make flora of my anatomy, fauna of my scrutiny,
syrup of my mechanisms, and of
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Literature
Tussive
i incubate acceptance for one trimester.
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
feverishly ochre.
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.
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Literature
Gin and Tonic
The leftover taste is unexpectedly blue.
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
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Literature
Meretricious
A sinkhole of foreverplay declared its own futility,
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.
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Literature
Love Poem No. 140.5
Sometimes i want to choke on all the poems i will never show you.
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.
Crippling.
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.
All-consuming.
[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
and patient
and kind.
Peel me,
see if there's anything you want in my pink and spastic underbelly.
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alt-J Nara shirt by AntoinetteGiulia alt-J Nara shirt :iconantoinettegiulia:AntoinetteGiulia 0 0 alt-J t shirts by AntoinetteGiulia alt-J t shirts :iconantoinettegiulia:AntoinetteGiulia 0 0
Literature
Sublimate
Speak and breathe it, slowly, singing strangely to my innermost
from your outpost in outwardly imposed sacrosanctity. i'll host
your potent parasitism exposed like it's an ode to my body.
Christen me common voluptuary with your curious lines inside me.
This is how parallax paralyzed in a state of paradise
and your undivided sense still sinks in slippery as Delphi,
worn warm in your domesticity and worn thin in mine.
A cashmere blend of supersensuality, strangely silken shame,
and fuzzy phantasmagoria redolent of childhood games
steeps what's left in sex, leaves the rest as excess
to flounder in an inborn sort of way,
marrying disconnect with your intent to introject,
to flower in an ingrown sort of way.
Mulling in the dewiness of semihuman skin,
awakens a synesthetic hallucination
of your animal heat in my animate pores,
lolling open to welcome your adoration.
Your vocals roll drolly from your alien tongue,
makes me want to crawl beneath your pedestal and find communion
in Nerudan conf
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Literature
Taps
i let roseflesh brush his dead forehead from my lips.
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.
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Literature
Alto, blue
the alien urge for empty words on once-friendly tongues
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
soda.
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Literature
Echolaliac
yes, he broke my freshman heart.
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 me;
tripping the light fantastic with my left footing
in uneasy self-definition.
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 invertebrate speech.
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:iconantoinettegiulia:AntoinetteGiulia 17 5
Literature
Undercrank
NOVEMBER – light
has been property under
the title "propriety," sub-headed
"self-promotion" though i taste it like
"self-immolation."
DECEMBER – this light,
stewing between lungs like parentheses
enclosing goodbyes to skins barely worn, still warm
on October's breath, is
a thread
tautly knotted
from misuse.

JANUARY – my light
is music
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
deserted head.

JUNE – weight enough to sink a
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Literature
Big Fish Syndrome.
My vainglory-pierced tongue-ideally-in-cheek
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.
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Literature
Love Poem No. 142
You sank my fingers ocean-deep into this confused gender of me,
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
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Literature
Monkeyshines.
All but deceived by the easy reception, i cry for the
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 encomia 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 stone
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Literature
Untitled
You're all I think about.
I spin in circles, pirouetting with fear and lust as I beg for more light from the sun.
I am freckled and fair skinned and I stay too long.
You say it's alright, but it hurts and I don't know what to do with my hands.
Gently
delicately
easily you wrap yourself inside me
and the me that was there before seems less.
But the ache is still there.
It reminds me of everything. Tells me why I shouldn't be. Reminds me of the me you make me forget.
I have to be quiet. I don't have anything else that's worth saying or anything I haven't already said when the all of me feels like this.
I'm tired of trying to give it words when all it has ever been is me.
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Literature
Breakups, Birds + ...
I don't want to be alive
this time
I mean it
like, sh-t dude, why do I
keep doing this, missed opportunities
in front of me
I love you, Julia
please be mine
or another million dozen other -- "million dozen" -- cliches
you may or may not have heard of
Like, for example, a wingless dove
parachuting from the sky
crying oh my god how do we land this
then fail, ripped parachutes, miss!
Um, such a weapon toward unsuspecting -- whoops!
Whoevers down below
an annoyance to them but
something totally different to her all bent now
Makes no sense
Maybe not
Maybe yes
Your open mouth for my
Bones poke out -- whisper "whoops" --
check yes, Juliette... stick out?
I went an entire week without watching you pout
Please oh my god oh my god
What... wow
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AntoinetteGiulia
Anna
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United Kingdom
Welcome to my page! if you have any spare feedback, I'd love to have it. I'm studying French and Italian at Balliol College, Oxford, but I'm from the states. Here I chronicle my dabblings.
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:iconthedagmar:
TheDagmar Featured By Owner Aug 3, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
!! Heart Clap Love :happybounce: 
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:iconsuddenlyautumn:
SuddenlyAutumn Featured By Owner Jul 17, 2014
thank you so much for the watch :heart:
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:iconunspecifiedunknown:
UnspecifiedUnknown Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2014   Writer
missing you and your words. this place is quiet without your static :rose:
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:iconantoinettegiulia:
AntoinetteGiulia Featured By Owner Jun 30, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
silence?? I won't stand for it. Thanks to you for the encouragement.
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:iconashhart:
Ashhart Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy Bday to you! Happy Bday to you! Happy Bday dear Anna! Happy Bday to you!
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:iconunspecifiedunknown:
UnspecifiedUnknown Featured By Owner Sep 29, 2013   Writer
thanks for the love chicka :heart: 
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:iconantoinettegiulia:
AntoinetteGiulia Featured By Owner Sep 29, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Right back atcha:]
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:iconoaklungs:
oaklungs Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2013
thank you for the favourite and the watch :tighthug:
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:iconpsithurisms:
psithurisms Featured By Owner Aug 15, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
thank you so much for watching!
definitely returning the watch <333
Reply
:iconantoinettegiulia:
AntoinetteGiulia Featured By Owner Aug 15, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
:D
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