[x]

Census of Ghostshe now resides in susurration:
shaken from our summer sheets,
flags drawn taut and shuddering,
and wispseeds rising into the light
with their dressing gowns unbuttoned,
planting onto my lips that name
i've tried to hang with himself;

on a late morning,
while folding your laundry,
i found him again and held his tongue
when he yearned to speak of love
that once transpired in his passion,
or maybe it was the infatuation
of surrealists: brown skin but touched
upon each other,

marking the insignificant with brands
of remembrance: like the crinkling of
tinfoil or the crisping of smokers' lungs
or the thought that cigarettes are only
romantic i

systemhe said that one day I,
who have grown accustomed
to accumulating moons,
drawn like moths
to my Venus-brightness,
would meet my match.

he told me I would be
captured by the brilliance
of a star,
a Betelgeuse, a behemoth:
supergiant turned supernova turned
supermassive black hole.

he informed me, peeking out
from under my gravity,
his erratic elliptical orbit,
that one day I would be
swallowed up

and that it would be poetic justice.

for evelynmy how he loves his evelyn so;

(can’t you feel the ricochet of his heart my dear-)

swallowing secrets; feel white wined lips & hold her soft for another kiss

slipping fingers; feel hands uneven (so perfectly though)

shimmer its bittersweet-

(baby blanket scars from daffodil-touched smiles in motions slow & sun ending pearls that breathed colors true)

kissing her again back to sleepless dreams all spotted in glitter salt & june bud limbs

(give her more tea speckled with sweet evergreen)

my she’s a beautiful dreamer isn’t she?

my evelyn

sister yesterdayeven our plastic flowers had faded—
overgrown garden of concrete and pottery,
wrought-iron furniture under the sunlight, paling—
broken lawnmower in a rotting wood shed, a swingset
creaking with each gust of wind—

but she said,
let's gather up those old tin cans,
empty the pool of its stagnant memory,
relight the citronella and oil these rusted hinges,
recall the laughter we shared here when
summer was in bloom—

when that sky blue dress was on our mother
and she planted those pinwheels,
lazily spinning,

dizzy.

SurrealismThree a.m., and
God is in my bathtub

again—
sipping whiskey

hallelujahs;
backlit by

a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.

After a Blue Sundayi.
The week slips hard
rolling in upon itself
to pull me under;
hardly a victim, more so:
a participant lacking
ii.
I clutch at taupe walls,
boring walls that do much more
for occupying
a hangover than breaking
the monotony
iii.
The after-break, break:
realizing my solitude
undoes me quicker
than your infidelity;
than her scent on your body

Londonthe city glows
bright copper, a scandal in
oil colours,
a luminous quivering waste
of fog and smoke.

I feel on my skin
the harsh glare of street lights,
a thick caking of
make-up, the lingering
sting
of a parting kiss.

these streets are a string
of catastrophes,
a bright orgiastic tumbling,
the future glinting red
in a wine glass.

her depressions used to wrinkle the bedsheets.she lay around for hours, then called out,
"i don't know whether i'm too old or young for this,
but i'm just too tired to face today and tomorrow
might be the same. will you get your brother for me?
i left him at school this morning, and i'm not sure what time
he needs to be picked up. i've been forgetting so much lately,
so maybe i should work less, take a vacation somewhere warm,
or sleep until the year settles its dust. but we can't do that now,
can we? responsibility's a bitch, jorge. don't get married,
at least not to someone you'll divorce."

like a good son, i collected adrian from the pavement
where he'd been waiting too long,
a

And should some why completely weepon nights wrought of quiet,
(born to the moonlight
who slunk between far theres
to nestle lines of silver,
when i felt her reflections
near)white sheets rustling
the only sound in my ear,

even the house held its ghosts
and rusting pipelines still;
when the streets were statue,
(and so rarely were the streets
empty)cars parked quivering
beneath the glass that held

my eyes in theirs: nights
when breaths were most rancid,
the floorboards creaked like
tectonics were his footsteps,
he the embodiment of mountains
shifting, eons spanned in frightful

seconds(when the moonlight
was shut from the bedroom
and noise repossessed)

.

Sonnet XVIVYou are celestial. I tell you this,
not with the romantic veneration
of a Renaissance stargazer, whose bliss
depends on perfection. The cessation
of his quixotic notions, his fervent
belief in the Harmony of the Spheres,
would end altogether his pure content
with the firmament he's worshipped for years.
No—my ardour is more true, if somewhat
less zealous. My telescope has sought out
your craters, your flirtations with moons—but
I love you dearly still. Even without
his blithe ignorance, I see your beauty.
I love and I know you better than he.

Of Ether and AnimosityI'd rather spend my life in regret
because I told you I love you
than spend my life in remorse
because I never even tried.

I run my fingers over the brim of wine glasses
so that if I can't find you in the alcohol,
I'll find you in the sound that fills the silence
the way you once filled my chest
with rehearsed affections.

We are remembered by this earth; in the sound of
evening thunderstorms we are commemorated.
You blend well with the utter abandonment
and loneliness that echo off my heart unto
these bathroom walls-- I stand burying my soul
in solitude as I shower off
my intoxication and my distraught.

There are hungry wounds alo

old songs for a first lovethe crow is screaming

& the fields are swaying

& i'm staying

here

i was number sevencan i crawl
through the lapse
in your bones,
settle as a heavy weight
in your lungs,
so you feel me when you breathe,
like
pneumonia?

Eighteight.
i felt most violated
when you denied it—
evidence may have mounted
in the mouths of other victims
but i haven't spoken—
even in the wake of certainty,
family and loyalty
forked my liar's tongue—
maybe it's enough
that you know what you did—
because i can't bring myself
to hate you.

seven.
your son's beautiful—
you were my first
and i don't regret that—
in your arms,
i realized myself.

six.
it wasn't my fault—
i received the letter
years too late
and suicide
has never been sympathetic
in the eyes of those
who suffered to live—
yet, i write for you,
remember your face acutely,
long fo

EnnuiHere's where things got hazy:
you talked about pulling the stars closer
because the bigger they got, the less insignificant you felt.
I presumed it was because I called you mine.
Bottle caps and paper punchers
were the things we made love on when you decided
to live life more dangerously.

Indentions were made on my skin and not by
your touch, but by distractions - carefully planted, unlike
the way you used to kiss me. Your lips
lost instinct, but still tasted as they always had; soft
and pure, in the way no one else before me understood.
Maybe simplicity pulled you from me.

Or maybe you felt like I was too easy,
too predictable, and my end

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More from *glossolalias

IdI pull at my skin,
yellow-tan casing hanging loose where fat used to fill it,
stuffing empty doll loved too much, too hard, used like
the threadbare upholstery on your comfortable cushion,
stains speaking practiced purging, drinking lips coffee
black in caffeinated shudders, jittering commercial parody
and parroting brand name etched fine in the surface-

but this is not me, I am my Bones.

I whisper, tear myself wide by cellular level, scale back under
clothing picked for color, scratch until I find nude organ-muscle
seeping, and I am that writhing, twitching weakness, amber veiled
behind wide pupils: I am the smoke-damaged lungs, b

religiousa scientist died today:
arms spread, legs straight,
lily white on his pallid bed-

he hadn't suffered, his widow was assured,
but she peeked through fevered document
left on his messy desk, work strewn,
evidence forgotten,
questioning closed,
Einsteinian flaw in Holy Rapture:

a preacher died today.

an honest mani took him for an honest man
because his hands are like
the peeling railings outside;
rough, they catch and weather,
they drag pale scraping and

i took him for an honest man
because his eyes are green
casing gold, or perhaps blue
casing pale yellow, encased
in thick, long lashes and

i took him for an honest man
because he's broad, soft with
hidden firmness that giving
skin does not imply; when he
holds me, he will not drop and

i took him for an honest man
because his lips are often dry:
cracked and full and prone to
bleeding, they're beautiful and
distinctly not and

i took him for an honest man
because his lungs pass hone

haberei.

in parting, there was nothing left for me to say; he turned his back and ambled slowly and didn't hear me grind my heels into the gravel, gnashing teeth, aching-

ii.

two weeks ago, he told me he possessed me; when we lived in fevered hush, he breathed fantasy onto my neck and fucked me like a God. often, his name became that of God, and i forgot his skin in favor of delirious words, manifesto he ejaculated with such fervor it had to be truth.

"for humanity's sake," and he left pieces.

iii.

i find dead birds on the lawn, feathers and flesh falling off hollow bones; they were the first to succumb to illness, rotting as they screamed fo

on a napkinbabe-

your shirt is untucked in the back
but not in the front and please tell me
why you have that button undone...

it's love when i say you look silly right now
and please, please shave if you're going to

kiss me like that, but i won't push your hand
off my thigh; it's sort of cute when you're dirty
like this.

-jorge

Turing's Appleif i could refigure the universe
in moral absolutes, i would
take the cyanide from alan's tongue
and the estrogen from his veins,
paint him in the colors of hero
and lay him gently in the garden
where snow white awaited her prince
amongst blooming wires and softly
humming computers.

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The Garage

by *glossolalias, Feb 4, 2013, 6:17:45 PM
Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

i apologized because God was silent;

though we called His name,
His voice did not ring from the Heavens
or even tremble in the oil puddles
already quivering at our feet;

His hand did not descend to guide us
and you could never feel His love
when i promised it was there;

"is faith stupidity?" you asked me,
dragging a stick through one dark smear,
rainbows shifting on its surface;

gray clouds shifted;
opalescence bleared;

i apologized because God was silent.

The Garageby *glossolalias

Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

©2013 *glossolalias

.

~violetense Feb 19, 2013 Student Writer

Gorgeous and thought-provoking.

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*glossolalias Feb 19, 2013

thank you!

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`FuzzyHoser Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Yup...I second what the lovelylovelylovely sheepdog said. I can't break it down any better than that, so I'll just nod and fav.

Reply

*glossolalias Feb 7, 2013

that comment really made my day, haha. thank you.

Reply

`FuzzyHoser Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh, I bet! Ha, she says things unlike anyone else. Anywho, you're very welcome.

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*sleepysheepdog Feb 5, 2013

Why should God have to speak when he has created such elegance in the form of you?

I am an atheist. One that finds faith both courageous and admirable. You do not sound stupid and you don't sound naive. You sound comforting.

It's the tone of this poem I love the most. A poem with open arms that doesn't ask questions and doesn't shy away from the blame if there is any to be had. And most of all, there is not an ounce of hostility. The speaker doesn't sound angry or upset or like anything but someone who wants to make the pain go away for another person. It's true, I guess: sometimes it's about what you don't see that makes the difference.

It was lovely and lilting. Thank you.

Reply

*glossolalias Feb 5, 2013

you really got this.

thank you for reading and commenting.

Reply

*sleepysheepdog Feb 5, 2013

In my experience, a person can't truly get a poem unless the poet clears a precise and eloquent path. Let's both give ourselves pats on the back and call it an excellent day.

Reply

`vespera Feb 5, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

*sigh*

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*glossolalias Feb 5, 2013

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