Category: WRITING

fötter day

Cristian Leonardo

you can hear the…

suburbia chime, zirconia vertebrae. pearly white spine
glass thrown in stone houses, regular suburbia night
whirring, rewind. chronicled childhood in olive drab paint
monocle glass. wormwood and bottles of shawshank.
dissolute solitude, wanderer who wallows in maze
en route. delay for tomorrow. never promised today
virgin diary. anne frank. marie curie disease
tinture of rainbow, even if the distance is blurry to me
he, who knows the way to zihuatenejo.
furlough father. demand you to die when i say so
26 pesos what’s left in your wallet
lint and mothball, merryland. experiment omelette.
laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o clock shadow of death and follicle strain
these boulders were supposed to be gone when i got here
you shouldered me off. sunday morning penny loafer with frost
social commentary gabriel-lucifer talk
metamucil, retrograde. jupiter star
bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to mars
you hold my hand; but i don’t even know who you are
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar
im so close to eroding, skin growth, barely a scar
in my house; the big wolf. lungs pulse til’ exhaustion
i read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet
i dont know, if he knows if this apartment is haunted
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart
maleficent maligned distant/forgot insidious offspring
with ammunition in their lips, that keep you off guard
feel the metacarpal love letters til your fingers fall off
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor
fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before
everytime before bed i hear footsteps coming from deep
and i hide in my closet, until they delete
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to 3
dysfunctional beings, huffing in suburbia breeze
i know that i know nothing is in love when i speak
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks
when you close it and i haven’t heard it in weeks
form bourbon, to curtains burnt at the seams
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, i scream
what emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree
what alerts him is
suburbia breeze

to miss P

Cristian Leonardo

it was a matter of why. statuesque beauty over vodka and wine
hourglass figurine. when you come around it becomes tough to tell time
seductress stolichnaya. brunette, bridal, bohemian
it’s cruel how without even trying you leave me
in a state of dreams where I’m hardly breathing
at the Gala. a seamstress couldn’t replicate your body shape
you look awfully familiar….it’s been awhile since i’ve been in this hypnotic state.
eyes are pools of island bays, emphasized by shine of geysers
a vivifying type of way, to kiss your lips would feel like fire
to put them out, i’d have meet your jewels of diamonds
only a fool could deny, this muse that emphasizes grace
electrifying distress.Prostovian princess with a crystallizing gaze
accent so alluring, the way you pronounce your words overarched
id feel your tongue twist cherry stems in my heart

delicate skin: negative print 

Cristian Leonardo

who’s barely  

intact. two hundred thousand nails puncture veins in my back
whether not they’re human or metal remains to be asked 
yellowpages. your name severs sapience. saps
like heavens angels. vessels fray then collapse
lord father, elevate us. why’m i so fixated on the past
separate fact from fiction. eradicate my relapse
rehabilitation at its fanciest. pinky out to brush ash from cigar 
if love lasts then it’s farce. my last love seems so far
may i have the pleasure of introduction without it seeming covert
or open my mouth to talk something while we’re eating dessert
feelings deserted you, conservative dealings in cursive 
from the telekinesis to hypnosis, i barely feel what your words meant 
sink your teeth delicately into the flesh that’s corroding
if you feel that it’s urgent…please feel free to unload
it’s not you, or me, my dear. the psychosis
developments fleeting. camera obscura bleeding negative print
the lightest exposure came from your chest 
was it a dark heart or  
delicate skin
delicate skin 

AA4564

Cristian Leonardo

i feel 

so disconnected. pictures of stars are trillions of seconds old
heliocentric. we spend our time wishing we could revisit a setting
i could see it in decimals. each dot a pause in a sentence
hold my hand, avalanche. bring me the check when you’re finished
mezzanine at the theater, velvet seamstress, madam Gutierrez
que romántico eres. carve my heart, au revoir mi mujer
i spend the evening in tears, like its common procedure
every droplet is a sonnet, every water stream a cathedral 
where people gather, or they scatter, whether it be former or latter
and they pray to their jesus, and i pray cause i have to
there’s order in madness, rhetorical hope in the sadness
like a volcano that’s dormant or a star going dwarf 
just part of it all, endorphin hull, heart to starboard 
when we talk, disembark. your lips presses mute
mrs vixen, so dissolute, pixel perfect, lipstick in blue
vigil for a virgin, vicissitude, picture me as i picture you
don’t listen when you talk, kiss your ears when you moan 
so petite, heavenly, pour the shot-glass, and reload 
monkey see, monkeys cheek perfect on your ocular bone 
cause to me, you’re as sweet, as strawberry dose
through the darkness, on horses. cobweb corrosion 
cut through the bark with my sword. I’m sorry my forest
double entendre. knot in my throat.

not even sober
harlequin clone.

dark knight imposter, I’m already joker 
early onset alzheimer’s,

forget what you told me
along the lines, were ostracized, but we’re all really lonely 
wave down a taxi, drop me off on the corner. call me when you’re home
wait for me at the door, don’t leave me alone 
lay down – the house spins. false belief, methadone.
marmalade, cherry tree, cigar leaf, telephone 
qu’est-ce que c’est¿

fasten seatbelt while seated, mi amor 
stand to applause, an encore, such a valid response
you’d barely feel it 
you moved on, so very far. 
i checked my bags at the door. viewed the empty decorum
sit at the bar. recount the experience
watch the only bag revolve round’ the oval
let me fall. so very scared

we should want what we fear. 

thanks 

dreaming of colors

Cristian Leonardo

I salivate at the thought of atom lasers and waves of splattered rainbow

the way they collaborate on a acid halo.
technicolor schemes, that i’d envy more than me.
oh, what it is to be, a color never dreamed.
enactment of life, elapsed by the clockwork
collapsing of time. facets of ‘why does it all hurt?’
a village helps a villager, if the villagers hurt
do these pills help the piller if his pillars are burnt?
his bridges are burned? his highways corroded
how do I ride into the sunset if I can’t shift out my motor
road to hell is paved with gold embellished shades
it’s so subjective. wave hello to your soul in separate planes
i don’t know.
stuck in a layer of concrete. put flower petals to the metal
a gentle giant so powerful, yet afraid of his heartbeat
accept what we think we deserve-  excuses for bad behavior
human nature to constantly be stuck in reverse
it gets worse. “but it gets better” nothing to learn from forever
the souls dark. wholeheartedly wrapped in fatigue
thought of happiness being something that you have to achieve
awkwardness. my bed cries with me when I’m sad in my sheets
trail of tears that supersedes the native retreat
i create a path of logic built on a mountain of lies
mountain lions call me out on my pathological lying
fake it, till you make it. hate it, till you love it
love it that you hate me, it jets the fuel i huff in
was taught to cherish things that were romantically scenic
sucked nostalgia dry ’till nostalgia was bleeding
drank the blood from a chalice, and soaked up its privilege
youth gave me a run for my money when i was broke to begin with
a loner with dimming hope, so dull it begins to show
a biography of my life would expose darkness over light
like an eclipse, with a plot twist most would think morose
eskimos have 50 words for snow, I acquiesce 50 words for hate
most manifest themselves, in bloody knuckles. bloody gauze and tape
learned to roll with the punches, but humans werent meant to roll
a ball inside of me, that snowballs bigger everytime its cold
everytime i hold, myself when im at home.

im a droll, dry-amusement, type of guy with nice intentions but with bad conclusions, soft witted, mild human, sophisticated tall thinker. with a soul that’s sly and stupid, controlled environment. spry delusion. im told, it’s tiring, to expose your entire being in poems, and in higher reading.

i never said goodbye once, cause i believe in good karma endings
nice guys finish last but you learn more when you’re not as condescending

Robot. I’m a. robot. 

Cristian Leonardo


I map out entire existences in the blink of an eye. I could hire statisticians for the things I’d describe. Statistical paralysis. Analysis by analytics. It’s lonely in the library, & things considered semi-cryptic. focused on the binary, I do the math on how to rule you. it’s crucial, at worst. at best, it’s the crest’s pivotal curve of your numeral worth. I take your pros-&-your-cons and expose them to darkness, it’s the only way light doesn’t reach the holes in my heart. I’ll lay em atop of a cube. Analyze the three dimensions that you provide me with. through a lens made out of optics formed out of the knowledge. The collage that you provided keys too. Base data on inflections of voice, first impressions, interventions,…something like a robot. I picture your arms carrying babies. Or not.

I watch myself in the future kiss you, I don’t live in the moment. I base my actions based on inaction. Facets of your personality. I imagine imaginations painted by molasses. Stain the glass with satin, every phase attained by magic, any phrase you say just happens; take the grain of salt and lay it in my bandage.

Everything’s collapsing. my scent of cologne embeds itself in your bed and at home, I could smell a smidgen off your breath, in your clothes, I could command your every movement when I sense pheromones. Underneath your breast and your bones, I unhinge flesh like velcro, my very own skeleton. laugh at I love yous, and love when you laugh, you. tender, ecstatic, bobble doll of synapses. I’d scientifically describe your most indescribable features, sync a timeline of my desire to reach you. it’s sci-fi. It’s see through. It’s highlighted. Something a drone would probably do. Spark a creative pattern through the arching of the hue.

I embark on lifeless journeys of love, and delineate fractions based on the perfectest touch. Succumb to tithes of jury. Put me on trial, and give me 10 percent of you. THEY SAY 90 percent of all human interaction is non verbal. 10 percent is this: Arguments, clergy. The nonsense unfurling. I wish I could calm the constant stream of knowledge we learn by being earthy.

Human. confusing. It’s messy. I react by reaction time. Read sociological patterns to brush up on my intuition. Set impossible standards. I bird watch in my mantle. I light a candle for every soul I dismantle. Wax factory deluxe, the crux of the mad man babbling himself in a notepad on his iPhone about how he has… nothing. Man VS Machine, clockwork orgasm. The hands turning to me. I try to remain myself, but I’m to caught up sometimes, on how to breathe, when to breathe, the exact figure of when I made you laugh. And painfully reenact the environment so it happens again. Emotional car wreck. a toaster with arms.

I envy real writers. It’s robotic, it’s sick. It’s over the top berating. it’s a boiling pot, it’s cynic. I hate it. I hope that you love me, I’m not what I am, not what you know. it’s okay. I’ve yet to become a sentient prose. how long is a century? I want to become something….beyond the patternized percussion the heartbeat that my lungs give.

It’s a time-frame of discussion, where parallel universes meet each other. Oxygen. Breathes breaths, I could hear the silence in-between sex. I could see the inside of your eyelids when you dream depth, and I wish I would die before we even meet/met.  built a labyrinth, two lefts make a wrong, if you’re right then you’re wrong. Everything’s wrong. only way to be right is to be yourself, I bleed the buzz of my alcohol out through a scenic route.

Protected: then and now: im sorry. the gray just isnt beautiful to me anymore.

Cristian Leonardo

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July 19th, 1991.

Cristian Leonardo

all little boys need father figures

not to be normal, or not to be sane. You wouldn’t turn on a lightswitch without seeing where all the conduits placed. You grow up with a fist full of hurt. A surge, like a missile, without hearing a ‘miss you’. But one thing is certain, nothing makes you question your integrity more knowing that your very existence is burden. You’re a burden to breathe. I was just a curious boy. Curious George. Curious Cristian. Tried to talk to friends, but the look on their faces. It hurts just to listen. A burden. “How about a counselor?”. Yeah, I know the in-and-outs. I’m a soldier. Here take my money, let me cry in your shoulder. How do you plant your feet in the mud? And how do you turn your feelings to comfort? And how do you know what you’re feeling is real and isn’t some misguided daydream, cause you’re weak, and well – younger. I’ve broken off my hearts pieces asunder. endured the most embarrassing trial and error in the world to learn how to speak to a lover. It sucks. Questions I wanted to ask. Questions that needed answers. How do you express greediness more than leaving a son? Upset cause I proceeded to ask ’em. On the cusp of 24 without never really knowing how it is to have one. Just shells of people that didn’t want to take up the task. Another week is another meek undercover. Another daydream took a plunge. Now all i wanna do is scream. I want to go into the streets and scream ’til I don’t feel any nothing. ‘Til I summon beams full of thunder, till I shutter streets full of anger. ’til my fucking teeth shatter and bust into a dozen pieces of rancor. ‘Til you see a fucking beast take refuge on the streets with an anchor, and he won’t leave til sun-up and sunsets over under. ‘Til you fucking learn my motherfucking pain isn’t something to play with, motherfucker. There’s a bloodbath of ink on this pale sheet. I’m on a smooth pace of spilling, a new space and ceiling. Its a tragedy that I had to reduce my father figure into newspaper clippings. How my favorite ballplayer scored 30 points. There’s a new wave of emptiness intended for millenials
and I write most of everything in metaphors. Soft explanations. so the interpretation gets lost in translation, cause as long as I know what I meant. Your misconception is void, cause I felt those words when I wrote them. 100 years from now when I’m gone, children in classrooms will be dissecting my verses. With no intention or purpose. I scribbled them into quotes. A message deployed. Through rejection. Through rage. Through an affectionate ploy. An inception became a reflection of my own inevitable pain. Cause remember, for everything set in stone, there’s a knife where the edges are frayed. Irreverent. Sane. I clutch an invisible pendant made out of being ashamed. Every individual second is captured in a thousand frames. And those frames are just lost, they never see light. They’re just gray. There’s a judge that looks exactly like me, handing out a sentence in vain. Bail is set at impossible, and the bailiff is me too. At my funeral, I want Beethovens 5th set as the prelude. Every physical sentence I mash out is obsession. I’ve invented the abstract. & what’s next is a flash. I sit alone at the dinner table, 3 hours past supper. Spinning my index finger in the red wine, staring into the glass, as if it’s gonna stare back up. Every masterpiece I created is crap. And my own perfection is lackluster. I don’t know. I’ve been so hard on myself, that the quality is starting to lack. Quantity takes its place to tackle an impossible task. Ive’ tacked on a badge of honor; madness bottled up, swallowed up by a flask of somber.

I already know what you’re going to say before you say it. it’s non euphoric. and even if I were to become complacent, it would be out of boredom. What a soreness to wake up out of touch with the world. Like yeah, I see your pain, and I raise you my void. I’ve coughed blood into buckets. I’ve sung songs that have trumpets. It’s better to have love lost, than to, fuck it. Making people laugh is a drug and I love it. And then I run out of punchlines, and realize my life was it. Feeling implicit. Two decades confined to fetal position.

Don’t you get mad when there isnt’ a word that encapsulates your thoughts? So you write sonnets and songs, and poets and hymns, haikus and shit just to sorta capture it all?

Cristian Leonardo

sigh. the streetlight kissed your eyes & created an impression so pure.
its whiteness
i bring this up, bceause I fell in love by remembering my reflection off your iris.
expression in its highest form, sensory designed to cure, destinies arrived.
analyzed the sculpture, of course. – then vandalized your structure
leaves falling aimlessly, in it’s phantom-like flutter
randomized in the sputter of it all, only to capture geometry
if love reaches new heights this colloquys written in masterful mountains
parallel streets, architecture of houses, potential surrounding of impeccable scenery only strengthened and balanced, by the powerful breath breathed into me, when your mouth pressed out in between, the sound effect of the pucker so loud, so vehemently i remember a shroud of evenly distributed, heavenly eloquence – where blood cells held an exodus to swell in the realm of my lips
visited palace of hymns, where people would sing forever
rectify the devilish sin, held in the pits that existed cus’ well- we relished in them
to intensify my sensory limits, so inexplicably wicked, touching a galaxy
lungs breathing love, lost & found, but what were we hide and seeking from?
under an elm. deciduous. it was funny, cause that’s when i decided.
where the brushing of wind from Sandy slighted me above the stratosphere
we’re out of here, cusp of your hand became the new life vest where if it rained, i knew right then, to hang by you, to clutch, til’ the waves subdued in horizons
hell- bent over control of my conscious like i poured everything, and stanzas decomposed into options
the perfectness? prose couldn’t match with it
gravity didn’t have an emerging role in this drama and thesis
portrayed through my soul cus i swear it rose.
and nirvanas capricious
picture a boat, now picture it floating without water beneath it
still rocking along the coast, unbeknownst to a force that governs its beaches
once I pulled you close to me, and spoke in a manner, boldly enamored
dissolving distraction, your hips close to me, after.
it was poignant i told you to kiss me, with the grip of your jeans intervening & lingering memorizing the seams, & create macrocosms just between what I felt in my fingertips
elevate my scarlet shard.
that’s the end of discussion i could feel the eruption of your blushing, emanate my arctic heart
hurricane winds made you clutch your arms in defensive posture
this next sentence is a toss up, between a metaphor for intensive form or comparing your sensual heart hugs to a tropical storm
loveboat wasnt enough to capsize in waves of charm
awestruck.
star-studded raindrops baptized our naked arms
established an anomaly so vastly diverse; i could only deduce it in calculus version
gauge the geometric perversion & argue that it was mathematically perfect
and by that?
I came to animate, inanimate objects abstract art splattered paint so simple, my only explanation is that it had to be complex

CONSONANT ART.

Cristian Leonardo

Processed with VSCOcam with t2 preset

I don’t even care for breathing air, like A.) it’s clearly a mission. B.) Decided not to get angry today. It’s barely decision. Think life should be more grand than it is, but it isn’t. Can’t have regrets with being wrong, that’s why I love indecision. Sweater against chins, found myself looking for trouble. I love when the thread gets hooked to the stubble. Everyday that awaits is merely a presence. Trepidation dismayed, Come on, spare me a second. Deliriums weighed out of space, a variable essence, just savor today and take care of the present. Valiant way to go about positive pulses. To distract any and, all cognitive focus. Bottled emotions are false, I recycle with candor. Light a candle for the fervor, yeah, I’m slightly enamored. Find me an ember, then signal me over. Superstar to the blackhole you stitched in the nova. Pray to thy father for all lucrative sin. Indifferent with my efforts to feel human again Making deliberate errors to feel human again. I don’t feel human again. Oh my god, I don’t feel human again. Crippling endeavor, how loose can I get? Mixing leisure with whenever = hows the hubris in print? Ballad of blueprints I script; valid Freudian slips. That the entire, massive audience gets. Parrying my worries off with a quart of vodka and gin. Cocky with grins, cordial to the ghosts that i sleep with. Blood alcohol at about .8 for a better portion of week. Speak in harbingers. cohesive volume bleep. Final cut of Lost in Translation in scene, ironically explains my solitude deeper than any audible scheme .what a phenomenal feat, I still dream about the hairs on your neck. To tell this real boy that he’s still a marionette. Cut my heart strings, in all fairness, respect. Your stare down had me speechless at my ventriloquist act. Webbing off surrealism, with tarantulan siege. Gargantuan in a glass jar, with nothing to reach. With nothing but handprints on the outside that acted as speech. Palpable. Weak. I wish when I talked, that my verbal drew in circles with supersonic aplomb. And my vowels would nonchalantly evolve through a canvass. through a gospel of songs that I draw within language. Go into a lobby, as if I’m talking to god, to what I embody; through an army of my consonant art.

a parting glass, baby

Cristian Leonardo

the moment was so existentialist. I brought 3 apples.
one for the both of us. & 1 for the road
if it comes up I suppose we could split it
undisclosed disposition. hanging from the hammock ropes
in the stitching. there was hope, for half-robed demolition
bungalow; almost out of a dream- quite a bit intensive
fictitious; in the sense, paints peeling from white picket fences
Strange feeling, in front of the mowed lawn
in between the solstice of summer and spring
molded from the cumbersome explosions you’d bring
love when she hands me her half bitten apple – as if it comes with an asterisk.
an ad-lib example, of italics in the back of the index
take a bite out of the apple or take a bite out of me
fall in love in the castle. fall in drown to the sounds of the sea
comparisons to the moon – thought were drastically measured
but noticed high tide receded sunrise where my gravity centered
upset. I bite my lips till’ blood spills in the battlefront mist
not to inflict pain, but deflect the traces of that dispassionate kiss
teeth marks turn into tattoos covering the mistakes from the past
the china vase that bloomed flowers, but shattered, is only serrated as glass
like lately i feel, sort of amazing. yet displaced and unreal, unsanctioned
revealed. abated. idealistic adulation unveiled. just waiting
unrelated, too anxious to seal the tiny indiscreet places unfilled
out on the rock, by the creek. placing your hand on my cheek
detached since forever. you help me make these connections I seek
never thought i’d be formal, but you make me feel normal. at least..
enthralled in coercion, your neglect changed me overall as a person
love was linear, so now i write love songs and sonnets in cursive
despondent. subversive. tire swing made from your 91′ Cherokee jeep
which showed me you still used parts from the past thrown away in the street
connective to the stylus of the records through music created
overuse of the grooves from the vinyl discarded my humanlike traits
describing an incentive to twist, a sigh and a scent of distress
its funny & sad, i write to remind myself to remember to live
if you’re reading this right now, i probably need to reevaluate my resolve
dissolve in the valium wake. retaliate from the maxims til’ i can barely walk
i could barely talk. my adolescence consisted of wishing i died.
living without really having lived, now i don’t even think im alive
now even feeling a feeling is feeling contrived
cause six feet seems like such a waste to shovel. just let the sediment dry
Chesterfield smoke on Elmora and 5th, such a vivid annoyance
beginning to fill my lungs with smoke, that i’ve come to avoid
now i play villain cause i just simply enjoy it

Cristian Leonardo

If I get to the point where no ones’ love embroiders me,
I’d mix the oil, the clay, and color coordinate the sordid seams.
Then simply voice it, & wholeheartedly agree.
Tend to wounds, but then forget the ointment/gauze.
Intensely consoling. The pensive motions.
Embark through the darkness and depart from my esteem.
That’s the only thing keeping’ me going,
from disease the fleeting emotion you feel in your bones.
Like, deceiving, but more than, deceptions a curse.
It’s a deceptively curved timeline, where perceptions a blur.
It’s the way you make tye-dye, entrenching the shirt.
You mix a bunch of complexions and spin in reverse.
A fissure, hypnosis, once the colors combine, a mixture, fists closed-in,
a fuller divide. Null, but awoke. Dull, not asleep.
Where the knots in your stomach turn to contortionist schemes.
It’s full-blown. Bow-ties and croissants. An assortment of odds,
mathematical rain-cap. Getting even to stay glad, even after the pay-back