Tag: line

i know what i need 

Cristian Leonardo

I dont know what I want

whether its surface dwelling alone at the swamp
or an oak in a marsh, soul searching proverbial want
we’re more or less spawns of monsters nobody needs
you were my star spangled banner and I was taking a knee
subterranean breeze, vitamin pond, still smell your perfume
every once in a blue, Dahlia Divin creeps in the room
black lagoon creature. months of despondent malaise
never under the same moon, but always got in your way
every constant is change, every constant in chains
the sheriff to my merits, conversation warranted pain
follow the tunnel light or continue to walk amongst shade
politics, topic delay, boxer on the ropes
you taught me to love; but to love to be alone
a hundred teeth, sunk in deep, til’ they’re rusting at the bone
propaganda prone, post traumatic melodic drama
copacetic cathartic static, momentary sedative saga
mama said to me never mince words with misses karma
megabit verbage. sapient alma in the trenches of mock prison
velvet and soft linen, cotton henley makeshift pajama
couldnt figure you out…
kissed crevasses in your skin you were indifferent
about
you’re awkwardly distant to things that slipped through my mouth
look at you now..
Sinatra’s lovers glance, blood soaked sinful devout
the untolds dripping, gun smoke cigarette clouds
love grows thinner when sun strokes negligent doubt
what comes, goes.
hum low under floor boards or they’ll figure us out
self destruct sequence, count to zero with me
feel your feelings metamorph like metaphors in the breeze
i don’t know what i want, i just know what i need
better go home before I’m awoke and i see you
full of momentary passes focused entropy seams
beams of light bustling through cracks in the stream
pockets of time form like globules; we’d skip stones in ravine
everything’s too loud even when the volumes negative three
nothing we do can salvage this irreparable dream
que pena me da, que lo tienes sentir
shouted at you to leave, as i whispered the please

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

Never give up Mr. Vodka

Cristian Leonardo

inept, and upset, it’s like nothing is mentioned. lifes a run on sentence, interconnecting. eclectic, electric, im a plug in the wall. A bit so perplexive, the occult of the psalms. the rejection. a song in the hall of this crazy asylum. Straitjacket is off, not restrained or assigned. Um, loudspeakers shouts weaken as i interrupt the connection. been seasons since I slept at the Suns dusky perception. Grayscale cuts. As lovely as ever. It’s only in fear where we love to project it. We learn to accept it, from function inflection to fucking intense. Influx of attention as if it’s up to respect. a muck, so abrupt you can barely hear it. Footsteps like eruptions, the thuds become searing. Conduct an experiment, lovers potion aside. Appearance in serum You took most of in stride. Locust, to low cost, you soaked up my pride. Denoting my time, with no focus adhered. Coast has been cleared, now come gears of the war. Read through your code words; without feeling remorse. Fleeting emotion that flees it’s discourse. From bleeding to grievance, your cheeks are like porcelain. Cus through weeping I see the streams aren’t coarse. and it, streamlined and warped. From counting sheeplings to sleep to beehives and wasps. Beaming and gleaming, seaside to waft. Sea salt aroma as sweet as its strong. Siege of despondence, Lethal with charm. gathered the sky parts, puzzle piece to my heart. Melding the winters. Acting dissimilar now. ousted. no syringes allowed. crowded to breathe, all cylinders loud. Went from counting to three to running out of fingers to count.

unfinished love gimmicky, smug grinning combustible bunch.

Cristian Leonardo

puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
post and pre nuptial showmanship. Function control
amusing instrumental. effusive, ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece
basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy
a weeded rustled drone, that tumblerode a the quietest depiction of the color blue on a petal
succulent. moss grows on my archers boot and a straw of my grass clenched by my jawbones
a flux of rusty trombones that exude music through it’s metal
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me
Boisterous. soaked in droves of this sorceress satin
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in spanish
her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals & codeworded for passion
prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologers arrow
a hollow barrow, and a node i focused on with a ridiculously pure heart
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and a bewitching allure
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin
Aztec rituals, led to a madmans’ mystical matchmaker
with slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon
curvy dress with cottony ripples at slightly past bony knees
impervious to the dogma your thighs created. your souls a speech
red in loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt.
where the fire grows irate everytime your feminine tone erupts
sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary handcuffs
had enough with the tempestuous cuckold.
where a icecold gloved gauntlet haunts your light toned marked garments
misses maestro lust. larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my lifes’ oak carcass
i tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry
where memories like centipedes held life in its arms
so magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow
and show me the coloration of the sounds that i used to know
portugese picture-esqe beauty
whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance
where a degree of our separation, detonated my inner vignette of vesuvius..

Flown off course

Cristian Leonardo

“Vaudevillian. I’ve flown so off course
that my radar doesn’t even beep
it’s silent, instead it weeps
for some recognizable aura of man to detect
signature heat, thermal readings. nothing
Become so abrupt in my comings that most of my time
is spent twiddling my thumbs
I’ve flown so off course, a meteorite that had its path
altered in slight trajectory by space debris
could be my new home, if it ever passed by me
that’s how far off I am
I’m flown so off course, that my wings don’t even flap
in this new dimension of flying, we fly with our minds.
I’ve flown so of course, global positioning
isn’t a satellite thing no more —-
it’s how i view our galaxy from a lightyear away
mars and mercury are tiny stars
venus and neptune are off
but furthest, but not least, earth, is the last of equation
where a place full of life could make me feel like an alien”

guillotine lust

Cristian Leonardo

particle physics; radiation cusps at every speck and a grain
that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as your hypothetical claim
bite the bullet. swallowing the pistol. it shoots
harboring a hollow feeling. sipping miller to boot
coil gripped Corona, drowning out social persona
were evolving into moths, wallowing towards the
murky gray skies. yeah, the coffee! what’s next?
marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex
heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads
in particular, inarticulate guy with philosophers breath
cotton linen robe; tonight i uncover the secrets you stashed
underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks
try to unfurl the english, through your lips on contours
christmas carolers scarf, closed captioned lyrics encore
wept for concourse, a few have witnessed my characters arc
behind the lighthouse, my sailors boat tried to signal off shore
shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be
being in love, and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave
singing the songs, for the markers. autumn leaves for the author
monastery blues. with the indents of my knees on the altar
statistician Jack Daniels keeping crop of my phobia lot
who woulda knew behind every letter is a quarter of scotch
a stench of me in the shirt i gave you ‘for the aroma in seams’
with 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen
a soul gazer, in trench-coat i remember the buttons with such reminiscence
forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression
promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust
soft lips, with a barbed tongue, said your farewells with a clean cut

…shoot me in the foot. sparing me any beamed blood

Freshly dressed tourniquet

Cristian Leonardo

Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow, it’s weird. Some sort of eery control. It’s sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. Clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell, it; I hear. And movements that veer into me, is getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. it’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens, I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at ‘em. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny, because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlocks the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick, if home is where the heart is, i don’t even know if my home fucking exists. Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and, I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different version. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think ‘is that why its called beats per minute?????’. Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation, i’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective, and deceptive. It’s no arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. don’t hurt me, I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, and ocean or sea, of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executioned me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for action, that me, myself and I don’t acknowledge in real. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. Can barely afford to pay attention to myself, how would I know I was there for you.