Tag: lovewriting

alma

alma

Cristian Leonardo

Look

…over a quarter of my sentences begin with ellipses
the objective’s to sigh. the intent it carries? illicit
malicious design leaves my lips, but ends so benign
there ain’t a problem when it rains- you couldn’t tell that i cried
it becomes complicated to explain- when it wells in my eye
he pretends that he’s not, even though he bottles up the pain
locks it in a cage, then polishes his crooked crown
used to looking down, when things aren’t looking up
one day life’ll flash before my eyes;
not sure if that flash is good enough
been given a gift to scribe every moment as happened
with more details. more girth, more exposure, and factors
mere fractions of seconds, become volume series
weeks of dejection becomes your lifes communal theory
consummate. times snapped. here’s a problem that i had
what are words from wise men, when philosophers die sad
to my own respite, id serve up a bourbon with sprite
words became blurry and slurred over night
friends displayed worry. what’s that term to describe?
oh right, now
circle of life. how funny. it hurts when i bite down
i’d go in my journal and write thousands of wordy delights
to make sense of what happened, to an essay tore up outta spite
inherited words. characters without a characters worth
how embarrassing to have to establish, what to others- barely needs words
parameters towards my dignity gave an insatiable thirst
lessons invaluably learned through every varying turn
maneuver like van gogh’s jupiter through mercurial etching
to live frozen as a painter- in the worlds most peculiar settings
to see beauty in carnage, objectify tragedy as a series of concepts
rather than unfurling tempers flaring from a deity’s context
i hope my eulogy is written in blood. life romanticizes the beast
computerize all of my content. analyzing complete
molecules in your garden, fantasize mon cheri.
sift through the nucleus’ car-wreck. make a wish
I’m asleep

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

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..

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.

IT’S 2 A.M AGAIN, wooohooo.

Cristian Leonardo

 

its 2am

i feel interconnected through any vine or snippet of life
perennial inflorescence of any 6 seconds are chimed
the success is a hive. hummingbird wings in slow motion
hearing the crickets sing, so monotone yet obscurely composed
feels like they’re talking to me, as i walk on the leaves that i cross
demure. you’re so provocative. and i’m surely a ghost
crunching of autumn, is like a skeleton field for tiny trees in the fall
to possess you is a  perfect choice, and you’re as alluring, a host
sunbathed petals, drowning in jack’o’lanterns of coffee & pumpkin
squash the soggy leaves, after a beer. underneath the frothy assumptions

it’s cost me a fortune. ink-jets flew the loss to the profits
that’s just the cost out of pocket, i wore the pants, but you wore the wallet
living a martyr. nose-dive a dotted plane into soil
where waves were uncoiled, from the amber gaze, to the point where it boiled
hear the ether perform. a duet with 42 degrees, and a choir
robotic vampire, nothing to do but to sink my teeth into wires
mechanical organism, metamorphing orphan. with a heart full of gears
bleeding gasoline endorphins. pros&cons was the love you pretended to smear
propane huffed outta’ my ears, olfactory prose transposing as mutants
you wrote me off as a human, with me begging you to hear me out. it was ruthless.
wasnt enough. contraption malfunction
the sound drowned out. a whisper was like dropping a mountain above it
teardrops were waves, where even a arc wouldnt suffice
you took two of each beast that i had, so immediately, I….
just lost it.
you whittled a soldier out of clay, from the earth a clone was conceived
with a chisel that was made by the bones of deceased
you were the cotton in an aspirin, a linen in my attire i wasnt accustom
to go into combat for you with a war-drobe and the cloth that it’s cut from
ungodly. the humdrum. i couldnt acquire the taste
you were so tongue in cheek with me. i blushed into haste, when you asked if i’d want some

all i want is 5 minutes where we understand each other completely
where we aren’t drunk, or having sex. sigh. where you just complete me
developments real. the buzzing of broken street lights. are loud
suburban cemetery. not a real burial ground. that’s the imagery
you stole what i had, but now that you did, my souls deep with love
you need so badly what i have, but now i don’t even want
hows it feel to have it? i couldnt sate it but maybe i was deeply depressed
it doesnt diminish my character. but it diminishes you. exposes your WEAKNESS. you werent even a friend
you poked fun at my features, especially crucial to the dent near my nose
which were filled with rain drops from my pupils. there now tears are used as placeholders, for now they’re never exposed
so hastily brash, sorta insane, but with class,
you took the sage and lit ablaze the incense with aroma my nasal could grasp
heart rates out the bag. but a cat caught this lung! out of breath and out of reach
a tongue with an abrasive touch, i just wanna say, what i wanna say, without the effect of me to stay in this funk
i dont even try to be me, i try to be me, but for you just like me. to see me as something else besides a jaded complexion.
you were into astrology. i read the sign of a pisces for august 10th and copied it cause i knew you would make the connection
i manipulated myself, but in that i manipulated you
all it took was a simple placement of emotion, for you to be the creative ink of my next scintillating muse
pixelating. ruse. miscellanoeus. who? ive never been vindicated cause vindications rude.
ive been to places, you….. couldnt move to. in a million years
walk a mile in my boots..
where bricks from the ceiling and the steel-toe sorta disappears.
dissipating. pointless. ventilating. poignant. vision aided moistness
where physics plays a joint version of the bible’s revelations. over and over again.
my wound is opening. fix the sutures. fix my future. remove gauze
remove smog. sterilize. feral eyes. then apply the ointment.

its 2am

HOT CHOCOLATE

Cristian Leonardo
HOT CHOCOLATE

I walked out in the cold today. Eyes lazy. Burning cause of my allergies. Dogs chain brushing against his collar. Night time. I don’t like looking at shadows that much, they make me dizzy. Something about the abnormal shape makes my head spin. And they’re so rigid. I smelled something. That ‘time of the year’ smell. It filled my soul with a plush, perfect painting. I like chimneys. Theres something so old about them. I used to look at christmas books with the oil santas drawn with his bushy jolly beard and cheeks. Snow scenario, red and green illuminating the tundras of decembers winter. There’s something so relaxing coming in from the cold, to a nice, warm inside, with nice warm cloth, cotton bedsheets wrapping around you. There’s something so perfect about the way it all makes me feel. The air even has a ring to it. Cars veering by on the veranda make a different noise, maybe because the air is colder. The rubber hits the pavement different. IT’s just that time of the year. The cold, dark tiny gusts of air brush against my face. My sinuses are a bit more clogged so everytime I breath I hear myself. This makes me feel closer to the earth. I feel vulnerable. I better rush in. The vivid pictures my mind slowly paints are ones I wish I could share with humanity. Cause it’s these moments where I think everything is absolutely perfect. I havent seen these images described in cinema, in books, anywhere really. I want to be the first to recreate it, somehow. My words, aren’t good enough. I can spend a day findingthe perfect exact words, only to fall short. It’s a hypnotic, leafy, perfect, intoxicating scent. When I use the word intoxicating, I mean it. It’s where all my five senses combine to create this perfect, integral part of my psyche. I can be seen as a bystander walking a dog, but no one on earth would think I’m in total bliss. I’m so happy. I want to walk through the snow in thick coating, and boots. I want some to get in my sock, just to bother me a bit. Then to melt as I seal my boot up. I want that wet spot to stay until I get home next to a roasting fire and shutting the windows just that centimeter tighter so that the howling wind persists. Spinning the record player. I’d hum to it too. It’d be peaceful, but there would be lots to do. A jigsaw puzzle everybody ignores would be the center of attention. A playful clamoring of friends and family, with hands jolting in and out – “that piece doesn’t go there damnit!” and laughter would erupt. I sit back and take it all in after I say a joke that makes everybody laugh. As they’re laughing I sit back with a puzzle piece in my hand. The scent hits me again. Sending an aromatic high. For these seconds everybodys laughter is in slow motion, the chimney crackles heighten immensely, though only I can hear it. A grin roars from my face. And everything is back in motion. The slow motion persists, and the laughter that ensued isn’t warped in the time shift. I crack my toes in some thick wool socks. Nobody knows I’m cracking them, cause the crackling of the firewood is louder and, theres laughter. It feels so good. If bad news hit right now, I feel we could solve it immediately. I go out to the porch. It isn’t 2014. It feels like the 1950s. A landrover pulling up reminds me that is isnt 1950. They didn’t exist. A scarf shields my long neck. I despise my long neck. The cold always affects it. But I guess scarves were made for me. It feels so good. Someone coughs, and I tell them, here have some chocolate and feel better. I know how it is to feel sick when everybodys having a good time. I should make everyone hot chocolate. With marshmellows. Pour some wine for the more daring. We should be happy. I take a tiny sip that wets the brim of my lips. My eyes arent burning. My allergies seem to have subsided. How much more of this ecstasy could I take.

Quoted for emphasis on, fuck my life.

Cristian Leonardo

It’s been a minute, how you doing? Just trying to laugh with you. Making a joke or two, just laugh with me. I realize it isnt going to work if we both aren’t in it. But I want it to. Foggy visions. Wanting both of us to be in it. I- i, i..i stutter in my thoughts, so talking without this muse would be disaster. If I’m the rain that nourishes thirst, you’re the hurricane that uses the rain that it’s named after. Sprinkling chakra. The way the winks made me feel unique to someone. They say all snowflakes are especially different, so tell me why wouldnt a kiss then? They have the same characteristics. It’s a personable haste. Now a blizzard is personification. you’re both fun to put in my mouth, and adorably cute, a signature is etched the fibres of my tongue; but last but not least you’re exceptionally cold. Once, I expect to be told. I expect to be loved. I expect the gentleness of said snowflake, to be lunged. They say doves only have one lover their entire lives, and if that other partner dies they’ll be alone forever. I dont know, whatever. Why I compared myself to a bird. Cause birds fly, and it felt you kept me down all the time. Clipped my wings and set me to fail. I try to take off, but noticed snips in my tail. I refused to believe you were the one to do this, because ignorance to the bliss is solely therapeutic. I’d never get on through it. I remember the way your fingers fluttered across my chest. Nails meshed in with the gentleness of your flesh. It was hot. Not sexually, but a warmth a gauge of temperature couldnt even describe. Your finger tips so soft, but your nails scratched me. It was the perfect portrayal of how you could be so soft then hard the next second. It’s almost stupid to remember it so vividly. When I’m sipping coffee on the veranda it seems to just hit me. Black and white memories, cause if it were color you’d be blinded by it. Red is all I remember, and it wasn’t clearer than water. Maybe that’s why people say blood is thicker than water. Somber. akin to the descriptions of when people say they could feel the words in a song. That. Or the feelings of when a group of people listen to the same tune and slowly start singing along. That. Or when you hug someone you want to, and for that moment you’d feel you never feel all alone. That. I sorta chuckle when I write this. Eyes watery, I never liked this. I sift and I wander thinking to myself what I couldve done right; it’s. Sifting through every single thing hoping to correct myself for the future. Living in present, pretending to not be weary of the past. Irrelevant to the sutures you took out in the stitches of time. The clocks ticking. A glimmer, a shine, a jingling chime, a smidgen in the make-up of a rocky relationship. I made jokes about rocky relationships saying I love every movie Syllvester Stallone was ever in. I’m sarcastic, you hate it. Wanting someone to laugh, the impatience. Is getting to a point where the room turns to sepia once I step into it. Grayscale erosion, it used to be beautiful the colors eroded. Try explaining the color to a blind person, you can’t. Stuck in a dilemma, of painting pictures of you with no canvass to draw on. Relationship is getting to the point where only my hard on is all theres to look forward. Lift my soul out my body, anytime you it was warranted. I was already in your prison, I didn’t even need that warrant of arrest. I don’t know why I have memories of me kissing you in third person. I guess that’s the closest I get to an out of body experience. I’m always making you laugh, so it’s tough to tell when I’m serious. Into a bar, I didn’t want to drink – ordered a soda. Putting up a front, different persona. Bartender looks at me, as she fills up the glasses. Pub wit a fire place, the crackling in corner is all I hear, and it’s happening. Until I fill it up with liquor to forget that it happened. It’s funny, we use wine as means to have some confidence. Then we use it to lose consciousness only to wake up regretting it even occurred. Soul is bound by a union, to protect and to serve. A kiss represents a sticker. Hope we arent strangers now, there would be a time where I couldnt predict what you did, but if you did it when you did it, I knew that you would. It wouldnt be because you werent predictable, it would be cause when you put your hand to my chest, my heartbeat was giving you visions of what do to next. My sexual psychic, with prophetic visions embedded in the circles of your palm. I kiss those circles with my tongue. God knows whats in the future for us. Too bad My tongue couldnt decipher your palm in that moment. If only I could lick your other palm, I would but nowadays that’s impossible. You quickly remedied your movements as if I had to guess what to do next. So passive aggressive; not obviously, but it was so subtle I barely noticed. Now I dream, and when I dream I wish I wasn’t asleep. It hurts. I’m awake now, but I wish I was dozing. Crying to myself in bed, I buy them white so the tear soaked stains aren’t as relevant to see. I see you in the clouds, I see you in the puddle I forcefully restrain myself from stomping on in the rain. They say eyes are a mirror to the soul, but all I see in reflections are eyes darker than coal. If that’s true, I hope it doesnt mean everything is in a heap of ashes. Keep your glasses off, you look cuter without them. Keep your glasses on, they look cuter without you.