Chia Amisola Mar 20
there are no more prayers to
go around the nighttime.

these trips taught me few: a
name is few and far, chapped
between dull conversation against
the sound of seventeen on sangria.
we know it all. we know the cusp
of life in its breath in its glory in
its death and we seep it all we flood
ourselves whole--but no.

my hole is where girls whisper of
half-hearted nights and bared veins,
quiet to the incandescence of a mind
lost. next time, she engorges, like music,
on off-white porcelain; every beat
the crescendo to a timer of a deathtime.
it is only against the dirty mirror and
glare we become a woman in this world.

frankly, i lost it all laughing in brinks of
insanity. he wants rebellion. he wants
peace. he wants every collision. he
wants the body of a world he can never
outpace.

frankly, i became my name before it was
ever spoken. frankly, i bled out when i
remembered the girl is everything the
moment her spine crackled and broke
out of entombment--

frankly, i am language: archaic, tired,
but the sounds that will never
leave as the story lingers
and ever wanders
Chia Amisola Jan 20
some tendrils of where you have left
dictionary pause      the margins are
/you always told me you can't find the
right words,            now it's my turn/
scurrying. ink running through, trust
like to speak in inebriation of the past
for some longing, lonesome time is the
worst one could do. let me please make
sense when i speak in memory, in your
head or some other way around—winding
down.

and i cannot feel a thing. and i cannot
feel a thing. not with that stainless
or vonnegut. not with the sunrise in its
cruel gaze, not at the time i watched him
walk off his sleep and into some void.
not wherever i want to be is wherever
the time will end where whatever the
words have lied and lost themselves to
are or slurring with time and space and
i walk into the sea while blind and edge
towards empty. not with that man with
moonshine in his head, or the porcelain
mirror image girl running the barrel
through the tub, or the scent and facade of
lost cloth and how i write you in answers
to my future.

and in the end, what kind of god gives up
for the people he had made?

i make you whole and sleep til the end,
waiting for some oblivion or absolution,
where my arms are open and my words
resonate and flow in your veins. where
you can be of hell and burn this armistice
down, and i will cradle every inch, a
return to make you whole: a return
to be of life again.
excavation
Chia Amisola Dec 2017
where are we in the world?

filling empty spaces with bruises,
the kind that disappear so quickly.
tracing chasms and playing games
with timestamps; i wish my words
meant something. this is all irrevocable:
this is poetry i can never submit. this
is the essay i poured my heart on.
blue lights and chlorine. i am turning
into oxycontin and suicide, i am waiting
for this all to die. where are we, really?
you are not a phase or a name, not a
memory or a photo; you are the world
that we had promised each other, the
collision and caverns in time -- something
like why space still reaches out, gasping,
counting, fatalism left in the gaps of its
stars. i still think of you when i don't
want to. i still think nothing else can fill
the places you've left.

alternatively

this is a poem about my loneliness:
articulate, repetition of the same metaphors
and ironies. i am running out of ways
to say: "please come back to me. home is
empty."
this is nothing
Chia Amisola Dec 2017
I have spent the last forty-seven
decades guiding yourself back
to me. It is selfish and contrived,

but it is the only way that I had
ever known. I have come to hate
the means of verse, the twist of
language, the descent of rhythm,
the logic in being -- all connected
to the way you silence everything
that I had ever known. I knew you

before infinity made its way to the
world. I knew you before time had
touched space. I knew you before
God had abandoned man. I knew
you before anything else had been
known.

This room is dark and cold. Aged
and ebbed with eternity; the kind
that sours after time. Here, the sun
and all the celestials were molded of
dust. Here, the flux and essence of
electricity and light dance in disorder.

Here, you will fall in love with the
world again. Perhaps not of my own,
but you will breathe once more.
Chia Amisola Oct 2017
I believe in some sort of fallen end.
Like the prophets, lost with wit --
condemned to a life where they
speak for anyone but their own self.
They always told me that I was the
type to burn out fast; I could die
without ever having lived. I could
toss some more metaphors, and god,
along with the fury of a closeted
hivemind, would rub it off as teenage
angst. Like, right, the moment I kept
saying I wanted to kill myself everyone
started to think that I never really
would. In ways, isn't that the beauty of
our grip on reality? Forget the confines
of fate and your miser; burn all your
glory! Halt the staring at the window;
you now have every reason to jump out
of it. Isn't it strange how the only semblance
and taste of freedom is when we turn it
into something self-destructive? There's
only living something else dies. Oh, yes,
I have come to know everything about
life. It is as worthless as it is tiring. / It
remains as contrived as it is spontaneous. /
It is everything damned, inescapable --
we are like walking fumes of flesh and
mistake. Yet, quite, it doesn't feel so bad to
love amidst all the suffering, anyway.
Chia Amisola Jul 2017
A telephone coil is burning her waist;
and to swear to plastic stars that you are
divinity, chance has bound in time.

And we are rising across the room in unbroken tombs
And we are new earth in internet waves your mind crosses
And we are your love lullaby locked inside apathy and cages
And we are dead men marching in parking lots or grocery aisles
And we are bigger than moons and smaller than god
And we are salt-locked lovers intertwined for the common sin
that we had been shunned out in a dance with the death of life
a breath against my mortality for we had laughed at the smallness
of a bound lord in his face.

I am the farthest lover
that I had ever known.
Chia Amisola Jun 2017
The world sang itself backwards and burned the light.
Twisted refrain of maverick sunshine,
Corner the gods in the chaplain's host of respite.

Pray my sin will loom over men of open doors;
Pray its mercy scarred course as papal herald died:
The world sang itself backwards and burned the light.

Cry for Gomorrah — He was just yearning fight,
Condemn Sodom, He to quell the beast of man,
Corner the gods in the chaplain's host of respite.

Ask what ash looks in the twisted duress of fated night,
Mary burned her child in shrouded breast of rite:
The world sang itself backwards and burned the light.

Infinite sky and souls pranced your salt sea,
Her mighty faith and righteous and virgin and free,
Corner the gods in the chaplain's host of respite.

Magdalene of cutthroat thunder and charcoal rosary beds,
Lonely daughter with rose and demon inside her head.
The world sang itself backwards and burned the light,
Corner the gods in the chaplain's host of respite.
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