A country lane, which eats animals, earrings and experiences,
winds in spools around the oat-house and follows the broken wall.

My sister’s bottle green jeep made waves along the hedges,
she shook out her hairband and the conversations of the evening.

An owl asks on all sides, and would seem to answer himself as
the field barracuda, the vast wide eye for the minnow-mouse.

She put a pearl in the bushes, dangling spit-like,
an orb, a moon-berry, full and dead forever.
She drove faster, as the english night slowed down,
down by the where the willow covers the road sign.
She killed a badger,
as if they had both lost something here.

Sun-cooked,
crisp at the curling edges
he’s a dark patch, like a fixed pothole.
his bones tested her michelins in the morning
again, glassy eyed, stillened,
retroflective and blind to the shimmering shadow of flies
rising up through his skin like a spirit.

But both her ears are full.

Happened to me on a street corner
on either a late night or an early morning.
It took a wallet full of cider, a charity of spirits,
a shared packet of ****** and the smell of glue.
Not the cheap stuff, the glue for models,
and they look alright, right? right man?

The night left me outside my head, with my thoughts,
I had a handful of anti-headaches.
We nearly bled out last time we admitted all our mistakes,
my friend, who always ends a night with a head
on my shoulder, snotting up my collar,
hiccuping up frag grenades,
**** and apologies.

Talk to me about flowers and fires.
The orchids
of our collected youths
are bleeding into rose water
and being smashed into books.
For a little look
like a picture stretched under a slide
hiding, elfin to run back away from us.

In the hearth of us we wonder
what the charcoal will draw next.
Sticks on the banks of the styx
In it’s flicking midst
I can almost see
the little beat-less heart
in the center of the cherry.
It’s like it’s still held still in pursed lips.

In a falling little flame
accidently spilling it.

Out in Saturday mornings.
Out of school
so sliding in our nose rings.
Skiving by lying
with fist rubbed eyeballs.
The swell,
Then the classic sweetness
of the re-sleep.

Marker pen graffiti.
Feeling like elitists
because we don’t like elitists.
Defeatist is in right now, love's yet a fable.
(Planets are *****) on physics tables,
and writings on my hands,
but **** it man,
I won’t remember them, anyway.

Blurry nameless kisses
tasting like French lager,
or is that me?
Bellybutton shots.
Love at a coin toss
or against a brick wall was at it's best.
But there’s room for two
in this tent full of burn-holes.

Iron maiden.
never paid but
in microphone coldness
on the lips.
Lifted on the fix.
Giving the week in a night
and taking the night for a week,
with velocity.

Headbanger’s neck on
the pen-bottle ****, being used,
being used up.
Swimming against the river.
Golden Virginia,
Sobranies in the bus shelter.
And as the day's screen goes over
we still kept the bonfire
running in the rain.

That's what talks to me.
I'm laying back,
but moving forwards,
involuntarily.

Her orb's
As chandeliers;
In the day's of
Yore, bygone
Year's. Shone
Betwixt, the
Divine clear.
As tis her
Divinity,
Is mine
exosphere.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated

i. i wonder if the stars fight over who's the brightest.

the night sky is a canvas, covered in a million strokes. each shining star in this endless sky holds its own beauty in the masterpiece above us, thousands of miles away. without a single star, the constellations would not be the same shape. without a single star, the sky would not shine as bright.

dear, you are a star. you and i, we fit in this universe, shining brightly for all to see. even though we flicker at times, even though our light may become covered by clouds, we are still bright. we still add our own light to the night sky. without us, there would be no masterpiece. without us, the world would not be as bright.

ii. i wonder if birds mimic melodies to harmonize with others.

not every song must be a duet - a solo love song can be riveting, can be like an orchestra of sounds all encased in one single lover. the songbird can sing symphonies on its own, every note echoing throughout the forest finding its way into each animal's heart. music they whistle with honest notes are the songs that make a lover's heart soar.

dear, you are a songbird; you are a dove. every note you make with your voice is a song; every string of words you say are a poem. your song deserves to be heard, so make your voice louder, higher, stronger. do not hide behind the voice of others, for you are worth being heard.

iii. i wonder if roses grow thorns for a reason.*

they say every rose has its thorn, but they forget to mention that roses don't ask to be touched. the thorns are its warning message: it will harm you if you grab it. it is as if they're building a weapon, rewriting their genetic code to avoid being bothered. a sign to tell us to not hurt beautiful things, for they are armed with knives and sharp thorns.

dear, you can't expect people to just admire your beauty. a dog can understand no, but boys are worse than a dogs. if you keep acting like a daisy, you will keep getting your roots torn out from the ground, and boys will rip off your petals to try to find out what's inside of you. arm yourself, my love. roses need thorns to survive.

“dear, you are a star, you are a bird, you are a rose,” i tell her. “but most importantly, you are you, and you are important.”

yesterday,
i was the one
with firefly's wings
caught in their chest;
i was the sun
trying to shine
through opaque skin
and clouded smiles

tomorrow,
i'll be the one
with a smile
sickly sweet
it'll cause a
stomach ache;
i'll be the sun
so bright, it will
burn your skin

but today,
i am something
in between

today,
i am the sun
peeking through
rain clouds;
i am a chrysalis
hoping to turn into
something beautiful

today, i am me.

your fingers,

my heart
pounds

chest closing,
skin tightens

eyes close,
i see
you,
no
not you -
the one

the one with the thorns
for hair and claws for nails,

the one
who kissed me
and stole my soul

the one who
tore me apart
and left me
to piece myself
back together

staring at you,
i can see that

eyes are not the window to the soul
if so, your curtains are shut
a peeping tom can't see you
exposed, vulnerable,

a bare soul is about as naked as we get

i see,
love and hope,
i see,
fear and anxiety,
i see,
pieces of me

and then i realize:
eyes are mirrors