My plan is to graduate, go to college in some state
To take my friend to Canada before it's too late

I want to be a teacher or a councillor, something nice
I want to travel around the world, no matter the price

To go see China and learn the language and their ways
To go to Africa and watch how they live for days

I want to travel to India and visit some friends
I want to spend my life in Italy and hope it never ends

Germany, France, Mexico, Spain
Romania, Greece, Iraq, Ukraine

I really need to go to "the land of the green"
Meet up with friends and do everything in between

I know that I won't travel that far or do all of those things
But I have to be honest, it's a wonderful dream

I am the Child playing in the puddles
made by the stale water
dripping from the castle walls
covered with moss and grime

I've memorized the rooms inside
and I still play inside them
even though there is only one object of worth
amongst the cobwebs and ancient wax

A shattered mirror
with half the shards scattered on the floor
I found a boy inside those shards
The perfect one for me

I also found a girl
***** and free
the complete opposite of the boy
who stares back at me

after sitting in that room alone
examining the glass
I'll wander down the silent, mournful halls
and wish that my life was different

that I had hope
and love somewhere out there
waiting for me
maybe my boy in the mirror
or maybe it will always be
*just me

i

sacchariferous exhale's, I shalt insufflate into her bronchi
An Ode of enchantment, a beacon of escarpment, Filipino oblige;
We shalt junket all the way to France, the way politician's do
Concord, oh amour', at the end of the day Cogitation's, sky blue.

ii

The artist's shalt adumbrate ourn outter appearance's, as ghost's
They shalt brush us onto an primeval canvas, Enlargement ****;
Phosphorescent simper she giveth, as I grace her foreign perfume
Thither the acropolis, to mine land of Greece, Corinth, in all tune.

iii

The people their do greeteth her, they layeth out the red carpet
White wall's of these spítia, nacre full of plenty, open market's;
The children here art collaborated in epoch, decorative style's,
As mine queen shalt seeith, they weareth golden leaves, wild......



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/ pag-ibig magpakailanman.....

Won’t the real Charlie please stand up
And put one of those pencils in each hand up

Je suis Charlie too, but Charlie bit me
And for that they rip me
They want to get rid of me

But I’m not them
And they’re not us
But we’re all one
So don’t count up

Put those hands down
We don’t need to see another case of Michael Brown
Yes, protest
But protest with peace
And take the jobs of those you wish you could leash

Give emotions rest
Love is the best defense

Paris: immutable
permanent marker
dream.

I love you like
the giddy sparkle-crack,
irrational love
found in picture-book fairy tales
I outgrew by
13. You are
my desperate idealism
romanticized into sepia wallpaper
on my laptop screen so
hi there.
Hi, Eiffel Tower.
I think I know your contours
better than a man knows the outlines of his lover but
Paris.
My feelings run
still.
Stiller than still, like
blood gone cold
in love's deep-freeze,
I'm fixated.

Paris, you've got
a residence permit
without an expiration
date
to live in the red beating
city
within me
where no boy has ever kept up his rent and
what,
           what
what does that say about me?
That I reach out my arms to
a rose-tinted Google image
rather than a
tangible embrace waiting for me at my
locker every day.

Why can I serenade you
but not even speak about him?

Paris, I don't think...
I don't think I should love you so
fairly.
For you are my soul investment
but we won't breakeven.
And they warned me,
Paris, they warned me
that you are most beautiful in the rain.
How gorgeous, how
dangerous,
in this age of acidity.

You do not need me
when countless 'artistes'
make love to you
on camera rolls, ivory keys, second-hand
typewriters of silk-faced men.
You do not need me.
Even history has shaped you
into an evenly symmetrical heart
on the map.
You do not need me
but I gorge myself on your
romance
to keep me sane.

Who needs therapy when there's the Champs-Elysées?

And I know that you're crumbling
like, God, yes, the pastries in your abandoned patisseries. I
know that you're crumbling
beneath pink candy wrappers and Casablanca
scene imitations so
that's why
they say you disappoint.

My aunt had a suite at the Ritz but
emailed to tell me
about the soot-stained post office
on rue-this or rue-that and
what,
         what,
what does that say about you?

Is that why they took
all the locks off your eternal bridge,
discarded each love-tale
attached to your hinges
because you were
                               heaving?
Vomiting out love because
it was over-indulgence, like
you'd stuffed yourself on red velvet cupcakes
to find you couldn't digest all that romance and
Paris,

I'm holding you tightly.

My feelings irrationally match
with some product with a price-sticker that reads
'true love'.
Did I tell you I cherish your flaws?
The smoke snuck on buildings and
vines like
veins
bleeding honeysuckles onto windowpanes
and brusque sandwich orders
in some seedy cafe.

I want to crawl
into your chinks and spaces,
make little dark coves
in each little gap where
I can sit and
read.
I can read.

I can read you.

Paris, you are
the postcard that never
came in the mail
but I somehow found
in an empty drawer one day and
I love you.

Paris, I love you.
I'm writing it now but
in some beautiful future,
I'll tell you in person.

More like On Gazelle, ready to relax, going to Paris

Forget about London, forget about LA
Or some sunny exotic island you visited last May
And flashback to that winter of young hopeful romance
Of our days strolling around the cobbled streets of France
Key into the Seine, our love sealed by the locks
Feeding bread crumbs to pigeons as they come by the flock
Lourdes's faith and divinity approves of our entwined hearts
Cannes opens its arms for our new united start

But London sticks to your mind
And now you live in LA
Surfing and lying in the open sun
The sunlight is your summer sleigh
Concrete streets and tall palm trees
There's no more chilly winter breeze

And back in France dies our last chance
Didn't you hear? They're removing the locks
They weigh down the bridge, puts people in danger
I guess love can't always last forever
Sometimes the burden becomes too much
And you burn everything that you touch
The time has come to extinguish the flames
And that's the end of our little French game

Sargent Wilford Niles
        March 9 , 1888 - June 18 , 1918
          Buried somewhere in France

I gaze into the sullen dreams
I wonder about his shallow age
So far from family and all his friends
Did with God he make amends

What a journey did he make
When he left home he made a stake
Left to go fight in a foreign land
So far from these United States

Only thirty years so long
Thirty Happy Birthdays for a song
He hopped the train and then was gone
And left us wondering , right or wrong

you're chugging wine at twenty-three
"i get nervous when you sit too close to me."
after a few, you touch my hand
pull me across the street, "i don't think you understand;
i don’t like the way you love,
shoulder to shoulder, i hate physical touch"
i lean on your bony arm and sigh
sinking beneath me, you’re afraid to die
i should've told you that when i come round
i like them tall, skinny, not afraid to drown

so tell me about those other girls,
was that last one your entire world?
did you float through her rivers, sail across her sea?
did she build you a boat out of your shoulder, neck and knee?
did you let her fingers run through your hair?
did you make contact besides a brown eyed stare?

well i too have a ship full of lovers,
they sing me songs, they pull me under covers
they touch my arm, my cheek, my thigh and lip
they fill the gap where you refuse to fit
i would kiss your face and let you drown
but you’d only let me if my hair were brown