As if I couldn't be more envious of your perfect sky.
Or how your eyes align with remnants of the sun.
And not just any sun,
On Sundays when that golden dusk comes so late.
The last hour of night looks like fire works
crashing at the end of the ocean.
Intolerant of your reddish warm scent,
set to cause any blood ******* thing
to parish in his love for you.
It truly causes my begrudgingly mind to ponder.
It is no wonder that I am jaundiced
by your ability to capture mans heart
in your florescent sap.
Oh Amber,
Free me from my jealous behavior.
Deem me not zealous,
but in favor of your yellowish center
fixed in oldeander,
my sweet, sweet amber.

I want to mark my skin
like the ever-stained hem of the sleeves
that lick my knuckles like the sea foam
of a southern beach.

I want each pore to be filled
with the same heaviness that each streak
of watered-down mascara holds
as it lingers on the ends of my worn-out shirt sleeves.

Every line must mirror the soul
trapped in the blackened rivers
that forever run parallel to each other.

The curves crafted by the needle
will sway with same helium
he fills my chest with;

the crosses and dots will pack
the kisses he planted tenderly on my lips.

My first tattoo must be more than ink,
it must be heart.

On this cold floor,
I am nothing but your interpretation.
In this bed,
I am but a canvas for you to work on.
I am not amused by this,
but a muse by nature.
A force of art.
A possible goddess if you allow it.

On this Cold morning,
you are nothing but my interpretation.
In this bed,
you are but a means to keep me warm.
You are not amused by me,
but confused by nature.
A body for me to lay on.
A possible future if I allow it.

But today,
On this cold floor,
I am everything.
Everything but obscure.

After the cold war,
you pressed your fingertips
on my back to get warm.
With respect to those tender moments,
I couldn't be some casualty.
I refused to be.
I'd rather die on the battlefield.

i.

She's the finest
Filipino rose;
As tis as tis,
I loveth to watch her petals shine.

ii.

She's the kindest,
Gentlest soul;
As tis she is
Divine;

iii.

She's the sweetest
Nectar of honey;
O' I'm blessed
With a inamorata of plenty.

iv.

She's mine heaven
Mine earth, and the moon;
She's the life, verily mine wife,
Who awokest me from mine tomb.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane sardua Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)