Not against the peaks of protest, these aurulent banners and jasperated jaspe so so jargoon! It's like I was suddenly alive, beat-stretched out of winter neige and into the pancosmic blisses of bright and ebullient spring, plugged with an agromania to abide this new formidable friend in the aeviternal beauty of she and I togetherness. Never to spill a morsel of a minute away from us again, upon the newly conjured spirits unto us both. To be amidst a cynosure of such affiation, to be in the temperate or tropical gardens whispering about our mutual love for flowers nad lists. This that precedes us, bright colliding auras in this newfound numinous kindling of us two. Watching it, making it happen- it unfolding before me made me naseaus with excitement, dithering what our next move out to be. I just wanted to kiss her face, her cheeks, put our hands together so quickly, just to let our amorous fug fill the room with silver albuminious smoke from our breaths. Miles below this, round the Earth to other places, there are the fixtures of bright and corybantic life commoved by other nations and other poised people of the light, that I should not be idle in my desires to usher myself into this grand and briguing introduction. So she said, we will play the question game, the inquiry game, we will state the mark, draw upon deep and fantastical recall, bring from our minds the most immense truths and share them, no matter now feral, or caustic, or melancholy- they will be shared until we explode with each other, our intrigues wrapped in our perfervid and amatory excitedness for one another. Too vast with wonder to be afraid of- am I such a fiend for such resplendence. That we could be vitrified in eternity in a veil of fulgurite. So at this nightfall, this acronychal of bloviating bliss, to write and wonder, incessantly in the finest of provincial matters to settle this garden where Thetis lives to be of her, two philocalists in verdant pasture, heaped with matters of the pen and the palm, in the droves of this beautiful advesperating eve- where first I wrote to you, and then I wrote you back.

i.

In the Aeonian of the lifetime's
We shalt formeth together;
Lifeline's.

ii.

We shalt be aesthete's
Museum enthusiast's;
Of chariot's, and cherub's.

iii.

Aeviternal through the ion's
Cascarilla of incense burning;
Smoke to riseth ourn hearth.

iv.

A catena of both of ourn novel's
The fireplace, wood gleamed;
Ourn silhouette's making love to the shadow's.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley/ Filipino rose dedication

we sit over tree trunks
and bury ourselves six feet
under the layers of shadows in our heads.
the lightbulbs in our pupils
once shined so bright
that they've blackened,
but we've had them ******* into our minds
for so long that we're scared
to replace them.

i'm swirling the galaxies in my ***** mug of tea
while i'm watching you wish you could become
as small as the morning pills
that the nurse dropped into your hand.
you're counting the calories of hunger
while i'm sticking fingers down my throat,
and we're wishing we could become so thin
that we could slip into the cracks
of the asphalt beneath our feet.

we're sitting in adjacent beds of flowers
in the middle of the road
and i'm laughing at the way
geraniums form on your tongue
as you savor the accompanying taste
of the honey-covered apples you kept in your pockets.
we sit under mushrooms with calligraphy pens,
ink freckles adorning our knees
and our hair wet with tears from old lovers
who left clouds hanging above our heads.

if you and i can look past the differences
between brownies and spiders,
we can look past the thoughts
of button pins and stomach acid.
together, we will make our own rainbows
out of rose water mist
and the light bulbs we finally replaced.
we will sew stars and heart-shaped leaves
onto bow ties and blankets and basketballs
for the day we play four-square with our little sisters.

are you ready?

SHE* used to be innocent and young and pure
but SHE had no idea about the pain SHE would endure.
ten years in the same school, pre-k to eighth
SHE was the teacher's pet, popular, and always got straight a's.
SHE was the eldest daughter of a family of five,
never dared to touch fire or stroke the blade of a knife.
everything was perfect, or so SHE thought,
but seventh grade was when SHE became distraught.
boys chased after her and dared each other to ask her out,
but between impatient teachers and drama queens, SHE couldn't tell what any of it was about.
SHE was caught up in drama that trapped her in a dome
but the real trouble was going on at home.
her father worked alone, and finances made him stressed
but her mother stayed home, not knowing of the tumor in her chest.
SHE begged her mother to see someone, even though SHE knew
that her mother would keep holding it off and saying, "soon".
in eighth grade, SHE was distracted by high school and her future life,
as was her father, though he should've paid more attention to his wife.
after her mother's birthday, SHE received news
that the tumor in the woman that raised her grew.
SHE felt heartbroken, an invisible pain in her chest,
but SHE didn't think SHE could possibly hurt more than her mother's breast.
months passed by, SHE was still looking for schools,
unaware of the fact that her dreams were to be overruled.
SHE aimed high, dreamed to board in new york,
but better opportunities knocked at her door.
more months passed, and SHE got a grip on the rope,
and her mother's cancer was removed, giving the family hope.
now SHE lives in a place SHE feels that SHE belongs
with friends that feel like family, that made her strong.

all was well, SHE had faith within her
until the night of thanksgiving dinner.
her mother was to drive, but was in so much pain, her mother cried,
and when SHE asked if her mother was okay, the only response SHE got was "i'm fine".
her mother did her best to swallow the pain
until SHE and her father brought her to the doctor again.
exactly a year after her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer,
SHE thought it would be over, but SHE received an opposing answer.
another tumor was developing from an escaped single cell
now in her mother's liver, and SHE felt her life turning to hell

again.

and while wondering where SHE should've been, ran into the embrace
of a woman (SHE considered her big sister)
who gave her the love SHE needed, and SHE felt safe

until her mother died eleven days later.

SHE'd never felt pain any greater.
SHE'll never forget seeing her mother in that **** hospital bed,
hoping it was all just a big, bad nightmare, and her mother wasn't actually dead.

SHE wanted a distraction, craved laughter and pleasure
but SHE was being followed around by her drunken uncle, and that scared her.
SHE tried to ignore him and her camera in his hand
tried walking away, thinking it was a simple thing SHE could withstand.
SHE fought back tears whenever he touched her and called her baby;
SHE couldn't see, couldn't run, couldn't scream, because everything felt hazy.

weeks passed, SHE returned to school and felt like SHE was getting better
with the help of her friends and her mother's sweater.
but even when in the focus of her friends and in the arms of her big sister,
SHE always thought about her mother, SHE obviously missed her.
SHE became scared for her family, future, and her sexuality
and these worries slowly killed her and messed with her mentality.
within that time, SHE fell in love,
something SHE felt deprived of.
time with the girl SHE loved felt rushed and abrupt
and SHE starting thinking SHE wasn't good enough.
SHE overthought whatever came to mind,
leading to an anxiety that cried her eyes dry.
now SHE lives in fear of worries sneaking up behind her back;
now SHE waits for the next attack.

SHE had her life flipped upside down,
SHE had smiles that turned into frowns.
SHE feels like her world is out of control.
SHE feels her life slowly stolen from her soul.

nothing is trite, nothing is optional
waited and waited and to the heavens
no prying notion, not even a fear escapes
the mind's tricks or worry that phrases
could be repetitive-

exuding the forces of the world
legs and arms and eyes and mind
there are not dactyls to measure
such words, when the words do not
yet exist.

There is no unfinished ends that need soldering,
I sent the letters in my last life. The one where upon me
You crept up and looked at the chasm and held the rocks
From my pockets in your hands, and took off my robe.
I don't even know how long I'd been staring into the deep
Insanities of The Plateau, counting sheep, and hedging bets,
Slowly going completely into the Pacific, rising and bowing
Inside the blooming ripples of those fourteen foot waves that
Never made the break wall. Maybe it was I colliding with
Those enormous ships of victory I envied that bore the flags of
China and tore away from the coastline.

I don't care what you say, I believe it was you calling.
Beethoven could have heard the call.
In fact, he did. It's the odes of joy.
Don't get hung up on improper word use,
There will be time for us to write each other's sentences,
Build one another's dictionaries, and bend who's and what's, where's,
How's, and why's.

What azurean universe lives in the cornucopia of pulchritudinous lumens
That shape your eyes? What language is it that spoke its creation? Teach Me the languages that breed the shaky and vibrant voices of rock and roll.
The ridges inside the tide that bring the sea life to live. I will, I will hunt Dinosaurs and Guitarasaurus Rex will hang its Ray Ban wearing head of Enormous proportions out of the deciduous treeline to dazzle us with
The gorgeousness of delta blues rock and pre-Cretaceous 50s icon pop
While we slide on the wooden floors having our sock hop.

Seussing us up into a pinwheel of onomatopoeia
And nightscape of stardust, song, and merriment.
The beginning of a memoir, the counting back of hours like
Driving with the Ferrari California's gears in reverse to shed
Off the extra mileage, or swim in salt water pools, and drink
Pink and orange aeviternal eves and the groves of lavender, lilac, and Streaming cerise bands of light entomb these two lovers in the Mesmerizing drove of morning, upon some moon-draped porch
Some Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday in
Satirical snow-covered and 50º Chicago.

Say I can play guitar and I can play guitar
But only when we're teaching we,
Sunday thru the ends of years
And the offspring of those years.
Back from the hours, unlocked by the tides, and
Hemmed to the interstices of fingertips and
Internal yearnings for olives and olive juices.
Eves, morns, and the 33 hour day.
Where in your enchanting cadence of life
All is well, extending beyond good and beyond okay:
excelsior. Since our bonds coalesced just this past Sunday.

For Saranell