poems in upcoming “Ghost City Press”

I am enthralled! I am delighted! I am ecstatic!

Three of my poems (marianas, pirouette, and a tear, pH 5.6) are going to be published in the first issue of Ghost City Press, which will soon be available here. 

I started writing poetry about a year ago. This craft has allowed me to learn more about my own self as well as the rest of the world, mankind’s integrity, and what it means to truly come to terms with my poetic voice. I’m so grateful for this opportunity; seeing my words published has been a long awaited dream of mine.

Thank you for supporting me.

With love,

Georgia

a tear, pH 5.6

I had to stomach a great man, a gray man with
mismatch shoes and a somber coat
slosh through nuclear waste; the kind that freefalls
from a third story window
trickles down the chin in a misled victory.

lonely battle!

fearsome battle!

(warrior fighting fossil fuels and acid
raid in a stony jungle)

see, Oeschlein said it would be a heavy one so
I donned my worn thin suit.
I watched the soil saturate with the human populace.
I listened to a long-lasting plea,
which was greeted with misuse/abuse.

I tried to breathe in eighth notes but
my lungs capsized at the quarter-
a side effect of air pollution.

in Ben’s image

what good has been resurrected from a broken heart?
I implore you, tear at my seams; you seem a (un)trustworthy man.
approach with all munitions,
for what am I but a timepiece aching at the unjust
hands of my accuser,
you with your supremacist smile and
haughty legs?

see, only Benjamin knows my pain,
counting hours minutes seconds ‘til the next wave
of mutiny, when curtain
parts to reveal a stage of minutemen vs. redcoats.
(minutes minutes minutes
how savory, how divine)
as I sit aloft quarter past two and recall
a summer’s eve thick with rope burn,
I am reminded of what it feels like for
ground to fall from underneath me for
ammunition to lodge itself in my little hand.

this timepiece keeps ticking,
incessant though somewhat defective.

uncertainty principle

Heisenberg studied his atoms in a clockwork manner.
Every day, he picked them up in his hands,
blessed them with hopeful lips
as the second hand approached twelve.

Mustering the man concealed by his
faux cloud,
he stood and allowed his particles to
scatter all across the floor,
no longer in orbit.

When the clock turned midnight,
he tucked away his children and
resigned himself
to sleep.

pirouette

broken top spinning
spinning
topples over, touches ground
and cannot be righted by any means of measurable force

broken top twirling
twirling broken ballerina feet
wrapped in ribbon and raw skin
tumbling to the ground with bruised knees
legs that carry the dance away

broken top spiraling
lost its balance, centripetal force
this here is a life, good sir!
decent man/ballerina:
this here is a
robbery
and our ski mask façades are but
broken tops

a reasonable encounter between a debutante and a lawn imperfection

The Lady was urbane and sophisticated in her dress.
She perused the maze-like garden,
parasol over one shoulder to shield porcelain skin
from the sun.

Her meander brought her to a single dandelion, splashing yellow
against the emerald landscape.
It interrupted nature’s consistency- weed, blemish,
golden pockmark.

Lady bent over to pluck its stem, but her
suitor struck her hands gently.
“Darling,” he crooned, “a woman of your stature
mustn’t pull weeds from the courtyard.”

Rose-stained lips parted to contribute their rebuttal.
The dandelion frowned its discouragement.

Stepping on it with one dainty foot,
father’s money strolled away, arm in arm with
her security blanket.

for the slaughter

a life in the reigns of a careless god
finds itself teetering on the high beam between
eternal peace and damnation.
slips and tumbles into the unfavorable,
where smolder curls round bloodshot souls.
ash piles at the feet, kissing the
prosthetic ankle-
blood is suspiciously absent.

divinity licks her lips.
she acknowledges the percent error, then proceeds to
choose her next lamb.

marianas

where love’s true nature lies marianas deep,
lungs of good fortune capsize and are
shoveled by aphrodite’s bloody palms into a well of
lovesick prophets and star-crossed soothsayers:

in the dusty fathoms, they bellow sweet songs of solitude-
the sort that bite at the wrists and twist the atrium until it remains
a pulpy, writhing tragedy
immortalized by a divine left hand.

there the sunken skeleton weeps, a shadow
of yesterday’s faint outlines.
fingertips ruddy with dirt and stone;
crimson painting ladders up the rear wall.

the heart tries to
break surface
but is suppressed by false notions of love.

0 K

I lost myself in the free fall,
where velocity was my arsenic and
9.81 was lucifer’s number.

kelvin marked my grave, his boots
muddy with permafrost.
I thanked him silently for this absolute zero-

where molecular motion ceases to exist,
I cease to exist.

pre-divergence

I fell in love at a
crossroads during sundown.
east and west was my compass heart-
a broken needle spinning sideways.

I sat on a motorized throne, and
through the hazy tint I saw
my star.

an affair worthy of a quill’s tip,
but no one believes a madman;
especially one driven to insanity by
the eyes of a gas giant.