…almost over so it’s very sunny and cool.

Both internally,

as shine reflects on the puncture wounds where flies lay their eggs,

And on skin, externally,

where the shine reflects…

Merciful gun in my pocket,

And as the dog lays dying

His eyes,

HIS eyes are getting tired

As he lay dying,

His tail was wagging at the sound of my voice,

his recovery

My palms rest in the only spot not bleeding,

I sing to him, and he is healed.

Where summertime ends, teenage begins.

Skin cool and wet and sensitive to the air

Cooling after cold water swim…

17 was coffee and a search for girls, pot and some kind of coffee, girl or pot shop.

The owners switched often and more often than not,

I rose to create roses.

And those I gave them to

Received an embossed stamp of me.

On their palms all raised and reloaded,

Keeloided from years of carrying…me.

Hands grip logs of shit

Where the flies lay

And dipping their tongues in water washed blood away

And when your teenage ends

Mine will extended

be born brand new every time

summertime

begins.

My first car gave wings to my friends but not me.

I have art pieces that rest in pieces, allowing no eyes to see them,

not even mine,

and sonically none receives them,

they are inaudible.

But I love it.

How their eyes,

stopping their stigmant

find their place on me.

And how their harts reveal themselves

And revel that they shared a piece with me,

Either internally

where the angels hand their wings,

Or externally,

where the angels hang…

I’m working with words you see,

Trying to make a body from the body’s ora.

It’s

Not

Exactly

Easy

Not

Exactly.

Everyone knows what happens when girls sit at angels.

Everybody knows the body

From memory,

Every woman knows what they’ve done to me

But not the me everybody knows.

words impregnate the blank, soulless page,

Leaving its living legacy in you and me.

“you and me”

What a heavy hand full of words…

How many meanings that fistful piece of sentence has had…

And what that means now…

(c)2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

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the black ones
the preppies
the table of assorted junkies
brown hick with brown dog
lowed bitch screaming taco bell (of all things).
from song to song
talent extends like long, long legs.
tight red rope scars.
fingers
spider fingers
sunset @ the paseo.
convo
jazzelectro
babies
lazies and the trash they leave for earthlovers to pick up.
beats to glitch and jack up!

the posers
the poetic posers
the big fat liars
pridefull sellers of theater
actors
casters of oppinions
sellers
dealers
lowed screaming asshole punkrock slammers!
war is comming…
and i’m fuckin’ callin’ it!
from stem to stem to every sin,
your memory is burdened with your poetry.
your memory is burdened with your poetry.
when you choke,
or come unplugged,
or feedback,
your rhythm stops.
when your poem is fiiiinalllyy finished,
your eyes are for the approval of human man.

forgive me.
forgive me and take my hands.
my speech is only as elaborate as my intele-cromagnum.
my history is painted from left to right.
wet while praying.
blue and deep pink as the sun turns to moon,
as the stars remind us of how new the earth really is
and how young we are.
the final fold and chapter as this saturday sits in Saturn’s rays.
you were wet while i was drying.
and i love you.
i love to talk to you
i love to be with you
and i don’t need this or that to survive,
just my drive with you.

(c)2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

+
the stage is set and lined with neon.
we are in between planets.
pulled in balance
and as our middles meet,
our toes touch
our palms press like glue.
skin almost touching…
…almost touching
…between our curves,
coves and hip bones
lay codes of the hottest heat.
a vacuum for our breath
we breathe in circles
circular breathing
exhale into you
inhale into you
exhale into you…

++
he is the Foundry’s anvil and mallet.
where they meet and spark,
cums his throat’s very wishes:

“from my toes she ascends.
pushing with her my blood.”

“from my chest to my neck ascending.
blood still firmly pumping.”

+++
arise, my lover.
i call to you…
and she
our heroine
emerges from hot pink dust.
smile loose
and comfortable
skin shine with 60’s sexiest glow
and from portrait to profile,
perfectly symmetrical.
the purest of poem.

++++
sing to me
sing from your teeth
a cool wind for my throat
for it is battled and bruised for you.

from my tongue to hers:
a cool mint treasure.

let this plane and dimension
forever expand
to prove there are no walls in eternity.
from lover to lover
head
heart
across each shoulder
from age to age
i have collected thought.
how it has made my eyebrows low.
several times they have choked me
several times i’ve tried to expell
and several times
gospel has fallen on deaf ears.
(not to mention very thin lips).
i have bent my knee to Jehovah
time
after time
after fucking time!
i have been born and reborn in infinite birthdays,
where time,
audience,
was the enemy.
yet with every mark, my skin has bonded with itself
producing tight, chord-like scars.
they are now rope for her.
they reach miles to meet her.
and she,
above all women,
fancies her hands around them.
she,
as teenager,
is the most blessed of rewards.
the sweet sweat of my earth’s result.

+++++
a wingless angel, i give her mine.

++++++
she tilts her head back
and opens her mouth to my wisdom.
she speaks to me in letters and songs.
the very tune my ears long for.
sealed in cirtus cotton and love beads
i eat her words like and drink their meaning.

+++++++
on me she rests
and so does her future.

++++++++
time,
no longer the enemy,
waves to us in near distance.
mere seconds.
he is blond
white
and clean
he is average
normal
and holds no intimidation.
as our planets continue to expand
and fill space
the stage fills with pastel petals.
the lighting is a warm, incandescent cyan.
and we see our friend time,
surrender his envelope to the maker.
and upon holy palms,
we rest in red circles.
when closed to pray,
our bodies kiss within His.

(c)2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

(c)2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

Cut it off

I cut the radio off.

I no longer want to hear songs

we didn’t make.

Indeed this was a stamp on my memory,

violet and orange ink fill my history,

Sunrise

Get it.
Palms out…grab it.

A stamp on our history.

Let all Creation hear what you and I whisper.

To you,
my new muse,
my poem.

The one who’s breath adds third harmonics to mine

In the most

sexiest of taste.

I am a skinny, pink organ who vibrates.

To you belong my letters,
for you hear them and don’t burn them.

Rather, you dip them in water with our roses.

An offering to her
so worthy of it’s value.
she will capture my lovesongs from now on
and I hers,

Muse. I will be her muse too.

Muse

Music

For you, love, time is faithful deposits.

Our hair will get longer, our skin darker,

And in merely time…

I will lock you in to my genius.

And you will put me in the space between your lungs,

For I am young.

And you are the kind one.

As we wait, grow…

And we will sing our songs under tribal destinies.

We will kill boys and girls and create new ones…

©2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

palms out…grab it when it comes.

and this
just the very first frost
first sparkle
first hiss
split lip
turn
16 23 28
…and YOU totally skip the bullshit.

deep in step
deep in beat
deep in thought
stop
cut wierd jerkie rhythm
then slip in vocals
(sound like violins)
like heart throb
pink throbbing vibe
but not yet…
seconds with you
not yet…
kiss seconds from touch
not yet…but yes.

shakespeare saw my poem
and started his writing career soon after.
his first plagerized word
was mine first
and is as follows::
“I MISS THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF YOU!”

*Majesty*

so let their brains be erased
let their poems
fall to the floor
for burial!
let their stupid tattoos
peel from their stupid,
educated bodies.
let them sit there
and impress
no one!
convince
no one!
of nothing!

…and let them be blessed as well.
might as well.
’cause next to you, girl
they are hell’s shadow.
the amber film beneath the toilet.

(c)2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

I Grew arms like that of a soldier.
My skin grew dark with serotonin.
And I faced the Living God, Amen.
The water was squeezed right from me.
-***********

….where is my lover?
…this year’s love was supposed to last.

Prophet suffered hallucinations as the signs followed him.
Sight was bended for thirty days.

Where is his lover?

Mouth was always closed,
only praises escaped his lips.
Hands upside down.
Daily crooked fucking smile,
mouth closed like a casket.

“And to this, my letter,
I raise a fist against you!
This, my love songs,
I put you in dirt!
To you, my poem,
…I ignore you…
like I ignore our first kiss…
I have convinced myself_____________________.”

This is where the pen dropped.

I tilt my head to your responses…
Read them again.
For loosing it the day my bones were crushed, I am guilty.
but see your fingernails…
they’re dirty…
as if you were digging.

Now This is where the poems stop.

This is where my back grows ..
…wings.

“I painted a wing for you, put it in the dog park.
It probably got stolen or thrown away,
‘cause its not there anymore.”

Yeah, I left a lot of tags.

I thought it was romantic…

“That’s like some ‘Say Anything’ shit!” (plagiarized)

sadly,
I am a Pegasus.
And the Lion is becoming more beautiful.
Daily.
Sadly,
Look at your wrist
Daily.

©2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

+gpgmc+ctwtboj+ypwbd
+ipsstaim+chwths+khdafpaiyh+a+

+ and she is amazing…
first evening insparation
cool like attractive
polar pull.

+ from a bird’s eye view;
killer figure heavy metal cartoon.
from above her;
view is virgin eye contact
view is a symmetrical blue and hazel mix.
+ lips are fixed
starving for eachother like beautiful junkies.
i’m feeming for that next
naked
hit.
+ we expand and contract like cute teenagers under the bed.
us to side
like side
by her side,
super hero canines
Z/R Team with Powder and his pull,
with 28 day zombies
with Italian
with sweet, expensive coffee
with homeopathic street graffiti.
+ Team powder and our pull
she is starting the scene with me.

+ i gave her the keys to unlock fists,
and pro our pelvic divide
we have
brand new pages.
new born featha’ tip sharpies.

+like a dance
it’s like a dance.
and many works will be named and exicuted in her honor.
she has gained not only a lover, but a friend-
indeed now multiply!
…and we’re starting the scene together.

+++

I’m counting seconds for words…
…seconds for words…
3 from me
4 from her
…”it’s like a dance”

The Blessing:
“Every cross across us.
a continuing clan of silk stiches.
Unity from and to us and our streets and their inhabitants.
Under Trinity Triptych.
Amen.”

(c) 2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

And bleed our developed failings.

Slip the vein.

With your philosophy, delete ourselves.

For we’ve come to understand

And have reached the outer edge.

There is no room for you here.

From the doors we may have opened,

Twist the plans

And cut the arm from the evil one.

Selah

We were yours originally.

Of personality suppression,

May we reach out of order to you?

From how we’ve defined you,

Can we still find you?

As Children of the Fellowship,

Are our brains erased of you?

Haven’t you proved to be far above our education literation events and blueprints?

And what, exactly, is passed the programmed?

I feel the universe decrease

And wind like the peak of an acid trip

Inside the beginning of me.

“Break down into composite parts and solve them” (plagerized)

The center,

From which my appendages reach out in every direction

Hears the voice they claim.

It’s resonated in this tiny chamber.

Smaller than the smallest,

It becomes a nothing,

Which houses the entirety of eternity.

+

I only know you as a human

But even I, as human, recognize the center.

And within THAT

You speak.

Formless.

Not related to shifting shape as we are,

You are our original.

And to deny the ascension of the spirit

Is to deny the cartoon X’s in my fish’s eyes.

Hillary

150-007-5351

The spirit.

One who has always known you…

Love, we are related.

Like bloodline.

We are married.

I’ve been the spill of your sweat,

The dust,

In which you have sculpted artistically.

I am able to speak of you,

Reject you,

Perfectly able to hate you but I love you.

Those unworthy of understanding are allowed,

And We the People are nothing

Rewind

To our greatest wisdom.

Blasphemy when regarded as fact.

Daily we wrap our thoughts around divinity

And cut your entity like paper snowflakes.

The truth I’ve known I’ve always known.

It cannot however, be hastened,

Housed in glass jars,

Cannot be leashed or released on film

(well, sometimes on film)

It needs no means direction or conclusion,

Like the linier horizon that divides our soul from mind.

It needs nothing.

It is the I AM

Omnipresence and omnipotence are it’s right and left.

It occupies all space and all time,

Invisible improvable

Perfect matter,

Despite our human consumption and dirty little fingernails.

I’ve heard the music that a single person can generate,

Who’s reed translates,

And three sided corners vibrate.

As I gather in labor public cults circles and quarters,

As I debate with the teams of men,

With assertion in left pocket by closing my mouth like a casket,

Nothing becomes my queen and opinion my enemy.

The universe is rewinding.

The universe is rewinding into the center in me.

This is where you speak…

©2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

It’s easy in creative 18, social skin intelligent contact.

Extroverted arms and eyes that stretch across rooms

and a center that hypnotizes the favor.

Pulls you in like heat

sshhh, the teeth release.

Sweet steps on memory bricks,

cold. drunk.

Mouth is loose,

was half smile cocked when my eyes met that crush…

It was easy…it was aggressive game,

symmetrical balance sober.

It was. Eye contact,

impact impression recycle full circle.

An addendum to old steps,

it was a tribute to renewing youth kingdoms,

as boi sees little prophecies in every situation.

Able to mulligan.

Chop measure to 32 bits. Young lungs screaming chamber.

There are poems pending…(waiting) to be reincarnated digitally.

(to) be published internet public,

 because I believe in well planned word recordings.

You and you and you and you may enjoi the complements.

May be a reservoir for things born of ears and eyes.

You may let the center format find your enter,

if you believe in keys and acronyms.

If you journey and have a legend and a map.

And pockets for deposits.

We believe in you.

Look for our love letters.

A gift is a visible sign of love (plagiarized) ÓÒä

Presence is presented, belt loosened posture corrected.

From metal cables to muscle and flesh, visible tracks of blood in arms,

windows of color universe allure,

Like heaven.

Top middle left right center, kiss…kiss…

bless our palms and extended fingers, passion.

  We call for beauty like rain

and have created dances to lengthen out bodies.

Chins are lifted, bodies lifted.

There is a call for artists and from this rock-

-water cums cold.

Look for the languages.

+++

Ó2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved