Unrelated Poems IIOne: UntitledUnrelated Poems II by *glossolalias
A logic of patterns
align at once.
He's sharing at once his most intimate self,
then looks at me to do the same,
uncomprehending of the shallow depths
he cannot pierce with light,
but would only soak him to his ankles
if he stepped inside.
Three: To Narcissistic Idealists
I was underexposed to music
and cannot translate into a rhythmic language
that which I speak. So my words may be harsher,
more honest, the stuff that most can't take—
I like to think we'll be forgotten spectacularly.
Four: always in may—
meadow lark of the late spring
whistles to me in His tune:
an aubade, crisp and longing,
Crescent and GazelleThere was precedent for this gay shit, and he knew it: somewhere in the Mosque they attended in Belmont—before his father had settled on a more conservative outfit in Cambridge—there was a reading room kept by an old imam with a white beard and thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows, and inside the miniature library were red leather volumes filled with Arabic letters Polaris couldn’t read. So the imam had read them to him, in his thin creaking voice, his fingers, which must have been two joints too long, pinching the hinges of his gold-plated eyeglasses:Crescent and Gazelle by ~valentunch
I have chosen from among the sons of the Turks
A young male gazelle.
In my bu
Control TheoryI'm drawn to broken extrovertsControl Theory by *glossolalias
who wear their brash affectations like silver medals—
with dark prideful eyes and an open yearning for
another chance at the gold,
upset slung heavy around their bruising throats,
willing to change at the slightest suggestion
of another impending failure.