Poetry Samples
Straight from the Diary:
You shake hands with the emperor of forever and tell them to engage their core. You hold onto their arm until they have to get on bended knee to keep from breaking. you laugh it off, but keep your pinky linked with theirs when you cross the street. And on the corner of wall and water,
you spy the sun again, where the buildings shrink & you are reminded of the importance of today’s unimportance & the unimportance of today’s importance. You refuse to enjoy enjoyment because such a tight grip administers an epidural.
(forever makes my noodle arms sore.)
A Sonnet From Afar
Agony; guilt; lack of air in my nails.
Your aura, without commit, is spat on.
My sharpened pen tries sketching it and fails
For its dull flow proves here romantic con.
Compared to your stoic center of brass,
We are at beck and call to sticks and stones.
I bless your coat in garden mud. Alas,
Sculptors dream in chapels of your sweet bones.
They throw towels and sneer. They’ll never dare
Attempt to reach that ever-headlined feat.
Tourists unknown stumble and stop and stare,
But only hearts of blood and noble steed
Explore your hushed insides’ lofty treasures.
Love gleams so, it outwits all life’s pleasures.
Whirlwind
I broke a mirror yesterday and I heard your scream
from three doors down.
The tide was high, but quiet
and the friendly ghost in my boudoir practiced his violin with an approachable violence.
I could only think of your fingertips.
I could only dream of your red knuckles and the million fires they began.
Do not let me sleep,
but please come here to lay me down.
I am withering and pretending I haven’t the faintest clue.
I know I have over-invested in our narrative; one that is only visible with x-ray vision. One heart ever pumping.
Shameful and sinful and so surreal and a million fires began.
Howling hearts everywhere.
Your precious spite and warm, horrid wit-
it sweeps me off my chest and knocks my dear deceased father off his feet.
I gaze in the shattered mirror and the nurse looks at my motionless figure and footsteps ignore my wails and all I see is the dust from your starved breath settled in my pupils.
Decay. Desirable, am I?
Consumable. I whisper
to the vacant, vibrant vulture,
“Put violets on my tombstone,”
1st Time Reading Spoken Word at the historical Nuyorican Poets Cafe, 2022
Bowery Poetry Performance-Slam Competition, 2024spoken word clip
“And it all keeps-”
Written by Angelina Boris & accompanied by Daniel Siani