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Poetry Mixtape//

Zachary CosbyJulian Smuggles

My wrists are vases filled with plastic flowers, my throat an oil lamp burning violence. Tell me stories of life before we entered the hole. Tell me that a phallic symbol is just a phallic symbol, sometimes. Impoverished in furs, mindless cities. Perfume bottles empty as tongues and taste. When you find no way out, tunnel further in.

faux furs

I squeeze her crystalline handthe determinationtongue it like shawl languageenough biz. NO.everyone is broke all bustedlet me fix youin wipes using snot napkins

I find faith in finding myself proved wrong. A snake handler cradling two puncture marks like unexpected children. Today I fell under the influence of several minor gods, including the gloom clouds, the desert, and the barred soul. Helicopters circle over our heads. They will not find us, which is to say that we might as well drink kerosene like long nights and release orchids in tribute to every deer dancing slow inside us. We make circles and triangles in the air. We run.

punctured triangles

in your squatpulling my nose hairsmy own rewardssome slightly peea metaphysical waveof possible disasterseightarmscreate a trianglewith bullet holes inthe corner boys

I want to call my mother but I am scared of the voices. Inside those black wires we are lost as high school sweethearts and full moons. My nose and the smell of weight rendered temporally. The sound of a dropped call, more heavy than two little leaves falling into wells of light.

static mother .gif

we are Londonand Osaka and Kolktacontinuing the royalbloodlinewe long for leaders like windmillsI inherit youand you inherit meand I inherit youand then there is glittercumming on my facewe vomitdry leavesour genes arewith us

Everything ends with divorce. Dead friendships set sail against Greek tides. I want my own Helen of Troy. Cast in bronze and hopping bars until daylight. Pieces of paper with phone numbers in graphite like wallpaper that fades every second spring, or little blankets of clouds you no longer recognize.

dead crystals

neon graysthe chirpingmy teeth trascendcrystals of hatredlike a grillsprouted post toxic naturein your roombooties only clapno one needs to be richI eat enough of my own caricatureand we are waiting for you,busalways waiting fora bus

Something moves inside me. I am too scared to reach in and pull it out. I want to eat splinters. This winter cracks ice on ancient parking lots. I watch them melt, all doomed glaciers. Help me find dream homes and submerged fantasies. Help feral dogs find milk-white bones to toss and throw.

feral woods milk

I want to be the redwoodslike your college art classeswith the flood flow fortunesI am drowningin academiadoes that make me old school?then we sexwith his griefwhen you sleep for a whileand I pretendto sleep for a while

Nothing exists outside of experience, which is to say this poem is empty and its words are masks. A gun fired into the open sky. Missed connections.

open ended love poetry

I want to be your hypebeastsport you as my only brandhashtagyouineverypartofme

Where are the people nothing like me? I want to meet them. I want to tell them white lies and be never caught. I want to interrupt the fantasy until hands break against face. I want to move closer on a park bench until little fingers imperceptibly touch (the crows will whisper let them, let them and feel no disappointment). I want to hold those with smoke where souls should be. The rats shivering in old age. The humans with eyes sounding gunshots through quiet neighborhoods.

fantasy dust neighborhood

dandruff diamond vialscover sofasmushrooms grow on our shouldersI cant remember the last minuteI felt the bloodyour pinkness and peckishnessand we are just puddles

I like eating horses up, up, uprooting dandelions, living without senses for time, placing forget-me-nots on the foreheads of blacked out drunks. Asking: Are you in it for love? Responding: Im here for sex. With clouds, with depression, with amnesia. I have a botfly eating my brain. An addiction eating my wallet. You look hungry, too. I watch cooking shows until I no longer. Me and the countless others that lay awake thinking about cold summer sweat and being-unable. Wage war on me. I want death. 10,000 tiny rips in my skin. Crying hemophilia tears and iron.

blacked out sex

watercolor with the samebones and paintskype is openmy dick exposedmy goals in orderyour computer is openskype is callingyour parents home in wintersome kind of christmas nakedyou use a brush i personally use meand we do not sayand people do not listendrinking in the background of this movie

I have three kittens and I want them to die. Oh, die. Please die. So sick of waiting to open them up like christmas and eat joy from their insides. Through the smell of catnip clogged intestines we will live forever. The festival of the moon and the sound of love in a DNA sample. I unhinge my jaw in anticipation. Everyone so close to real. Everyone.

I am in love with every advertisement I have seen

Sheets stained with blood. Fingers stained with blood. Teeth stained with blood. Another drop rolls down my leg and cancels my dreams. I found a knife in your bathroom and said nothing. You mix drugs in the kitchen sink. Soiled clothes dot the landscape like great mountains. Empty beer cans dot the landscape like great mountains. Synthesize the compounds to feelings. Sell me the cure for consciousness.

white bulge white panties

bugs rotate their penalties of errorlike I gyrate my single penisin an atticdo not blinkshoot yourselfI start to sweatmy single peniscocoons due tothe absence of heat and soymilkbut I continue to moveuntil I realizeyou have the single peniscasually outbut gaining momentum

Who dreamed and gave us billboards? The faces of magazine covers glaring. Eyes catching like late-spring pneumonia. Nonbelievers, our hallowed white noise. I worship lonesome gods that live behind paywalls. They always ask what I want. What do you think I want? What do clouds of razor blades want? What do mouthfuls of boiling water want?

hollow tip star

I rap battle you in a waythat will get a 100 million youtube viewsI holla hella poems to your facewith perfect arm movementsabout you being flat beerand a childonly it rhymesbut when i yell about you being like a flat beer and a childyou just leaveand never return my text messages

C o v e r b yC o l t o n M a j o r

//Untitled Poems byZachar y Cosby

//Titled Poems byJulian Smuggles