Gloss 𝑏𝑦 Janice Kang

Gloss 𝑏𝑦 Janice Kang

sugar-sweet cotton cheeks,

/

needlework feelings forwarded to a disillusioned, sad-eyed angel boy / ‘good morrow,’ it entails, all e-boys’ correspondence with the pixels & eyeliner & apathy 

/

‘good morrow, here is yet another love poem for only your eyes to relish in’

/

‘good morrow, listen to this sonata i composed for you, arpeggios of our aurum scenes’ 

/

you know, melancholy’s just a monochrome rainbow / angel boy’s softly grey–– though tonight we’ve got a splendid crowd & hot pink lights the prime of fallen-angelhood / bluffed wings peek at the poles of his body, where the blades have parted to usher those radio waves past through / and, well, poet’s indigo even without the lights(with love) / and, well, poet’s hands thrum with the wavelengths, stinging like gamma rays & fright (with love)

/

but it helps, the added effects, backstage theatre crew all 7 sharp eyes each / he’s got on dior’s pure poison perfume, smelling like temptation & delight like judas trice kissed him whole, though now he IS judas the traitor, all tragic eyesmiles at the mortal / white lilac faux-innocence / dancing behind the face of a wide-brimmed fan & all stark sunset, mouth wide & beckoning / stomaching the presence of a thousand exoplanets

/

the poet wobbles from his orbit, strong gravitational pull ushering him close, even if it’s the other way around or whatever

/

poison angel laughs in pink syrup / usurps the claim to throne in aevum, the in-betweens / coos towards the poet through watery & sticky eyes, “humans should not be loving angels”

/

“we have no hearts, my pianist-poet, so take care that i do not turn upon you like judas–– i am no longer bound to god–– i am dense with apathy”

/

said, wings at separate poles / said, two lovers at separate poles, too, back-to-back / no direct correspondence & rather just a forwarding of interests / juliet’s bemoaning / romeo’s sulking

/

in one e-mail the poet embeds pink angel into the spaces between his stanzas, wherein spaces are breaths & he’s bestowed inside / the sacrifice of a slaughtered lamb

/

in one e-mail the pianist lays him into simplistic scales between hairpin crescendos like a sickly climax, all thin, black 16th notes / the composition of threnodies with sigh-heavy melodies / orchestrated by deep pedaled echoes

/

in one e-mail angel puts him into his ballet dances / like trapeze artists conjoined(at milk joints) behind moonlet eyelids / featherlight touches that rot against his mortal skin & here he grimaces, eyes all red / fortissimo-ing into kismet & kiss-met / & here he mumbles into his skin, “i told you so”

/

poet-mortal turns into a phoenix of ash, except nothing else rises from the static grey / just the smell of going away / abandonment