the poetry that matters

Jillian Mukavetz

Jillian Mukavetz was born and currently lives in Denver, Colorado. She earned her BA at the University of Denver and is pursuing her MFA at New England College. Her poems have appeared in delirious hem, Thirteen Myna Birds, Otoliths and Scapegoat Review. She plays the fiddle and runs an online publication Women’s Quarterly Conversation, which features interview profiles on 21st century women writers and their aesthetic diversity.

tall inside the sun of sleeves  

we inside. sun. tongues.
ocean. aqua, royal marines and asparagus
eyes of ocean seated  sumatra blends
teal and tees. large we share the sun of sleeves
this house of eyes ladies and gentleman is an angel dangling upside down by the knees
sweet rib of my tied, drive, the roads are blocked by the dramatic stubbornness of olive trees
we the nectar of a motor seized we
with tulips
the tide our city tumbles, our city of lovers, made from the cackles of wise wolves and handleless umbrellas
im adore im wings loved salt of sprockets and juniper oiled bleeds
mercurial torso, some arms wrapped in rains
a red roses pattern key



dear god. fuck better   
I tried to tell her it was more industrial
like in heaven, industrial disassembled heads taking turns playing the trumpet.
the musics nice I tell him
it is real slow like you know what i mean it is?
Suicide, the light god
and fuck better
the light mislead in chords and boxes.
my lovely Im here to kick your ass, writing to you
eats of peanut butter and cat food. we call her
puppy wasnt love rotting, piling backwards into yum yums.
we tell ma about superheros. they is something for you in the softest parts of my seams
consecrated hard ons
be a fucking gentleman please. lick me.
equip to explode
snow in paws lets. seduce
intimacy gon sledding the single
need of spaces
stencil me lead of mirrors of
what im smudging what I never really had love
lines of speed, dead seeds
space cannot feel cold rooms, silence, convinced livings of the dead
please sing to me autumn smoke figured halves
of silence.



sartorial space suits   

friend tells me to smoke a joint every time i crave you. I would love presently this seems. brilliant. we walk through the collard thin quicks of a quiet mind. its summer. we’re wearing magic uniforms and eating eggs laced in peach salsa. I tell you they taste like tendons and you remind me that humiliation’s necessary to relieve anything in this lifetime. everyone knows we purr asshole for girls and pretty bitches for boys. my neck talents a curve. we’re surrounded by cornfields. black asphalt heavy in a framework of circles. splinters in the skin of the highway. reminds me of the kitty puke I had to clean up this morning. suited tautology. a composition I will never get used to. you run ahead arms to your sides pointed fingers to a square. I’m laughing and you come back and pet a curl back from my hair. sprinting turtle we have been flying. you tell me you’re working on the landing. sexed in astrology convince me it has nothing to do with space suits. you brilliant say. hey doll. ‘m ‘k. i missed ya.



she’ll fuck you like a skin  

intimacy sheds my dear.
drowning air drips of miles & marbles.
infects tight todays.
a bee lands her six \ legs six across my third eye.
insides raw                rubbed ringed miles your flat red
masticated marbles
smells that hang children
single spaced grafts of hug shuffle fucks. she’ll fuck you like a skin.
skin, lovely & glass           is knotted
knot avenues of pragmatic tears we tear ceilings
whistle lazuli printed marks of marked planes caressing the cocks of women laughing
they rub diatribe
let us lean into this syllabus
members of time, baby, time elements
when I stick her spinning
numbers lets agree
real is funked. brilliant   drips of a black injection.



will the gunner please step forward  

I meditate a bed of ears,
yo shadows my own      women laugh delicately rubbing their legs
destinys all dressed up
dresses. now like an i was an i was.  its how we stitch
the verse smoking in unison a while
important maniac            you finished. sleep babe, you quite the quite
the sentence.
the tied busy, the skeleton lips, some grabs some gloved protests. dreams
we will confuse them considerably.
details of a di-lonely       tango. tangle
god shes waiting for you to take off that forehead for a good talkin to
soft lips. lips partaking an off stance of a minimum please. exploit cute like cunts
self romanced feelings of blue
spaced superstitions
hearts beat.                       succession
gods unblocking your facebook in her thighs

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                                                                                                                                       October 15, 2011