stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 14134
    [post_author] => 4
    [post_date] => 2013-10-25 14:50:15
    [post_date_gmt] => 2013-10-25 14:50:15
    [post_content] => I was sky.
Fickle as a smoke ring, cliché as gemstone seas or eyes or jaundice-gold luminescence and I’m sickened with it – puffy cloud-pustules of some undiagnosed plague. Your bad luck cobalt is magnetic because canvases don’t work if the pen passes straight through

And yet, a thousand rhymes, each more hackneyed than the last

You were silver.
Closing yourself away in caves like misted wombs because no matter how jagged you file yourself the precious arsenic sheen never goes away

and then they pronounce you a lost cause

I strangled orthographers in paralysis, choice rumbles and lightning strikes fissuring the pages – God’s an easy mask to don; besides, hymns drone he will forgive me – to rearrange words somehow

render you matchable

just. goddamn. bouquets of curving lines. quill sputum hacked up onto a slab that Moses held aloft.

break it

b-r-e-a-k it all

but blood screams x and y and metal won’t show cracks

—

so I find solace in high and all its paletted definitions

you glow from photo frames

surrounding snapshots

but never. in.
    [post_title] => pentagram crossed
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => pentagram-crossed
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2015-11-26 13:58:27
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2015-11-26 13:58:27
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=14134
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2013
            [wpcf-summary-description] => 
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Performance poem challenge 2013
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 854
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Daniella Cugini
            [slug] => daniella-cugini
            [content] => A winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2014 and of the Young Poets Network 'Performance poem' challenge.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 854
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Daniella Cugini
    [slug] => daniella-cugini
    [content] => A winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2014 and of the Young Poets Network 'Performance poem' challenge.
)

pentagram crossed

Daniella Cugini

I was sky.
Fickle as a smoke ring, cliché as gemstone seas or eyes or jaundice-gold luminescence and I’m sickened with it – puffy cloud-pustules of some undiagnosed plague. Your bad luck cobalt is magnetic because canvases don’t work if the pen passes straight through

And yet, a thousand rhymes, each more hackneyed than the last

You were silver.
Closing yourself away in caves like misted wombs because no matter how jagged you file yourself the precious arsenic sheen never goes away

and then they pronounce you a lost cause

I strangled orthographers in paralysis, choice rumbles and lightning strikes fissuring the pages – God’s an easy mask to don; besides, hymns drone he will forgive me – to rearrange words somehow

render you matchable

just. goddamn. bouquets of curving lines. quill sputum hacked up onto a slab that Moses held aloft.

break it

b-r-e-a-k it all

but blood screams x and y and metal won’t show cracks

so I find solace in high and all its paletted definitions

you glow from photo frames

surrounding snapshots

but never. in.