JG

23 year old writer of poetry, Scorpio, INTP, South Carolina

[staff]

Here it is: Best stuff first

Extremely handy if you follow a lot of people and hate missing anything good. 

Best Stuff First moves the best stuff on your dashboard—mhm!—right up to the top. 

It’s rolling out this week on iOS and Android, and comes with this Help Center article.  

Thanks! ✌️

[le-wendigogo]

I don’t have the option to turn it off yet, but chances are good that my dash is still affected. Chances are good that y'all have been affected. Whatever you do, keep checking your settings tab for the ability to TURN THIS OFF. Because we creators are gonna suffer from this.

[le-wendigogo]

————

There’s a chance that y'all might not have gotten this option yet, but i finally did. For the sake of all creators out there, check your general settings and look for this option. If you have it, TURN IT OFF. Don’t let some algorithm dictate what you see.

[le-wendigogo-reblogs]

Don’t just like this. It needs to be spread so people know. Not only will your feed be out of chronological order, but creators who aren’t hella popular are suffering lack of exposure because of this. This is the one thing i WILL pressure to reblog.

[recognizingthevoiceless]

attention poets! do you feel as though your work isn’t being noticed as often lately? do you feel you’re missing posts & great writing from people you follow? this may be why! if you’d like to increase your visibility or are looking for more great content to appear on your dashboard, disable “best stuff first”!

-christal

[poeticstories]

Attention, @writerscreed @twcpoetry @poetryportal @refinegodliness @newpoetssociety @inkstay

Important. Reblog. Inform.

[smittenbypoetry]

Go Team Chronological!

[jgwrites2-blog]

Fall 17

I slept like a king last night odd to recognize and reconvene with a penniless reality

the fall repeats as bottle glistens again I fall in love with drink, cold joints and a backache

formalist word of Heyzue puts me at ease to gut the worthless next week I work without pay or appreciation this lonely time

the world caves and I live off scrounging floorboards to be governor, a tyrant to secede seeded pumpkins spit in fall

I just need a keyboard and bread but don the saddle, a pony a button-up stitched double dutch

I raise funds on phones dialed hours sun cold south told the paper would warm me give me everything I need

JG 10/29/17

[asloversdrown]

[jgwrites2-blog]

Cupreous

hammered out by cracked hands terracotta gleamed gleaning reach for hallow halos one a piece oxidized through summer pleasing red brick houses slapped on sides chiding the child to be on time stamping feet to run letters creased sunday clothes from teething rings greased on sleeves, appeasing.

joints creak and wear the smooth rocked creek cold shouldered speech through winter freezing chipping cups upon the bottom dipped, what are you trying to say here? perhaps there’s no reprieve other than the makeshift, the dented white columns we strenuously balance atop  as the copper burns our feet

9/4 Writer’s Creed Challenge (Cupreous) Josh Gaydos

[surrealism-love]

The Lighthouse at Alexandria, 1954, Salvador Dali

[jgwrites2-blog]

Slur of the Clock

the neighbors sit outside their porch the eclipse may have got to them as they talk of bringing guns slinging the gravity just right with my lungs aching pipe tobacco and a shootout down the street I had thought soberly that bottles down and out of the apartment would be a key the utility bill better serves as a koozie

diluted thought the slur of a clock apparitions and digital font absent ticking the thoughts abscond to sickly sickled chopping blocks a windpipe on the oak soaked in sap lapse 

we wait for shots and they even have kids I’m a phantom artist scant and gaunt the pants and haunts of brightened days after running in this totality turned black midday straying from the pack gnawing on a doe

guffawing at the plastered shack i’m plastered at after a work week in a cube, for now an unemployed bucking horse with coarse guttural sore speech to ready the arms in seersucker or pinstripe griping with hands once held 

August 25th poetryriot prompt Josh Gaydos

[smakkabagms]

what can I know of earth’s turning ? or this night that holds no one? - shadow-spread in twilight with hands / dumb as ore writhing through water’s yellow gut while somewhere, figs pitch to earth’s umber swell and the wind a tongue to listen yet I, in the empty room, am truly gone no one comes to see me a purple sea spreading with stargleam now bloodshed sounds in the pavilion , the timbre of gleaming sword and spear what old gods sang in your ear? loosening, by gore, the white moon to plumage the field is steeped in darkness the girl dreams the lily,                                     wounded crane lashed to pale hand, earthward,                throatward  I feel apart       from everything what lives in the bright soul lives on by holding

[jgwrites2-blog]

In this Creeley book I am reading he is losing it and so I am.

[jgwrites2-blog]

Dependability

a bad word to plaid clothing in winters where the alcohol keeps bones warm as they clump the dry dirt clawing out of the ground.

It is odd that in all this time just now, she falls from the sky to trust my rusted foundation popping knee joints and aging quick.

I am not the answer am not but must and swerving to the light this orchestrated intersection in which I play the strings and she sings falsetto duly wed, plain and simple I pickaxe the ground to complicate some freedom draped in worn cloth some bird gnawing and pecking flesh from bone kept warm with dependability.

Just as a man is told he is free is when he soon hungers again for jail that is you and me dependability. 

I want my hands to live in your hair my lips bloodied and chapped from yours and this chapel built indentured to you I embrace the splinters pitted against  clocks and calendars and in due time though I know bearing has not been tested, weight, wait, clawing out of the ground just to sprout in this moment in your sun setting I appreciate the view.

Josh Gaydos Poetry Riot Prompt  July 17th

[jgwrites2-blog]

The Last Month in The Tower

The fire marshall inspected the apartments today, I’ve grown tired to trees fighting concrete, I troughed and peaked with the last full moon finding beauty in barren streets with bruised hands behind my back forward with what I’ve lacked found bound to hollow lightposts in early hours of oracled mourning finding beauty in barren streets bore forward whispers in slight air to grab an exhalation and lock it like an heirloom to spare you and I. 

Pest control sprays the apartments next week, I’ve seen two birds carrying writhing worms for the past two days with the last full moon I troughed and peeked into empty cans and glass eyes out of reach and if so to tear and blind you and I. 

It has mockingly rained when I’m outside I smile back through car doors forward with bruised hands in a zip tie from punching plastered walls slighting hair braided Mother Nature to hate her in defeat.

[wordsandmorewords]

Awake

The act.

My murderer son has found Allah

The setting.

The American nubian has been rejected by the White Man’s God. Apedemak and sleeping panther Awake. The Hunters have left them wounded.  Declawed.

Strange fruit in the driver’s seat.  Magnetic tape. Fear, they say. Black robes with laws written on parchment, blood and hate.

Help at the Governor’s mansion.  New slaves. Princesses. Learned. Bleached Betties say they should just be grateful.

The End.

My murderer son has found Allah The American nubian has been rejected by the White Man’s God.

[surrealism-love]

Girl in front of mirror via Pablo Picasso

[jgwrites2-blog]

Under The Weather

as it had rained most nights this week and the exterminators came leaving clouds of carcinogens and I wilted and spent my last seven dollars on smokes  but it will be far too late for me to sue once they find out the clouds are raining sick, so am I.

The stapled smile warping Black Hole Sun while none, all coals lack courting rituals and I read in bed while  they play the game.

Fame she said, and I knew it was not but did not differ following the path we deferred student loans for the wedding when it rained which I heard was a good thing once at another man’s wedding six months after he’d gotten divorced.

Contorted we show ourselves in fine fabric that tore hands from a faraway land, Pacific terrifically cascading robes like strong poured coffee at 4 a.m. and you’ve revealed yourselves for better and worse.

The course is set we run clinging to possessions like the summer hurricanes exasperated by heat we  feed on the way to our end beyond bone yet still clinging on some identity Persian purses petaled perfume, the steering wheel, a need to consume while my bank account stays empty handing out my social security card to disenchant through its hologram preventing fraud while we seek it, under the weather. 

Josh Gaydos Poetry Riot “Under The Weather” June 21st. 

[senecabasoalto]

We took turns exchanging earthquakes in the bathroom                Kiss me, New Mexico - the tattoo of el diablo                Spanning her back, knocking on strangers doors                Because every house looks the same Silhouette Sophia, a gold dust turned flush when the sky Parodies the value that paints her mouth

               A placental abruption / one stanza memorized From the bible, only spoken in Spanish and congregated like a Love poem passing from one fingerprint to the next

It’s written all over her freckles, a constellation fish and cheap cerveza Accented with finger-sucking Tajin she transfers to my mouth; no one                New she could play the cello, or liked to break into her fathers House and steal his shoes - out of spite, she never finished anything Other than an orgasm        but her vocals were versatile and hum like lush gossip                                     I saw things I’ve never seen again - a crescent moon waist with doubts and disability, abandoned and palpitating, 102 degrees of afterglow,

                       She still smells like her grandmothers kitchen.

Seneca Basoalto | Poetry & Prose

[jgwrites2-blog]

Johnny The Monolith

stone crushing chunks of hard ramen cut by a machine buttoned by a man in a worn worksuit who goes home to write more than me.

ironed pressed irony dangling on wire hangers slanged letters stitched by bloodied hands, crucifix, as if this were not try hard enough already.

wheeling appeals of surrealist painters we know your time has gone now back to boxed Basquiat now dead where noodle factory monopolies can pay 110 mil and store him lonely.

ill informed shrill deformity in this heatstroke city where I eat canned sodium eroding me to an early stumble as if that was not the route this greasefire shopping cart were rolling upon already.

I find myself sick stenciling  would have faces to stamps licked and stuck to letters of potential manuscripts I use to warm my feet for they are attic beams in an appalachian winter for they are plastic cased gin in the freezer on the ninth floor.

the couple still argues the bottles in my windowsill crescendo slowly tanning until I expect them to reflect as I am, the burning present old.

Poetryriot Prompt - lost cause- 6/12/17 Josh Gaydos

[jgwrites2-blog]

The Whip - Robert Creeley

I spent a night turning in bed, my love was a feather, a flat

sleeping thing. She was very white

and quiet, and above us on the roof, there was another woman I

also loved, had  addressed myself to in

a fit she  returned. That

encompasses it. But now I was lonely, I yelled,

but what is that? Ugh, she said, beside me, she put

her hand on my back, for which act

I think to say this wrongly.

The Whip  Robert Creeley - Selected Poems

Creeley really was a a return to simple but also made simple complex, worth a read, I particularly like his young stuff. 

[surrealism-love]

Portrait of the poet Kleist via Andre Masson