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Stella Jul 2018
There’s the angel nodding at me
Just as I was thinking about independence
Or commitment?
Well aren’t they the same thing, anyway.
The typewriter unnumbs my brain
Makes it lose its soft malleability
That Ancient Greeks so despise to this day.
I can be good in that frozen brain
But I can’t be well. She looks
At me and smiles like a cat
And I get scared of the feathers of her words.
The sand the figurine
The cancer
All a grainy, grinding noise in my hand
She sees through me
And I am left with no one I can hide from
To ease my separation anxiety.

The keep where I keep my own mind’s words
Is looking at me, rejected.
That is because the angel’s words I need so much, that whe-
-n they finally arrive I’ve got to grab them before they get the chance to pull and drag me.

Drag me. Type type type. And then you wonder why I started getting migraines.Thirty soon and every decade it gets deeper. The disturbance. The divergence. The ******* through the elements of the dullest childhood in the whole **** world.

The end of some kind of sense.
  Jul 2018 Stella
E. E. Cummings
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new
Stella Jul 2018
A group burial ground
Is much like *******:
A pile of bodies stripped of dignity
But not being in a state to care.
Stella Jul 2018
Waiting
-I seem to be doing lots of that-
I’d swear there’s smoke trapped under my lungs
My gut’s caught on fire
Consumes me
Red hot coal,
Two bags of air ousted
By toxic smoke building up,
Fragrant like tobacco
Wild like wood.
I often dream about
Driving a knife into my stomach
Just a pop and an excess of smoke
filling the room
No blood at all.
I’ll open the windows
Turn off the fire alarm.
I’ll leave the wound open.
A gaping, smoking wound is more dignified
Than screaming in the flames.
Stella Jul 2018
The wise woman bends a broken knee
Her ewer goes deep into the clear river
A shiver
From the cold fingertips to the snow of her hair
All tangled with voices and
  swallowed bits of oceans and
   muffled out cracks and
    internal bruising and
     the light that they give off
      the dreadlocks she will never part with.

She approaches the crowd that watches
Someone bathe in the cold waters.
She fills which cups are still upright
Nods at a ‘thank you’ or two
And wipes a tired eye
  as she fills her own with wine.
   Water’s to drink
     And youth is to behold.
Stella Jun 2018
Poetry, as I perceive it,
And no offence, alright;
Is not this:
Writing as I would speak to someone
Only stacking the lines one on top of the other
Instead of next to it, in a paragraph.
If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status,
No matter how great,
This is not my poetry.

What poetry is
The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail
The crickets over the careful cat’s march
And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.
Poetry about poetry
they formulate and incubate
misproportioned curves

curves around the nose, the chin, the lips,
the shoulders, the *******, the waist
curves around
the knee caps and the ear lobes
curves around
each individual finger and toe
and they piece together bones in there
like tinker toys and erector sets
and they put organs and blood and nerves
and cells and veins and muscle tissue in there
and everyone gets an *******
and they tighten it down
with a heart and a mind and a soul
and fill it full of feelings
and emotions and senses
like fuel in the gas tank
and they blanket
the whole thing with flesh
and top it off with hair
and send it out cold,
into the ***** reality

and they call it a human,

and with enough time past...
humans grow,
they learn,
they become aware,
they create problems,
they try to understand,
they love, laugh, cry,
they want attention
and affection,
their flesh
wants to consume
the flesh of others,
they want to consume
nourishment and turn
it into excrement,
they want to achieve goals
and reach for the stars,
and they want to reproduce
and give birth to their
misbegotten children
as if there's some victory
or glory or beauty in it all

and they will wait
at their jobs
and the hospitals
and the food markets
and the jailhouses
and the madhouses
and the courthouses
and the lawyer's office
and the dreaded DMV
and the restaurants
and the movie theathers
and the concerts
and for welfare and for
unemployment
in line after line
until the reminder of their time
is spent in the graveyards
or in urns or at the
bottom of the river
and death comes so often
like waiting rooms,
stuck in purgatory
with nothing to do.

we are all seized by the three
unavoidable trends of life;
to be
born,
to wait
and to die
like everyone else
without exception

it's inevitable
how stiffened
we'll become
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