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Henry Sturm Aug 2013
Focus on the calm colors twilighting on the Oregon Coast.
Listen for the iridescent choir of nostalgia
And porch-side cookies.
Do you recognize this dream, where the butterfly dies
With crashing totem poles and orange-blood skies?
Such a mysterious feeling, such a constant feeling,
It dances up your spine in the fourth state. Since childhood,
Gentle eyes have viewed all as absurd. They droop
From exhaustion, from too much skin,
Too much room to move.
Splashes of sun make reflective puddles on your skin, and
I lick them up with unmatched fervor.
Can’t you feel that wind scraping off the cells and shaping us anew?
Red tree leaves and grandiose daydreams clutter,
Their angles sharp against my skull. All I can see
Is the fading song and those wide, wide gems,
And I have no more need for senses.
All is laid out like a canvas drum,
Taut with fury and cannibal ****, littered
Across the entrenched stone.
Dead ***** and golden eagles, fir trees and winding pavement,
Homemade fire and deep red wine.
“I smiled once, on the Oregon Coast.”
Henry Sturm Aug 2013
My grandfather took a step upon eighty year old feet.
He winced. I imagined a life propelled,
gnarled and burdened by a flock of memories.
And yet I am certain of the durable terror of infinity.
While the sky brightens as an endless cloth, the graveyard
train rumbles down a rusted hill and stops inside a hole.
Claustrophobia settles in and all turns into coal.
Something breaks into shards.

But the mythic firmament is forever burdened
In its endless routine; it has listed onto its side.
Adolescent sentiency catches a long stare and takes it all in stride.
The eyes of the old sky have become disheartened.
The apocalypse will not be drastic or instant.
It is a weathering effect
This poem was included in a musical composition written by my brother. You can check it out if you like at his soundcloud The song is also called Feet.
Henry Sturm Aug 2013
Ragnorak feels blue and grey,
Solidly made of cuneiform toys.
My chest feels like an aeroplane of metal, and I know
Any minute the Gods will scorn our ambition.
The uncertainty burns my lips and leaves me stuck in a patch.
None who pass look my way, for I am a casualty of the road,
A blemish.
This was initially inspired by a memory of Age of Empires.
Henry Sturm Aug 2013
Crystalline eyelashes hang from low lids, glistening
In whatever light is around to be seen. They fall down and down
Until the drop is final and the world is no longer real. Perfect,
We cry, though is it sarcasm or desperation?
Either way, anxiety bubbles in the spring-fed tributaries that flicker blue
Across arms and legs and necks. The plasticity is almost too much to contain.
Implosion approaches on unsteady feet
With raving speeches. We fly from the homestead naked and young.
Nostalgic reminders remind me of the future,
Written on sticky notes and blackboards. The children’s tongue goes extinct.
We fly from the Bridge ***** and old.
I sure do love a good bridge.
Henry Sturm Feb 2012
One as pure as the misty moonlight
Should not fall under the shroud of worry,
For she is here and yet a goddess
And is, of health and joy, most deserving.
One so strong, as the mother's care,
Is a reflection of innocence in the Otherworld's mirror,
Striving to mark the Black with her radiant smile,
My heart pounds and lusts as she grows closer and nearer.
One that is genuine like none before or after
Shan't be watched only by covetous eyes,
For along comes love that follows her steps,
And for her burns bridges and severs all ties.
I cannot fathom how it is possible
For one so angelic to grace my presence,
But so it is and so it shall be
And my devotion will stretch as far as endless heavens.
Henry Sturm Feb 2012
Sun bleached bones of a white snow palor
Held aloft by the unforgiving and unforgiven.
Bandito of the Western Ring's, hideaway from fabled God.
Doldrum waters, crystalline flow of faux-viscosity,
Tiny speckled grins hold fast the straining water
Such tension should not cloak one so delicate.
Sweet foreign flowers of astral beauty,
I call foul, you siren's *****, tool of the belt.
All is jammed into an endless wagon-spoke-wheel,
Turn turn into a dank rut, and again from the top.
Maggots fill the suicide eyes, hand clenched still,
Long after the reverberating rage, long after the drink.
Sit for eternity on my sandy throne.
Corporeal beasts lie both in body and words.
Sometimes I search for those past the lines of worry
Who stil trudge along in banishment.
The otherworldly seem more homely at times..
Henry Sturm Oct 2011
Celluloid dreams and Cerebral schemes, Mounting up a grand ol’ theme, Lincoln logs and Jenga falls, Children mind innocently Tall, Philisophical thought and Military coup, End the regime and begin anew, Dynamite sticks and Paranoid tricks, Red, red apocalypse, Blank revelations and Empty train stations, What was the end of my beloved Nation, Chemical pools and Hip-looking fools, stealin’ the sheep’s warm white wool, Kaleidescope eyes and Dark Shadow skies, The beginning of the eventual rise, Technological funtion and Synaptic junction, Nerves are frayed by the plunging suction, Electric blue waves and Hazy blue days, When is Black Momma gonna wake, Off-center dexterity and Coordinated lethargy, Somebody’s tampering with the universal energy, Four pointed star and Mind too far, World collapsing in a car, Colored dotted-lines and ******-up signs, Wrists bound by invisible twine, Jolly beards and Long lost fears, We are proud to be the weird, Nameless drugs and Burial’s dug, Ravaged, ***** by roaring thugs, Sattelite earth and Father’s birth, No one can measure Heaven’s worth, Rabid animals and Decaying annuals, Life is ****** into the manual, Closet apathy and Endless soliloquy, Caught inside your mirror vanity, Muscular zeal and Armless eel, Time rotates on it’s wizened heel, Adjusted night-light and Youthful bed-fright, Soaring on a cheap *** kite, Phony smiles and Aphrodite’s wiles, Your sayings cause the blood to rile, Holden’s hope and ******* soap, Please oh please don’t rock the boat, Running paint and Sinning saint, True art is not so quaint, American soil and Poor man’s toil, Snooty snake hides in a coil, Shakespearean measures and Pirate’s treasures, Let’s all strive for perfect pleasures, Threatening stares and Hiked up fares, Robed men never really care, Bohemian life and Rebel scythe, I create my own rights, Revolutionary yell and Preferable hell, Ride upon the eternal swell, And I crumble when I hear your mumbles, Drowned by the chaotic rumble, For I am God and you’re a dog, And I will forever scream.

— The End —