"stirless" poems
780
The Truth—is stirless—
Other force—may be presumed to move—
This—then—is best for confidence—
When oldest Cedars swerve—
And Oaks untwist their fists—
And Mountains—feeble—lean—
How excellent a Body, that
Stands without a Bone—
How vigorous a Force
That holds without a Prop—
Truth stays Herself—and every man
That trusts Her—boldly up—
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272
I breathed enough to take the Trick—
And now, removed from Air—
I simulate the Breath, so well—
That One, to be quite sure—
The Lungs are stirless—must descend
Among the Cunning Cells—
And touch the Pantomine—Himself,
How numb, the Bellows feels!
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Charles ate a Rocky Mountain
oyster shell from the spleuchen
of a bee resting on a bed plate,
but then fell asleep.
Glandular curvulas search for
the meaning of life;
to **** and be ****** by the nerve centre.
Clooties of the Yellowstone national park
make regretful decisions, that lead to excessive
crying, and dry/wet heaving for
MTV'S SPRING BREAK BLAST:
The ending is on pp.22 featuring beam rays
telltale sign of stirless beaches and nights irritating
my irritatory sun causing me
to
fumble
from the letter shape of my family tree.
Quintessentially, but not really, reptilians smiled
to eat sour investment of telltale
signs of testicular cancer,
while sending SMS messages to
acquaintances blabbering
"Come over and watch a movie ;)"
and gloating of recently acquired masseuse skills.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
Your poems. your words.
They shiver me, my spine weakens.
Your details, your roughness.
My mouth waters. My hands contract.
Your sentences content no fuss.
You're writing truth. You're killing me.
My eyes conclude. My lips unlock.
How I'd love us to use eachother,
feed our ego's with the taste of skin
take advantage of these stirless bodies,
but your words are all I know.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
I am the unknown bug in the bed creeping up your sleeping body. Only in your dreams can you brush me from your leg.
You are noiseless, stirless. I'll feel you with feelers, rip you apart with them until your soul splits into my light and guide.
It beckons me upward until I clumsily climb into that dark, mysterious end. I am an alien in your black cavern of truth.
I want there to be hope in there, to be light. Where are the cut-paper shadows and leaves that show us what is real? Only you can sense the white-filmy substance. Tell me about how it sparkles like reality. Tell me how to find a cave of my own.
Spread open and let in the silver moon of the night. I'll tear the program down. We can re-do it together. And then you'll say "You can't deconstruct what you can't construct."
I come back to you when the sun puts his harsh face over the edge,
In the cold, sunken bed I eagerly await the moment that long, defeated look hits your morning face. You stretch, scratch your body, and wonder who is taking your life.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 11:51 AM UTC