"stutterings" poems
His voice is like flowers, his voice is like puddle skipping, hand-holding, his voice is almost like Thursdays and his work is to speak the words of men long dead. But I like his words best, I like his stammerings and stutterings and ums and ohs and the slip of vernacular into something more spectacular than the slip of his tongue into my mouth.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I spent some time in the Clouds today: turns out
we're not that different.
I realized
my mind is
inhabited by Cirrus and Cumulonimbus.
As a result,
this week's forecast is brought to you by
The Hypothalamus.
I rain in tears,
spring showers and
summer storms in
Unintelligible mutterings
sputterings, spit and
Outbursts of stutterings.
It's pea soup when I'm P-d off.
Ominously overcast until I'm over it.
Thoughts condense inside;
my skull sweats
until my thoughts are no longer as dense
until it all makes sense.
My head's in the Clouds or
the clouds are in my head.
Thoughts drift off like imagination vapors
on a Sunday afternoon.
I'm captured by these Attention span capers
like the sun captivates the moon.
I'm waiting on clear skies;
my brain's barometoer breaks
under AtmosFearic pressure.
But the greatest beauty is glimpsed
as the sun's set reflects upon cumuliform
- Breathless -
Each gleam an unreplicable clash
of time, light, and wonder
That a cloudy disposition
would only discover.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC