Stewsie's Writings For Assorted Lunatics

Complete Poetic Disembowelment

Molehills and Ants in Space

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I found a mountain
the size of a molehill
and struggled in locating
the proper nomenclature,
for fear of sounding cliche
or unappreciative.
I found a pebble
doing its best imitation
of planetary beauty
and assumed this the reason
ants lift ten times their body weight.
Then I thought of photons
who emulate the stars above
and struggled to grasp the true size
of moles and ants.
Not in relation to our optical glands,
but in relation to setting things in order.

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Written by Thomas Feliciano

December 26, 2015 at 2:44 pm

Posted in Poetry

sue the clouds

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i took the train
to take me home,
and in the rain
i heard your poem.
the one we burned,
etched into space.
the one that earned
it’s rightful place.
right there it sat
in every drop.
the splish and splash
was hard to stop.
he called to me,
he said “it’s time
that all you see
turns into rhyme.
and all you touch
will fall to ash;
within the dust,
you’ll hear the crash.”
but then it ceased,
the light awoke.
within the crease,
that poem we spoke.

Written by Thomas Feliciano

August 12, 2015 at 11:18 pm

Posted in Poetry

what would you call it?

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I’ve lost the breath

to breathe it in

when air glades I glide

when turns twist I slide

with a puff and a gasp

Twice in a minute.

 Three folds in the sheet

a slab of concrete

to walk you up North

to turn you back South

it was granite before

Lay my head on the sheet.

 I wonder drift

I wander amok

with a multi-wheel truck

and with multi-deal luck

on the dirt I was stuck

With my eyes on the cliff.

Written by Thomas Feliciano

August 7, 2015 at 12:00 am

Posted in Poetry

graffy-oh

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There are curves upon curves and lines upon lines. Lines that are curved and curves in a line.

There are whistles and omelets. Potatoes and raisins. That’s where it stops. Underground.

A peace-keeping mission is led by a savage. And savagery says it’s the best form of peace.

The bottom has blankets. Bananas unbuttoned. The ceiling is lowered by stomping. Hard.

No negates windows and yes opens baskets. The hand doesn’t know what the heart wants to say.

There you go. Enigma solved. Now you’ve the cipher so figure away.

Written by Thomas Feliciano

August 1, 2015 at 1:28 pm

Posted in Poetry

and a who man…

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There was a window that shattered. Somewhere, glass breaking.
There was a fellow that mattered. Somewhere, earth shaking.
There was a bellow and laughter. Always, mouth making.
There was a …

…I don’t know. Nevermind that one.

All time and forever. The howls are unending.
When mimes stand together, their bowels aren’t trending.
A lime branded feather with towels, he is sending.

…You see what I mean?

We package the elbow and soften the bone.
The mappage says, ‘Hell no.’ We walkin’ back home.
A lifetime of travels, my mind on the dome.
At nighttime we battle, my kind on their own.

…Or. Should it be. “This lifetime of travels, my kind’s in the dome.
At night I must battle, my mind on it’s own.”

…Anywho.

Written by Thomas Feliciano

August 16, 2014 at 3:20 pm

Posted in Poetry

thirsty cub

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Whatever I could never be
Is how you will remember me,
And all that I have ever found
Is trapped inside a leather-bound.

Written by Thomas Feliciano

April 2, 2014 at 2:55 am

Posted in Poetry

The Size of a Mosquito Wing

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Can I open my thought with a question?
For in every answer is resting a lesson.
I ask, what is that you’re deflecting?
For I see from the tone that it’s fear you’re reflecting.
Or is it I, reflecting you?
To the shadow that follows from both of our shoes.
I ask you, now what should I do?
For I point to a star and you say that it’s blue.
Let’s follow where truth has arrived,
but not ‘cuz I say it, you use your own eyes.
Our Master, He swears by His Time
that man is in loss except those in the line:
The doers of good who have faith,
who teach us what’s true and guide us to wait.
But if patience is hard for a slave,
then imagine a man who hides pride in his cave.
Words do appear, and they’re fine,
but inside there’s an echo, thought turning the tide.
If speech is the mother of crime,
then her offspring report to each other in rhyme.
But the Talk of our Lord is All-True,
with a Balance that even makes stones polish new.
And the stone I refer to is you.
Not the reader of course, but my heart and my ruh.
I’ll end with a simple direction:
Don’t lead us astray to follow what’s tempting.
Hold tight to the Wisest Collection:
The Ayaat revealed to the Best of Conception.

Written by Thomas Feliciano

March 27, 2014 at 4:48 pm

Posted in Poetry