Poetry of Stefan Schulz
Install Theme

This is how it is going to be
from now on. I have elapsed
the tatty moments of your last days
to expel another ace
who, frankly, has the balls in his court 
to say everything he hates
even if it is in the name of peace.

Measure models not by their waistline, but by their runway.

— Stefansir

Languages meet us prior to
the springing indoors.  Hello
one says, welcome another,
cheers a third.  And it’s a bit
disturbing how audible they
have become over lent, cans
of bosh set in mines, llama-
like, dignified, near to have at
their sniff.  Who in whole
hastes patience to translate
and can such identifications
plaster a pseudonym cause.
I ignored stroller’s mandarin.
Spitting, she mops.  Within
walking distance: the phrase
of how he in she is up-kept.

pixography:

Kilian Eng

pixography:

Kilian Eng

Poetry is a slice of cold pizza.

— Stefansir

In Julian Abele’s Defeat

oh! congé before my doors,
I trot a mox from the plump
brew of loss, sick with sense,
and gleaming fit.

Your interjection is
I argue a meddle color
mint olive bean harlequin
and, indeed! every bit
a bit of Tian tea.

What right have you to bring?
What need or want
has taken you to my steps?
balboa! say you own two left feet.

I don’t pride an unlikely hero
who throws their weight in a ring
for a panel of stern-faced
analysts who score a bout
a draw be-cause the contestants
have much more to give.

This is an ugly state with ugly wire fences,
with ugly junior trench-
men, with ugly fields playing host to ugly
games, lacrosse, ugly sticks and ugly pads—
like Westmont! like white plastic picnic chairs!
and apple-brick dominoes!
with churches and temples like Locust!
            of hajji, a tantrum about AIDS
and impairment makes the world beautiful
at last.

Obscene: I lent my Shu
in respect to an ageless custom
all names to be never of use.

So, instead,
outstretched hands
like fields of Kentucky traitors
mow in you consequence.

Yours bribable,
less dread and less spate.