Paul Stewart
Bio
Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.
The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection out now!
Streams and Scratches in My Mind coming soon!
Achievements (32)
Stories (1352)
Filter by community
Subtitled
Precursor to greatness Or hints of provocation The epigraphic prelude Before the lingual deluge Or claustrophobic constraint Dressed up as your formatting norm - The ruse is up before the first line Is uttered and understood - A simple poem or by author’s name Or fancy like “After the Road Less Travelled” - Straitjacket to creative surprise Like placards with applause and canned laughter - White space forgotten As the liminal poesy precipice Before the drop Into literary intrigue and lambastery
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Masterpiece. Content Warning.
Francis had a very close and intimate relationship with his manhood. Although he would never publicly attest to the irrefutable truth, he would state in the comfort of his own home, with no hint of irony, that his penis was his best friend.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Fiction
Mostly Water
Thyme and sage Wisdom on page Not a philosopher Barely a poet Switch blade Suicide Not a philosopher Rarely a footnote List. List. To sea. The s ea Not a philosopher As the waves c rash free from r ock poo ls and buoyed la goons (They consume.) Early destructor Trying to make 75% (water)whole When. Of water S ource m eets ve ssel Facilitation is takenNot offered. As I sit by the waters edge, fee ding pig eonsreminiscing I feel a clarity e mergefrom beneath the b,(r)each of the fog. Survival is as much within grasp as total era sure Not a philoso.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Refusal
Bullshit . This is bullshit . This That . Old jazzy analogy where the gasps and gaps hold importance . . White space empty . As important as your poesy prose eroticised linguistics . . How the page commands and dominates . The words . Butchered . For consumers Feasters . . Fervent poetry junkies Getting their fix Ravenous . . There’s always some motherfucker waiting to tell you what you can’t do . Spread it wide spread it thin i will . Lose or gain meaning . fuck and clarity . you . in the spaces . up . . .
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Happiness and Light Unofficial Challenge - The Results!
What’s a judge to do? We had so many happy, bouncy, flouncy, bibbidy boppy (Shout out to Cristal for that phrase that has remained in our grumpy brains since we read her original entry. Alas, we went with an older, more sincere one, but you should still check it out - Paul) entries that this pair of surly curmudgeons were flummoxed by Schmaltz, zest for life and woo woo so deep we had to don waders to work our way through it. And we are both stoked that 4 of you earned Top Stories (20% of entrants)! We received eighteen entries for the Optimistic phase of the challenge that were chock-a-block with rainbows, fluffy critters, and sprites. For the Sarcastic phase of the challenge, we had two entrants who gleefully brought cold hard reality down on the optimistic entries like a couple of kids playing two-fisted Wack-a-Mole.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Writers
Public Notice
I will lead you down a path you don't want to take in search of the signs of hope you desire . Because I can . I am no prophet Le disruptor . Taking liberties With poetic formula . Like a prick at a sorority party Profane meeting with virginal pristineness Taking beauty and warping grinding it down . Where for art thou . The poem That poem The one that will be remembered For hundreds of years . I am many things but not Ozymandias . A cultural heathen with literary smarts I abuse at every turn . No easy rhymes Never the most elegant . Filidh makar Bard to some Leader and visionary to others . I think therefore I burden you with whatever comes forth when I think— more than greater than, always more than equal to. . (it) Being the subject brings me back to you. . You— being the recipient.Start writing...
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Fire Fire Water Burn
Someone somewhere lit a fire under my ass and watched it burn and singe Stop drop and rolI fire fire water burn we never learn until the fire to which we learn yireld we shall from the gkowing red- Young lady young man _ Watch me burn # Our limbs are charred _ Fetal piston position saved for a rainy day - The fire consumes only the weak - Raw power
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
That Same Old Refrain
Misery or Missouri. I'm sure there's a bad pun there. As two local boys with long-established heritage in the state, we knew better than most how easily small town existenz can chew you up and spit you out. Strum, strum, strum, strum, strum, The strumming reverberated from the banjo upon my father's lap through the floorboards to my soul. ingratiating into me a sense of ... Nothingness. Seems I hear those banjos playin' once again, Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, That same old plaintive strain. As boys we felt the growing strain of Arrow Rock living. Moonshine tainted blood passed from generations supped on from the Ozarks. Hear that mournful melody, It just haunts you the whole day long, And you wander in dreams back to heaven, it seems, When you hear that old time song. Recounted and recalled as. Something like naustalgea. Hush-a-bye ma baby, go to sleep on Mommy's knee, Journey back to paradise in dreams again with me; It seems like your Mommy is there once again, Even after she disappeared in Marvel Cave or was it Taberville Prairie. Memories are so fickle, so lost on plaintive strain of existenz. And the old folks were strummin' that same old refrain. Binaurally as we waved hush-a-bye to our childhood Thomas looked like Mommy did. Then. Nothingness. Too late. Too beyond. I was once. Aware. But awarenez dissolved. Way down in Missouri where I learned this lullaby, When the stars were blinkin' and the moon was climbin' high, And I hear Mammy Cloe, as in days long ago, Singin' hush-a-bye.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Horror
