There is only tragedy as there is a suffering that is ultimate, an intimate death.

The problem, I guess, is that I have always been too contented with the simple. In today’s completely romance absent atmosphere I have been unable to maintain an emotional independence. It is evident I can still fall in love and women apparently find that enough to make up for my lopsided awkwardness. I’ll never get anything done until I burn my face chemically in a freak industrial accident.

Beauty is the essence, the sublime our construct.

the construct is killing me.

Bisect the angle, middle aged for an “equilateral”. Feminization is socialization too. i need a ladder for mounting this high horse. How many times can i mean it?

and in the end when you stare down the very meaningless of it you realize softly in a sob you can hide as a sigh that you are so done with this reality. And the violent tears you are going to shed tonight and tomorrow forever on for the sadness and the heartbreak and the fear and the loneliness are all just our sublime response to the beauty surrounding us. i'm finally waiting for the moment that is going to completely powder me, i'll be yours to consume soon. and i will only be and react.

A Beat Poet’s Story



Wednesday

November’s favorite color is grey.
I know because he told me so
when we were
discussing
January’s aberrant behavior
and he just sort of slipped it in there.
I got uncomfortable,
and left.

Tim Hortin’s

Five filthy cigarette butts
floating in a medium mocha chino
Dunkin Donuts cup.
Two cream, one sugar,
shoulda got a large.

Jagged Cuts Now

Through the tinted windows
i can see the lonely lap dances:
clergymen's apathetic abstinence.

i am lost in this blackness,
and my bed clothes are covered
in alley cat urine.

The strip club’s backdoor opens
and reveals a twisted dance,
where one stands moaning,
the other swallows,
all this with the sweats on my couch.

Really, i can’t blame more than 14-15 years of emotional frustration, sexual inhibition, and maybe two of twenty odd twitches on my parents. i mean to be honest, from about 7 onwards i lived in a world where they were too stupid to understand that my brother was going to live forever. We knew by then i was going to fuck up and die, i've always loved beauty, beauty: truth, besides there's something all wired wrong inside me. My truths have never seemed to exist.

I used to read, maybe too much, too quickly, too young, but there was a time when I was able to remain somewhat stable by thinking the thoughts of others. For hours at a time I wasn’t somewhere else, rather I was here as someone else, and I could feel strong. Nothing but the power of existing, identity as I’ve never been able to maintain it. And I guess if I saw ‘someone’ they would call attention to the obvious lack of connection between all five awkward members of my family and blame my confusion on an emotional contusion I’ve been walking on too hard to heal. But I’m almost certain there are and have always been others like me, moreover, there have been entire civilizations which depended upon idealistic imagination. I blame the lazy fucks who gave up when there was the slightest placation. Thanks for the lousy century, decades without literature, eons without intent. How long does nothing is nothing have to exist for you to imagine everything?

i'll have to watch the other direction because perception is blissfully the deception which keeps us alive, i could be all like:
The joy and wonder of these two months only succeeds in twisting the knife in the wound of this tortured wait.
The apprehension would succede in fullfilling the fatalistic philosophy of prophecy. i love her and i need to be happy. If time needs to exist in all directions at once for me, let them all have happy endings and mild forecasts.

Any Place that isn’t Here
(with its crusted vinyl seats, slowly creeping mold mellowed by smoke)

The way smoke curls
off a half-finished cigarette,
rising a little too fast,
just a little too thin
to be beautiful,
that’s me.

The wind is turning colder now, i can feel it in my cheeks. My feet are still happy slapping the pavement as i skate home but something tells me before long i’ll be staying longer at work: smoking, having a pint, dreading that sudden bite when the door swings shut at 4:30 on a January morning, but for now i am a king and the men but my squires, every woman mine to have or cast off with the common disregard of royalty. Well, maybe not dominion over man and woman, but over all his lord(’)s creatures roaming the earth, or at least certainly those i feed. Complete control now, and drunk i have a remarkably spider like balance; weaving to avoid taxis, ollieing sewers and potholes, manueling medians, careening out of control into street lamps and wretched packs of roving international students (mostly female), apologizing anonymously before skating off as fast as i can. The laughter subsides and an elegant figure catches my eyes, a silhouette in a city of shadows, her hair is so slick it shone there for an instant, as i look away i see her turn and her face sticks on the corner of prince arthur and clark standing: smoking, staring straight at the void unflinching,
i will see her again.

The swirls in a cup of coffee,
and the twists in a remembrance of smoke,
curling a little too fast off a cigarette,
to be beautiful,
that’s me.

------------------------------------------------
Memory is tricky. i'd swear i'd seen her before i knew her, before, but now, fiction keeps writing into my life, i will imagine it as if i've always loved svet eventually, i suppose. Following a moment into a past that no longer exists is useless anyway.

Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon. Wow. Jon and I(,) we(‘)re going to rule the world someday. 2 ridiculous mutants with extremely disparate views on everything. While other kids in science fiction stories had great powers of either mental or physical ability, Jon and I(,) we(‘)re just a little bit 'off'.

Hodge Podge [Dodge McLo(d)ge]
-for all the jazz nerds


IT's white,
up the nose
-lots more
intricate
than coke-.

your face is chubby
but your intentions
are mal meant.
a cherub balding by twenty
you haven't
ever
worn a wig
but you always seem
to miss the warmth.

i have nothing
and so the void
is unshifted.
and i have no home,
i have no family,
i have no love left.
and spite
is climbing into my lungs clamering
for attention(,)
with only
misdemeanors
of mischeivieous
intent(,)
she's a gremlin.

i'm scared
that my hands seem so much smaller
than your body
slick with sweat

and

i'm
offended by the way you smell,
it's too animal
and the nausea is lust rising in my chest.

I'll fuck your brother's girlfriend,
she'll feel the way you used too
and when she tells you,
-and thats why i picked her-
you'll feel all that again.
and when you read this
and you can
see your face
fading
and my hands trembling
always but once
with anxiety
then anticipation,
sloppily carressing this body that isn't yours,
you'll miss
how i cared.

Then maybe daddy's downtown condo
and debutant balls
will lose allure
with images of knights and
rebellious diamonds
rougher than most
but whose karot
is unparalleled
and we could have coffee sometime
or fuck
or hold hands and stare down this void
or talk
and you could be happy for me
and i could stop being worried about you
and we could laugh about how
i had to move into a caravan with two grown men
because you left
us
with nowhere to live
on three weeks of notice.
With no credit history
it was the best we could do,
which isn't so good
i guess,
hey!
but look at me now,
yes,
and look at you now,
yes.
My haven't we grown

so reserved.

Free will can only be logically defined as the degree of quantum uncertainty in any given individual.

And the reason i get so scared i guess, is that if it wasn't for poetry (as retarded as this is going to sound), i don't know if i would be able to interact socially, in even such a minor way as taking the metro. When i forget what it is i am really doing as i am prone to do (a defense mechanism for the classic underachiever's fundemental fear of failure: instantaneous denial usually resulting in constant unconcious procrastination), rather than feeling simply numb or empty (spaced as i once could get), i now am unable to remember how to be. As dark and constricting as any possible physical asphyxiation, i forget how to simply stand and breath and exist without distraction. No longer having a why, i feel as if they can all see my useless unhappiness, and i am ashamed. In the past i suppose i could provide reasons for myself in the excuses i made to everyone. In my mind i guess i always had a career planned for the future (lawyer, engineer, pilot, professor, politician), because then i wouldn't have to rely upon my exploration of the expanses of ether sans ego (which is a difficult state to maintain while remaining concious of the fact that you are asking people for more time on your thoughts than they are giving their own) for my existence. i guess i really don't have any options anymore, this fear is only anticipation, loneliness is itself the pain.... and control is a notion i am learning to let go of. i will remember to tell myself 1000 times a day that i don't have to do anything in the same order as my parents, and if i fuck up, if this is where i'm fucked for me, with an inability to recognize my own limitations, then i will need to learn it anyway because i will never be content with anything but the struggle, if i'm not trying everything i have (i'll admit i know it isn't alot) i feel like dying, happiness only within its own pursuit. Ambition being absent from my freak of nature's body, power is the only thing i'm not seeking.

Everytime i get scared that it will be the last time i'll ever write anything, because i know, i know i've got nothing. you'll see here what ever you want.
i've never been scared i'll starve, because i'm symetrical and smart, but will i drown in my own ego?
i've written things which i know are brillant precision flares, but i always feel as if my stock is running dry. i create nothing and my natural resources are limited (really) to mineral deposits on this slowly shrinking island.

i love svet

it's not very interesting but it's pretty much the only thing i have to say right now

i realized something scary last night that apparently everyone already knew. we are all classifiable alcoholics... wheeew, step one: completed... il y'en reste juste onze. Ha. We have a problem with our planet, selves and apathy. Alcohol is just a local anesthetic required to do some heavy reconstructive surgery (most of us look like our parents ran us over with a mac truck, repetitively).

Defrosting My Father

He felt spongy
and slimy inside,
every time we cut him open
to examine another cross-section.

the problem it appears
was that he had already
started rotting
at 13.

So by 20,
half the world’s noise
had stopped reaching him.

A gambler hitting 21is
cottage cheese in the sun.

Later he grew a mustache
to cover teeth
yellowed by the escaping gas,
produced by internal parasites
of the kind that
really don’t know a thing about
Video poker machines
or
the way an old woman sobs
when she slips and falls,
smearing her silhouette;
profile staining the pavement.

We drowned him in formaldehyde
to prevent the process
from spreading to us
but
it
didn’t help.

He was already hollow
with nothing left for us to digest
but this feeling that the
"standard government pension"
wasn’t the only thing
he owed my mother.
Maybe that life owed him more
than a 54 year old ride
on a beast
he grew himself from a sea monkey kit.
Getting off at any destination
that smelled like vice
to rest his hands
when the knuckles swelled and cracked
unable to close
around mine.

Since his will never brown
and decay
please don’t sew them shut,
he never turned away from an accident
and I think he’d want to see
these handfuls of scattered earth that
I’m to cast down
weeping darkness
onto his grave.
-------------------------------------------

i'm scared so often that i'm simply a product of both parents. i keep waiting for an incomprehensible vice to destroy my life. i think it might be love, but i will never understand that either.

consume consume consume. Give me something other than love and art to contemplate or soon I will consume life

Fair trade would make sense in this economy, but they keep saying giving it away would be better, so they don’t have to call it taking. All because we unwillingly receive. You can’t even call it rape unless you scream as loud as you can.

sorry, it was the first thing i thought of, actually i never even checked yours, i went to kidgod (because its all backwards of course), and then Svets... i didn't figure you to be that irresponsible as king of this here interweeb castle i pronounce you a dirty rascal for questioning my ethics. I am also heading an inquiry into your ability to preform your duties as DA.
I will of course at sometime in the future find it impossible to resist reading... be forewarned, also that a copy of this will be posted because if you hadn't noticed i'm feeling incredible silly today: magic appearing disappearing post of nonsense... it has to do with those "kiwi"s i've been a eating.

tic tac toe three mice sat in a row blinded and half assed by fury.

So not a Poem

Every day I fight,
to fend off the bitter end.
Every night a struggle
so as not to take up the fight.
Some days are hard to start,
as hard as they are to finish.
When each to each
other feels
just like dying.

And the only way
i can do this
365 to
366 days a year,
is by loving someone
in the evening
and at dawn.
Then,
the rest of these clean new days
belong to me.
------------------------------------

thank you steph,
and i'm sorry.

i'm scared and lonely right now, i know it doesn't mean anything, and i know i've said it before.

Trying to Copa
in this Crazy Cabana

ah Svet,

the way she's holding
her cigarette

and pint

the perfect lines
of a co-sin(e),
graphically.

her fingers slip on the glass
and trace sweating hips
in my mind,

the curves all congruent.

i've been trying to think in french, that way i won't be able to follow any thought to its logical, depressing conclusion. i figure that oughta even things up a bit.

Doubles tennis? Everyone has an instructer to impress. Team self-deprecation in straight sets: 12 to 1.

It's okay because i've always known that every day has to end, somehow, in tears, for the next one to start.

i'm kind of sick of being depressed. i'm starting to think it would be easier for you all to pretend that you're happy and anyone who fucks that up i'll be irritated with rather than sorry for.

Hey ugly girls:

here's a hint, if you weren't so fucking annoying and clingy, eventually someone would sleep with you. Stop making me uncomfortable and offer me your bed the instant you decide. When i politely get confused, drop it.

And eventually there always comes that time when you have to sit down and actually read what you’ve written, and it isn’t intensely beautiful because you aren’t, and never were. At best it’s a happy kind of sadness that seems to almost exist.

My grip on the here and now is occasional at best. Some are not pulling their weight and eventually I’m going to say something. Redress the address, I seem to have misplaced her face sir. It has got to be taken in larger steps Gentlemen, there is no backing down. Christ is on fifth avenue and now he is writing for the norm. The only thing left to do is stockpile massive quantities of psychedelic drugs and commence consumption in the hopes that we can live through the horrific occupation of the Americas on another plane entirely.

Life placates me, poetry makes me nervous.

with a populace so perpetually bored it never ceases to amaze me that poetry is always decreasingly popular. i can't fucking see how staring at the wall is any better.

Indecipherable,
Somehow Sensitive,
Pickup Jargon.

Getting laid is remarkably
like writing poems.

As of late
I’m not doing
too well with either
and
I’m scared I’ll never write
anything
again.

I’m trapped in an elevator
at 10 000 feet and counting
down,
looking through
this stupid glass floor
with
everyone’s heads
half-way to the ceiling,
still staring blankly forward.

With stress like this
it’s no wonder I keep flubbing
all my best lines
and that
the awkward pauses
are as of yet unresolved
with the imagery I’m trying to create here.

So I guess
what I’m trying to get at
is
would you still fuck me?

Sweet n' Sour Nothings
Swear to me
that you never understood,

and I'll believe you.
Drop to your knees,
embracing my hips,
and I'll forgive you.
Weep pathetically
here on my living room floor
and I'll comfort you.

Care and I'm yours forever.

The agency of west nile would be difficult to determine, because from what i've heard, viruses are composed of many individual self sufficient cells. However, each cell here is more identical to its brother than those sharing the composition of our bodies.

November in St. Henri

Cold bleeds through in spots
at first, like a leaky fountain
pen paused in thought;
resting on the page.

Soon it will seep through my
entire jacket,
one cold conducting
surface in close contact
on the way home this Thursday.

Some nights I can put up with it all
long enough to take the
metro back west,
having skipped an hour or so
of staring straight down the barrel
of a giant magnum pistol.

If you fall,
spiraling inwards,
it will be towards a end
that you won’t see coming.

I’m distracted
for a short while
by the way she smells
until the glow softly fades out,
and we’re just two more people
awkwardly regaining our breath,
embarrassed to be lying
so close
together in the dark.

Love and the plethora
of great natural forces,
all lost without logic.
In this city on the mountain
our sunrise
bears the same colours
as dusk eternally falling
all over twilight,
our entire lives lived
without spring or summer.

All that i've ever wanted is to write something that will break your heart, unfortunately all i've ever written are light humour pieces.

all that aside, i'm sorry i have to be such an ass, because i love you.

It's hard to do this sometimes, as i'm never really sure of anything except when something is entirely wrong,

but,

I swear i have Zen intentions,


and i have to keep telling myself that.

To talk straight, realizing what i'm saying as i say it for once: i'm deeply saddened by the incredible lack of enthusiasm amongst people in our world today. What are you tired? Learn to regulate your body chemistry by what ever means necessary, concious control. What are you so happy about that you need to live so carefully? Do you want to whine through twenty years more of this crap apathetically? Stop fucking with my thursday nights.

Poetry, love, life and awe in the face of all of them.

And nothing should make you this way. Now you can feel the great stone rolling back from the tomb with the lightest touch of sweet white magic and the world is open and the shadows on the wall mere reflections of this realization. Allegory and myth, truth and faith, right where you left them.
and now the new familiar feeling of money in your back pocket and not everything is okay, because there are always doubts, and you can always feel the towering weight of your wrongs but never the rights. But I needed the time to write, and write I did, all of these things here, flashes on a moonless night and even most of this, now, in the time those chronic cases' souls sold me. Now/ writing ahead of living,/ only so I can/ go back to write from the past,/ in strange circuitous paths,/ I’m led by inspiration.


So who do I call to tell them I’m a genius?, it doesn’t matter, but SOMEBODY’S got to read this, still I continue to scare myself shitless. My brilliance has not been exceeded by anything in my character, yet, None of it is nothing, I know now what I’m not. I’m tired sometimes lazy and happy to be loved and not respected, the movies have stopped running lines now through my head and bizarrely I’ve found I no longer feel guilty about being alive, or feeling so big when my shadow is directly beneath me, or about not really caring who else the women I will or have or do love love or have loved or will love because I finally realized that I’ve always loved each of them too, and I want to hold hands with all my love’s lovers throughout the night. Jealousy’s still lurking in deep creases not yet unfolded but the arms of time swing cyclically and all us little snarls will be wound calmly out, waiting our turns, and one day I’ll fully believe in myself, and all the old twitching will be gone and I can feel all this rising and my chest not my head swelling.
-----------------------------------------------------------


People get all caught up believing in these stages of life. To hell with it. Ride your fucking dragon down through this cultural cesspool, get it over with and be happy you poor ignorant fucks.

i've never said anything for which there were less than four or five intentional interpretations, i'm not sure wether that lends complexity or incoherency to my work.

Well that lasted all of five minutes, now i have something else to think about. You know my favorite thing on earth is when someone (someone whom you respect, like a good friend maybe) implies that they have some issue with you and then doesn't explain themselves, it's even better when it's on the internet. What the fuck did i do now? i'm sorry to all those that with "every word i say / offend in every way."

P.S. A totally self indulgent note on form:

(a quote from the first verse would have been possible to make grammatically correct, you know syntactically congruent with the text, but i am a poet, what do i know from rules. I did it all for the image c'mon the image c'mon the. image is nothing thirst is everything, obey your thirst.)... what????

P.P.S. One with a little more artistic intent:

In Cegep I had a teacher that taught me a beautiful secret he had long kept for himself: you just chop out anything awkward you want from a poem and it will still live, retrieving its limbs like a T1000, and it was true and has saved many of mine from becoming ugly pleas for some sympathy. He was a poet, a very awkward one, yet even then I taught him a secret as I learned it, all is poetry, and to admit these faults is to gain character like toughened men’s face skin (i fluff out my beard to look fierce and cover fresh bottoms). Awkwardness does not kill the poet but the inability to tell truths, it clogs, blocking up his great pore, a giant zit, and he suffocates on his own filth, a horribly undignified death. And so all I prune are the dead, not the dying, never the ugly. Poetry is alive and I will not force my will upon it, because more than alive, poetry is awake. It would be like amputating the leg the instant there is redness and swelling around a cut on the toe.

thank (and: god for) you Svet, because all i can think of is missing you and the pain is sweet right now.

And i guess its kind of funny in all senses of the word that being in love has under the most intense environmental pressure, allowing sufficient and significant emotional support, crushed the molecules of these memories i thought to be (perfectly cliched and honest) lumps of coal in my stocking into geometrically perfect crystalline structures of unparalleled purity and strength, reflecting reality at all kinds of crazy perspectives. Allowing myself to feel a need to hold someone again has turned every insignificant detail in my life into sublime revelation, a time life feels like its all worth the inevitable heartbreaks.

and the pain and the pain and the pain and the pain the sweet pain heart wrenching pain beautiful elegant pain introspective, lashing out, stoically facing pain pain pain pain pain pain alive alive alive alive you are here, silently the ship slips back into the cool waters carrying its hordes and hoard and thoughts and plans and defenses anew all brewing after every raid taking a wife and then being cast out into the cold Nordic homeland mist on the water in each early morning night on September 6th 984.

and me now when I rush in from the bite and dancing a little I unzip my fly to piss all the while this writing in my head so then the first few seconds I know will frantically overflow and my hands will tremble, are trembling and then I know what it was that had to be written, and I write it, and Plato was right and the world will unfold and the danger is I. My thoughts and your thoughts, my thoughts are your thoughts, my thoughts as your thoughts, art as reality. This IS life, is this it: it is. Why or why not, have and have not, the blacks and the browns, the reds, yellows and multicoloured swirls of rainbow sherbet like me, the French and the English and the Spanish and Swahili speaking all mean nothing because I can smile at that man across the metro and from a face of coal a smile shoots back and him and I grinning hysterically, maniacally on the metro, two mutants cracking. I’d reached 21 before I was able to sit without music, alone on a metro. And everything now no longer, So painful. ly obvious finally. In love again I can write. Understanding is not followed by change, understanding is change. Only the truth is understandable, nothing is nothing, our truths together are the only things we can understand. You seemed to have misplaced meaning, have you ever felt 2+2=4? It should all feel like that, if not you don’t get me. Oh sweet innocent, trusting that action would follow words, that tears were always real. (At the time I had the particularly dangerous misconception that people meant what they said.)

questioning her was never something I had really considered but as the years drifted by and my hands remained empty and my head cleared by the hunger I could see many things beyond my plain of vision .I was caught helplessly adrift tied to this slowly sinking wreckage that I thought would carry me safely ashore. Paranoid delusions on this cold night as my mind fights for a way to contemplate something as shifty as addiction.
---------------------------------------------

All Hallows Eve

Lines of coke, bloody brides,
candy cane I suppose.
In an alleged
mescaline dream
I stumbled into you
at San Fermin,
everyone in red
and white,
a festival
so out of place
here in this cold city
listening to
misty mountain hop
amid the browning patches
.

Desiccated
wildflowers,

not a single one of whom
would
take their lives in their hands
to steady a grasp on something so fleeting

as art.

You’re pursing your lips
again

and I can feel that my hand is
wrapping visions
round the night
trailing
your blood,
a beautiful
deepened crimson against the frozen sky,
crystallizing in a wave.
I reach out to touch it
and you shudder,
the crest breaking
against your turning back,
long red hair
smelling
of crisp burnt almonds.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

So I suppose it all starts earlier, much earlier, when I was still I, but most those that surrounded me would one day wake up(perhaps only as they die) and say "who was that person before me?" and when they realize it was them they will be embarrassed for a time until they realize anew and say "but all were others before they are now" and will feel good and later say "I am glad now that I am the person I am, not the frightened, angry, spoiled child of my youth".

Memories,

-----------------------------
and the confusion (but not really) like when she’d thrown out my hat and I had passed out in the bedroom after throwing one of my regular tantrums which basically consisted of lying on the floor sobbing for an hour or so followed by an hour or so of vigorous breaking of things, inflicting minor damage to large or expensive stuff (scarring a dresser, wounding an electrical cable) and completely destroying small or defenseless objects (the paper towel dispenser lost in a violent arc of downwards force illustrating a point, my old roommates leftovers, all his shit, all of it, a particularly interesting case being his night stand table as I had tap danced and jigged atop it in a fit of maniacal rage, my girlfriend in the corner terrified) followed by an hour or so of complete pure Nirvana exhausted on the floor then maybe sleep. And the completeness of it all, I had believed, and therefor it was, and the secondary plot lines required to explain her behaviour and the bizarre breakdowns and for so long before the end, the sexual disinterest, and the whys and the hows of where it all went endlessly ebbing back towards the soupy primordial, and me regaining something lost way back before I was born. The leaning and the incontrovertible glassiness of her motives and my needs and needs and needs and the twilight left lingering. And I’d learnt what of a heavy heart. Now, now, now, nothing left with which to struggle I have made art and it has lived. You have nothing to say that can still break me, in a haiku I was folded and folded again and again. Folded in steel, as in life mended.

That afternoon in the hallway with her goofy downwards facing sheepish melancholy she simply kissed me, when we were sober, and me knowing the coming need for comfort in those days and my resolve turned to dust, and the organization lost. And the great crashing cacophonic electronic symphonies only the sublime result of this most visceral fit of mechanized control.
----------------------------------

Les Intinérants

The only way to write
is to hurt
and know it means nothing.

So

cramped,
perched on
cold hardwood floors
I’m forced to uncover my ears
to hear the echoes of
giggling toes
when we’d dance,
or
your muffled mouth
in my neck
whispering even then,
or
heels roaring
or
doors
barking warnings,
all the sounds our love
had made.

Eventually everything dissipates
as it’s absorbed into the
emptiness
which surrounds us.

Yet these echoes remain
long after waves become
heat.
Reverberating,
ricocheting off the furniture of our minds,
randomly recurring
skewed snippets of conversation in
a horrible game
of broken telephone:
a coral plot line
growing in several directions
at once,
full of holes.

No,

this will be but
a graveyard of memory,
to which I’ll return only to read
the brilliant conclusions
drawn on the tombstones.
Maxims
and mindstates,
history rots.
-----------------------------------

Life lived, history recorded so that when I rot my account will skew opinions forever.

Love, love is free and it exists, magic and love, art and science, everything is alive, the drug is not artificial, the slowly sitting emperor penguin is no less distinguished because he remains in the grip of hormonal control, scream it, scream it now, creation is not for therapy or those who would require it, art isn’t a still-life photograph by some plump lonely shrew, art is alive, poetry is tangible. (look here how he is squeezing my chest sometimes too tight, in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground sometimes, laughing into the night and how could you say he is dead when he is here now holding my hand so tenderly?!!). All these dreams on a listless January night are as real as the gear in my head and the light in my hand and the cold on my feet and the sand on that beach. and the clock on the wall and the whir of the fan and the clack of the keys are a symphony of loneliness in a Siberian wood as children running from the wolves. I want to sleep now and awake again in the time when the worlds forces would once again gather and magic will spread from the fingertips of the poet to the painter, prophet and dancer, to face the darkness, because it is beautiful and cold, and huddled together we will be warm and see our true selves as we had always hoped they would be. SOMETIMES.

And when the grand magic wanes and we fall into the pit what visions of hell we will emerge with, victorious spoils from our long and arduous journey home to our wives: the world.

And the cold etched, hard-edged hipness of this city starts to intrude upon my vision, but its attacks are parried despite my fumbling fear because it’s not me that fights, it is not I who writes, it is the vast melting pot of our culture burping up its essence that I smell, and describe, my hands guided by the drug.

Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. Have you nothing better to read? I haven’t. Well then read it again. I will. I will. I will. I WILL.


From the moment I awoke I saw that the dream would not fade. I had confused it with memory and the truths contained within began seeping into my waking world. I could see now the lines tying these grand golden globes together; the great natural forces like gravity and love. They have the ability to warp space and even time, changing the very essence of existence. Now I knew what would be done. Now I knew what was in the beginning and forever into the future, not of my own life but of the great stretching expanse of space, aging with entropy nipping at its heels, irreversible cellular decay.

Drugs, drugs, drugs, i want some drugs and it to be thursday, i want Svet here and something, anything to smoke. i wish i had a reason to take a stimulant, i seem to find needs only for things i can't have:


To Tell You the Truth

When everything potentially shiny
seems covered in slowly advancing
phantom fungus,
and you can imagine shadows everywhere,
then you’re
far enough
for the shriek
of sheet metal tearing
to be drowned out
in the white
noise
of every
particle in the room
vibrating violently,
shaking the sound around them.

and

Sometime around nine
my optic nerves
became dried out,
over stretched
rubber bands
melted to my retinas,
the eyeballs sagging in their sockets.

To tell you the truth,
PCP is so
two thousand and three.
There’s something both
visceral and industrial
about it.

I guess

Appropriation’s a bitch,
especially when what’s appropriated
is man’s dominion over beast
as a means of debasing
ourselves
whilst maintaining total control.

Penis Enlargement Software

Sometimes these days
I feel like a
life sized,
stained glass
window collage
of diet pill
and vanilla coke ads.

I spend all my interfacing time
in the places
where a child’s
unsteady hands
slopped the paste too thick;
creating brief patches
of almost opaque fog.

desporgasm:

Stringing Beads

And me,
I keep losing things.

In the womb
my reproductive system lost track
of half its capability.
A fiberglass camera couldn’t find it either.
Ghost sperm slide down superaquaparc tubes
the colour of fish guts
on the way to impregnate
ovum lost in the
almost human,
poets before us.

In grade school
I lost an argument
with a bat
when Nicholas swung
at a fastball,
and there went nine half teeth
and four good nerves
to stupidity and
reflex.
It hurt when I breathed.
My lips stung when I ate
later, on account of the splinters.
There’s bubble gum against my tongue
where pieces of me used to be.
I got to keep the bat.

At eighteen I got a job
throwing boxes,
sometimes heavier than me
on a palette, building blocks
you could stack on racks
in rooms that eat
your sense of proportion
with giant’s mouths
In the gap between the
Belgian chocolate covered cookies
and the
Bombardier crates,

I lost my balance
on the rear of a forklift
and my big toe
beneath the weight of stability
and a solid tire.

I don’t know what to write
about months of ceaseless cramping pain,
about a wound that filled the room
with its musty, muted smell.

And I’m slower than
those kids I laughed at
in high school.

Sometimes I fall,
usually when no one is looking,
but occasionally they catch me,
and nobody understands
how we walk,
how hard it is to balance
on a skateboard
that keeps turning.

At night (cuz you’ve let it)
it can’t help but
itch and feel
there, but strangely foreign,
like replacing
a part of you with silly putty
that fucking hurts.

At twenty
I lost my father.
And my mother lost herself,
couldn’t keep track of us after that.
My sister, well
she lost them
and I lost her,
while my brother
never really had anyone.
I still talk to them
When the cable is out.

Where do these memories come from
about parts of me
that don’t exist,
things which couldn’t have happened?

I’ve gotten increasingly worried
that
I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Prologue to a Poem

The truth is the fiction,
the rest here all lies.

Life as perception;
memory’s deception.

Art is the steam now
obscuring your eyes,
art is the sweat now which
streams down our thighs,

At least i'm in love.... can you fall in love? oh, I'm very immaturely, not sensibly de-sensitized. Sometimes i'm happy, you? I seem to be developing a catch phrase... fuck off.

Distracted by a Siren,
I Lost Aphrodite in the Sun.

And
all I know
is that every
sparkling part of me
is pulling
towards her.

I need
to find my way
through this
celestial interference,
because
I’ve got this feeling
that she’s almost
as scared as
I am.
--------------------------------------------------------------

I'm a pretty high quality novelty at least.

Boy do i hate sleeping so much i don't think i'll ever do it again, going on that i keep getting confused:

It’s not Me it’s the
Postironic Cyborg Parts
for Rayon

Just before you can
flick the switch
and hit up the otherside
of this mobius strip,
playback gets choppy.
Another application must be using
most of the available
power in the central processor.

That means you’ve set your
QuickTime for windows
as a much lower priority
than complete control
of the universe.

Expressing yourself here
on an atom
entranced by electrons swirling
is strenuous
and speaking French
is like retarding my thoughts,
what with them all tied up to my mouth,
so
sitting on that nucleus
distracted by those fucking
flying spheres
while mutilating the
language of love
left me heaving.

It must have sounded completely
one-sided.
A scratched CD
playing on blown speakers;
treble all hiss,
bass a simple rustle,
cutting in and out,
stuttering incessantly.

But he seemed to understand,
and I don’t think
he minded all the time
I’d wasted
getting to him what I meant.
So that night
in desperation
we found each other.
And the void
stood down
in the face
of friendship.

Seeing as how every moron on this hinterweeb loves to rhyme i figured i'd try to fit in:

For Want of a Poem

For want of a pen,
the whole poem was lost.
Lacking in dreams

despairingly cost
Artistic intent,

the first to get tossed.
Give up on life,
go out and get sauced

amidst the frenzied feet
and the shuffling beat of
rising, rising action.
in a modern Dionysic
techno
trance.

in a singular upheaval
of urban apathy, we’ve
abstained from will
to power the mill
s of production.

grinding time
‘twixt the gears,
here each tooth
a separate year
clocked

between our
generations.

----------------------------------------------------
If i see any comments about punctuation errors or "odd" capitalization, i might go home to a bubble bath, some jamieson and a unopened pack of sterilized (<- why?, might i suggest mommy again?) straight razors. It must be opposite day again because it’s you who're all too stupid to live.

Sometimes i get to thinking it's all my mom's fault and then i realize, that i'm just a twitchy fuck.

Le Sein

My mom keeps her
spare left tit
in a shoebox
on the highest shelf
of the walk-in closet
in the master bedroom
of the house we used to own.

I’m a little bit
worried about that tit.
You see
I won’t have the kind of access
that I’m used to.
When they move on the first of
the month
I’m afraid she’ll forget it
sitting there.
Getting dusty,
because the subsequent owners
are too disgusted with it
to move said tit.

Or just as bad,
(if she brings it)
I’ll never be able to
find it in the
triplex they’re moving
into,
and it’s not like I can just ask
her where she’s hidden it.

It’s not the first nipple
I self-consciously squeezed
or anything
(she only got
these squishy funbags
when I was fifteen or so).
It’s just that

one august evening
lounging around after
a day warm enough
to actually swim,
my mom’s left tit fell off,
and the spare nearby
just enough to spur on
a suction cup race
of busty proportions.

Two perfectly matched left tits,
leaving almost identical mucus
trails down the glass sliding doors.

So the four of us:
my father, my brother,
my sister and I,
looking guiltily onward
at the slow moving consequence
of a teenager’s instinctive reactions.

Waiting for my mother’s
distraught cry over the mess,
or the destruction of her tits
which she needed to
“feel normal”
after the amputation,

but instead she
started to laugh.

I guess you could say
it was the pitcher of sangria
that she had drank,
but maybe it has more to
do with the fact that
not even mother
can hold in a laugh
while watching two tits
molded from her own
race to the bottom of her
newly polished glass doors,
to a running commentary
by her husband and children.

That’s not the weird part,

The winters of following years,
my mom wouldn’t wear
a fake tit because of
sweaters and such, so
both tits were left to
two bored sons.

Obviously one such repetition
of the event was inevitable,

that’s not the weird part.

The weird part is that
it became our ritual,
the instant the rest of
the family was out.

My brother and I
share nothing
but this fascination
with racing facsimiles
of our own mother’s breast

Blaaaaahh

Sometimes I get
scared that
my creep sense
is dead on,
seeing as somehow
it keeps going off
when I’m alone.


------------------------- (i'm a gonna usea ds as a genre break eh?!?)

who the fuck are you?

What the Fuck is this shit?

How many times can i swear for no reason when just beginning a stupid page?, i don't know, fuck off.

Don’t start with me

Black baby bugs.

My brain fell apart
into
tiny scavenger beetles,
each carting off their
own delectable portion
of my grief.

Torrents of titillating
traumas,
torn between life
and rest:
a collaboration.