Month: February 2013

Our Affair

I have begun to refer to that period as

The Experience.

As though some distant civilization

arrived and occupied the

Neighborhoods and alleys

of my Self.

Took over the garages with massive parties that

bled into the basement.

 

And got ugly.

And did shit.

And changed.

And cleaned up.

 

And fell down laughing, and

high again.

And wrote on walls.

 

But only in chalk,

so as not to be too

assuming.

 

(But the chalk wounded the

brick just with patient abuse).

 

And they let out the patients in my madhouse, let

out the criminal and the thief and the mini-Con.

 

The soft junk.

The spiral.

 

The empty rooms turned

into impossible choreographed numbers

that can never be quite replicated.

 

Short story notes

in frost of window

the only thing left is

some kind of crude arrow.

 

The lyrics persist in the wind

The night of your birth and mine.

In a sub-state nobody will see

for another hundred years.

 

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Fish & Bicycles

VDayMoviesGroundhogDay_gallery_primarySo, rewind a few weeks, to February 2nd, Groundhog Day to be precise, and, as corny as it sounds, my family and I watched, as we do every year, the 1993 Bill Murray comedy Groundhog Day.

We’ve watched the movie many times, each time I tend to notice something I hadn’t noticed before, or a particular scene strikes me as funnier than it had before, or something like that, and this time was no different. It took me a couple of weeks to fully piece this year’s revelation together, and here it is:

    The snowball fight scene is the cinematic doppelgänger of the lobster scene from Woody Allen‘s 1977 film Annie Hall. (see the lobster scene below)

The photo shown above is from a scene where Bill Murray’s and Andie MacDowell’s characters are having a magical moment. Murray’s Phil has been harnessing his experience of reliving the…

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Hero Retardant

If you want you can have it but it gets hazy mid-way thru.

My behaviour is unfit for anyone expecting to run for office.

My social-carbon-retro-hetero record is marred.

Now I’ll never be married.

I just May have invited a new style,

but you’ll be damned if

you’ll get

your hands on it.

You can’t get in here without a pass.

The pathology needs one part meltdown,

a sliver of suicide tendinitis,

(acts up)

on you when you practice the art of

dancing without the crowd,

within them, around them, then thru.

All you want is them and all they want is you,

you and you

don’t seem to pay any more attention

and more; no more.

I picked up a few ya basta’s.

A few tickets got pirated and ticket masters

rightly shaven left from the Right

downloaded, at the right

time, uploaded in the right hand.

All you want is money,

we’re flipping switches on.

So the dance can keep,

the dancer keeps watch.

Keep the joints ready on a mat

in rooms like quiet, praying Muslim.

Hindsight Bias?

You’ll think you saw that coming.

S. Heffernan

My childhood went by

like a toy pushed down a long

hallway, set fire, bouncing on the

walls.

I escaped time through

‘a long, prolonged’

exposure to gamma.

And radio.

And hamstring strung up

to drain of fluids, like a butcher,

with those first lines.

Pool hall jukebox and foose ball pothead early teens.

Long before Kerouac or anyone else infested my dreams.

I found delight in my own nature first.

You can learn the only thing you need

to from a swimming whole or a junk yard,

and a few good friends.

(Cue, TheWonder Years Theme)

I don’t believe in being imagistic though.

I washed my hands of all the splices from

Ads and other suggestive thighs, crossed into my own

recollection, my calm, cool predilection

for hosting my own awkward, crazy

unrehearsed audition, (in the middle of dawn

quiet streets, walking home from another night

high on…

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Cheers!

(Music is Recompense, Airplanes take down)

If I haven’t been writing much it’s because I’ve been scrawling an essay.

If I don’t write it’s because I’m writing.

If not, then I’m dying.

These are the frenetic axioms of my starship enterprise,

of my fucking life.

Put that on a t-shirt and leave me be, I need

time each morning with a soundtrack and a

few rehearsed scenes.

Sometimes I do a yuk yuks rehearsal of the great highlights

of my manic youth.

Other times just play Free Bird and belt it out,

sometimes sit and listen to Righteous Brothers on repeat

until all I can picture are the millions of crimes being committed on

people, across the globe, all the time,

in garages and basements, in broad

daylight, to Beethoven and ICP, at sporting events in the stomach,

the back side in prisons, all the rampant fuck on fuck-you action

that is this existence. Then I laugh.

I know it sounds sadistic but I think I’m just coping;

With having been raised getting lost amidst

the bar stools of Cheers and laughing with its live,

studio audience.

Falling in tv-love with Diane, my first experience with

an artsy type. And Ms. Howe.

People are so mean to Kirsty Alley. Assholes.

When I was 12 I wrote a short story about a virtuous lover

of the show who rebuilt the set and kidnapped the cast,

keeping the drinks and laughs going on some underground network.
I was coping with the series finale I guess. Parents divorced.

But who gives a shit the important thing is,

I was writing then,

and I still am now.

We’re all pills, breaking up in the systems stomach like

so much teenage pop music, soothing the acceptance rate of

young workers to the reality they will just be another one,

swallowed whole, in the end.

Cheers, motherfuckers.

Enjoy the show.

I wanna get high with the common people, and dream like Bunuel

My childhood went by

like a toy pushed down a long

hallway, set fire, bouncing on the

walls.

I escaped time through

‘a long, prolonged’

exposure to gamma.

And radio.

And hamstring strung up

to drain of fluids, like a butcher,

with those first lines.

Pool hall jukebox and foose ball pothead early teens.

Long before Kerouac or anyone else infested my dreams.

I found delight in my own nature first.

You can learn the only thing you need

to from a swimming whole or a junk yard,

and a few good friends.

(Cue, The Wonder Years Theme)

I don’t believe in being imagistic though.

I washed my hands of all the splices from

Ads and other suggestive thighs, crossed into my own

recollection, my calm, cool predilection

for hosting my own awkward, crazy

unrehearsed audition, (in the middle of dawn

quiet streets, walking home from another night

high on the circumstances of my own fate,

my own perceived destiny;

to outdo every writer junk head

since and including Hunke,

and with style, old Bull Lee.

(“With fucking crystal, a ball,

and the Bladerunner Soundtrack on fucking bust.”)

I don’t deny I have Eyes,

but my mind has the filter in place

that keeps it all in perspective.

I will not let anything disrupt the narrative

that gets me where I need to be again.

The more vampires who get fucked over the better.

This world needs more real heroes

and fewer celebrity cameos.

The photo op can’t cure or

absolve the cause, when the other hand just

refills the charity quota.

But I got over it.

And will again, and again,

And again,

I still have toys to play with.

I will film you a million reasons to keep reading

my shitty subversive versified kisses.

I will.

Excuse me while I set them on fire to Carmina Burana for a decade.

You know. Mature, art-house stuff. Very serious stuff.

Excuse me while I set my dead leaves in fire, dance around

Half naked, half crazy, half brilliant,

half Ontarian half Newfoundlander,

running in sometimes a literal,

others a figurative,

(but godamned if he’ll be forbidden both),

Freedom Field.

Ill grow up when I’m reintegrated with the cold polluted soil of whatever place I fall.

 “I’m not a Christian, but I’m not an atheist either, I’m weary of hearing that accidental old aphorism of mine ‘I’m not an atheist, thank God’ It’s outworn. Dead leaves. In 1951, I made a small film called ‘Mexican Bus Ride,’ about a village too poor to support a church and a priest. The place was serene, because no one suffered from guilt. It’s guilt we must escape, not God.” – Luis Bunuel

S. Heffernan

People.

 

I used to deny I was special.

It made me feel so covert.

Like I was

emptying myself to play a role.

 

To be honest, I think I might have been a great actor.

Like Brando.

 

People though,

they are beautiful on their own or

from a distance.

 

The garden of tapping

Headless chickens on bus or corner or hall, though.

They make me feel I am slowly

Becoming more and more unique.

But I feel so lethargic in it… as though

 

I am a marionette made up of body parts,

all from varying ages in my part.

And my adult head is hung up by a hook,

Like something out of Hellraiser,

And I am directed to and from locations.

Hung up on this and that. A set of

tracks like a subway guiding me in predictability.

A stock character.

But at…

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S. Heffernan

Under Employable

 

 

I used to babysit my babysitters inner thigh

I used to work at being a paper boy to play at getting high,

 

I used to steal comics from the comic shop when I was under

Their emp-loy. I used to work.

 

(Now I work and write.) and write some

Fucking More.

 

Used to chop meat at

Sobeys

I used to work

at chapters

used to work Shell

on Hastings in hell

or back on d’rock

 

at Esso on Blackmarsh Road

But now I don’t!

Cause they closed that place down!

But I used to Work!

I used to get Around!

 

I used to Work!

At a factory!

As a bus boy!

and a cook!

 

Now I read and

type shit up for cash

which means im

always broke

 

but ever happy,

and always busy,

and that’s the laugh!

 

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