Month: August 2013

My Own Private Iola

I will stop
thinking about you
in your doc martens
and your blue bomber
in 1997,

when something comes down
with a monkey wrench
from heaven

and beats it all
out of me
for good.

For good, the bad
go hungrier for
longer than any of the
God-mammals could
ever last for.

Up our Jerusalem sleeves,
we set the records to skip
back, to the same spot
dropping the needle
again and again
into a bucket of silence.

I can’t get out of the
meta-universe
she is a pleasure to have
as a curse.

Put the posters back up,
get me a job at some
fast death food market

and eat my fingers
out from under themselves
every night, in-between
chapters like the very
Spy vs Spy that first
entertained me

more than the central prose,
the para-text is a devious,
blazing star you cannot

scrape off like gum
on your spokes,
you cannot eliminate like
Constantine blood on your Keds.

This is the ugliest in a set of three poems,
these are the stones thrown at the stoned.

You are my first fist,
clutching my first page.

Crumpling up the demons,
wrapping up our moments,
it is like getting ready
for X-mas in Hell.

But it is still better than
letting go, completely
of that story.

All I have is the bitterness of the pill.

&
Chapter, side verse
the GCI trian bridge
and worse

the fact I re-crossed
it dressed
for a coke hearse

what is worse?
being willing
or dying first?

before real ceiling
I want the horn
the night I go,
in my cheap bed,
I insist
I want,
to go hard.

I have lived in a screen,
and called in an interface
but I wont

call
an easy game
if it
comes down to it

I do not consent,
to be filmed, for the purposes,
of this commercial.

I’m just fine
purposely bumping
elbows ill never have
to see again

I’m better off in resistance
Ive merit
and still, like Rimbaud,
sarcastic

and the real definition
of sun kist
cynicism

and you have little, but
the choices
of listen
or denounce
him

I never wanted
a fucking thing
and piracy and
cheap drugs gave
me all of it
and I still own it

every night I write
of the hy

jinx
I know

makes me less and less
the cursed gambler
yes,

its true
all the men you knew
were dealers
but I am
after seeing, through

being the repetitive
mimicry toy
for anyone

I spent my whole life
saying “nah nah nhah nah ”
and yr here

I am
holding if ever tangentially
to the thread

of white
silk
and I burn
it

eventually we all

I burn it all
don’t you fool me leper I know you,
cheetah

I know you red

held over at the wheel,
I know the bodies
you’d
a sewn

and I respect you
even if nobody else does,
I respect you at the

End of the Night
I Respect You Vickers
you still wear shit from
like 1997 and shit
and youd still be wearing it all
if you could

you were a non-compliant
soldier or worker
on each side

because honestly dude,
you just wanted to write
you were a cunt
a dick a douche
and a spastic asshole

and yet still my friends,
this man here?

Was one of us,
pure and simple,
we can no longer
handle

such obsolescent hi ways,

he worships good. .
he’s on our side,
aaaaanyway.

I hearby
confess everything you got
and then some.

And I have for years
harbored my own spoilers.

I am a self.
But that is some
heavy fucking shit.

Right here.
Right from the lamp.

Missing Page from The Book of Love

You can make yourself
comfortable being
all manner of monster
to other men

and in the end,
past the fence
of slashed flesh and
heaped sorrow’s,

passed vats of tears
and blood shed

you can love yourself
and even,
somehow,
have learned
to love those
who managed
your hate
to begin with;

“man is a wolf to men”

and the wolf has
integrity where most
men merely mask it,

make a morose show of it
make it look like a book

you can paint
any colour,
your life
that is-

make it shine
and don’t despair.

The real monsters aren’t out there.

They’re in here,
my boy! Not outside!
They’re in here!

Burning to Matter

The easy thing to say has always
made me want to eat acid,
but, like, not the fun kind,
like the deadly-burn-yr-belly-like-Alien, kind.

But I would rather burn
than be burned.

I will be alive when you bury me, there still
when they scatter me back,
and I will be there,
there,
when all the easy things
have had their cheap dance,

to mean something,
is to outlast everything loud
and proud
and pomp.

Easy goes out the door,
when time stretches the canvas out,
large.

Love Letters from The Heat

    Dear internet, fuck you.
    When I think of all the time
    I couldve much better spent
    eating my own feces,
    or destroying an ant hill,
    or bleeding to death under the stars,

    it makes me so mad,
    I could sky dive without a proper pack,
    or devour fire ants through a sive,
    or chuckle to death in some wild drug fit.

    Dear internet anything is better than
    getting a high score,
    on a face book game,
    and auto-inviting and auto-annoying
    a dozen or so friends afterward.

    Makes me feel like
    spitting blood while casting a shadow,
    and humming the Blade Runner theme,
    while walking into a plate of glass, into a
    vat of beer and dying, drunk,
    cursing you in every language, like
    Neo with the drunk kick boxing, like
    it was downloaded into me,
    some sort of Pulse-like demon,
    internet- fuck you – I’m going back
    to the movies
    and a comic book or two.

    Dear internet, how about another drink.
    I left my keys in your sink the
    dinner is on the table, just as well…

    let’s spend the night together
    fuck it.
    There is nobody else
    out there
    anymore
    in the streets
    its like
    Surrogates
    or worse
    The four-hundered and fifty first
    farenheit, even.

    Dear internet give me back the
    prison of my books
    and give me Berlin bricks
    from shitty strip malls
    if not the garden give me the
    hose curled up and eating itself.

    Something to see outside in the day,
    give me a reason not to click
    another four hours
    on to the road
    a million dimes
    for stories could
    be sold.

    Give me a hitch-itchy finger
    that dissolves in the mousey mess
    like salt
    dropped
    into it,

    Let me have the keys I am leaving you.
    Let me have the keys I am stealing
    away from you.

    I want all my empty eyes back
    I want my friend to come and pick me up
    I want to go home
    internet,

    you’ve got me all Hurly Burly
    in my morning pants
    you’ve got me scurvy
    carpal tunnel and a handful
    of other surf related diseases.

    I might have gone on to be somebody.

    I might have gotten out of this backseat.

    I was in many rooms,
    and there were teachers and
    counsellors
    and even some lovers
    and the rain
    and the kisses
    they were suits
    I wore.

    I was good.

    I was always good, trying to be better.

    Internet, give back Cobain’s diary,
    at least the stuff about his divided life,
    the one of books and thoughts and the one TV brought.

    Internet, get off my back.
    I’m going home with Anna Karenina tonight,
    and you should be jealous.

    Read and weep.

    Read, and Weep.

People,

-they have all these ideas
about love

all I think of as love
is people,

dancing first, alone
and in awe, perfectly
then stumbling into

a hall with another million
dancers,

and getting jumbled in each others styles
creating some sort of raucous rave.

When I think of love
I think of the dancers,
all their different moves:

the common trends,
the unique once-in-a whiles,
who go like Bob Marley
did on stage.

Like an oracle,
living myth,

and maybe kissing
my first love in the rain
and maybe some of the other

stuff that
came in the
rain as well,

while a fox watched us.

I caught him catching us
and that’s what love seems
to be to me now.

The coveting of that moment
over all others heard and having
been sung about
and filmed

and sewn and scratched,
cheap scars
and I don’t want to
belabor a poem

it’s little Witness
and I’m not going to even give it
a reference

except sex in the water
from The Crush
because that’s irresistible if
anything is.

Waitress One

She smiles like Sissy Spacek
there is no denying it
if you’re me, and weaned
on the media teat
well into adolescence, past
video games (first era Nintendo)
and well into Kerouac
then you can’t help but meet
every lovely thing in life
with a filmic grin.

Welcome to my Meta-Existenz.

Will you be my Sarah Polley?
My Bridget Fonda ala
Point of No Return?

Awake

It’s around this time at 5:30 am
that many things happen
I get off work at 3 am
so I’m privy to it all

the high rollers are getting
to the bottom of their baggys
and the seagulls are waking up hungry
like a Patti Smith record
and I’m easy into my 5th pint and
the sweat will flow tomorrow
like grains of eager rice from me
but at least I have Sunday off
to type and transcribe and soak and rinse
and all the people I spoke to tonight smiled at me.

Because the good thing about life is how we can work together.
It really is that simple.
The rain is hitting black cement
like chunks of flour thrown down by
the angry gambling, coke high gods above us.
Like hot water to a stainless skillet.
It dances and looks like cheap cgi.
It is a sheet in the wind three miles up
the Southern shore from Sin Jawns.

Then I’m on the Procal Harem
is there any but one song?
and I’m back in Bramalea at 8
I’m with Miles Davis in the shitty kingdom
and I’m friends with him
I’m sensitive
to everything
from the start and
I still am
on my best days.

Promises, Promise.

I am going to be a published author in two years.
I will not forget any of you.
In fact, you are the first business,

I’m always the fourth at least
likely take the fifth, not of vodka
that makes me sick,

maybe some absinthe
for my conscience,
once in awhile a solvent,
is a convent, perhaps.

And What About the Ones from The Island?

for M.L.Dawe and the gang

I mean I can sit back
for the rest of my days
and look through
a flittering landscape

a rolodex in my heart
of moments with these
absolute angels and

I can honestly,
without
hesitating for
so much as a nano declare
there have been
some truly amazing smiles,

like, the kind where you
just see their childhood
beaming out at you,

some sort of lighthouse
laugh-line-coastal curve.

You know that person
intimately, the first time
you speak,

and the only joy that
replaces it is every next
one after it.

The kind that opens
your soul like the little
cupboard in that movie
about the tiny Indian.

The kind you catch
riding through the wind
with that smile,
time and time again,
on an old schwin or

a Harley or just jogging,
just out to run through life,
like we all should-

like we are lucky to have it.

Yes, she is certainly one of those.

But it was the smile,
it was a fresh orange crisply
spreading a sweet scent over
your whole day.

It’s a thing about the ones from down here
in the East.

They all smile like it still means something.

Like it is innately connected
to survival and to
the nuance of each community.

Like the day depended on it.
That’s how they smiled at me,

like angels who knew the trick
of staying human amidst any,
and all conditions.

Like legends.
Like friends.

– Love,
the Ginj.