Drug Literature

Seeing Permanent Red

They say us red heads have
tempers like East Coast weather
unpredictable and vicious.

I would argue this point but
it would only send me into
another full blown raging whirl wind.

I turn into a Snickers-less Joe Pesci.
I become Oppenheimer.

Without a moment’s notice.
Even my Jekyll is more like
most people’s Hyde.

Today when I could not find my hat
I felt like I needed it
like some average Junky,
then the more I couldn’t find it,
the more I became Herbert Hunke.

Suddenly I was a barrel short
of 12 angry monkey’s.

I miss a bus and start mumbling
to my room:

“How in the history
of all the holiest fucks
of fucking fuckers
have I lost this goddamn hat
when I have yet to leave the
house today?”

The theories get elaborate, fast.
Some kind of starving, stray
micro-goat-like creature
which normally subsists off odd socks
has not found one lately and has
decided to get brazen.

I must still be wearing it I say,
and pat my red, slowly
sweat-gathering
heavy hair.
Nope.

I check the legs of jeans
startling my bed’s frame
like crusty farmer clothes on
rickety, birch fences.

My inner Shining
declares that
Genes got me here
to begin with.

I go to punch air
and I hit the corner of my door
gashing open my hand,
now I’m bleeding and
cursing and mumbling and
tossing clothes around
like a baglady at the last
Sally Ann sale of the Earth
positive that any second I will
start to shit out everything
I have ever lost
and that’s a lot, a lot, a lot of shit.

By the time I give up and
put my hoody on
I’ve missed another bus
I’ve screamed in italic’s of cuss
I’ve prayed like a desperate Catholic
to a Mexican pick up truck’s Jesus-rust.

Curse this temper of mine.
All it was ever good for
were broken Super Nintendo controllers
dry wall craters covered in NIN posters
and a good post-meltdown chuckle
like the one just now,
while writing this poem.

Maybe that’s enough.

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It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

Swigging, the Light Fantastic

Give me one more big fucking swig.

I want to leap out of a window some days.
It is nothing special.
I am not infected with anything,
it is just the slow drawl of truth,
giving you what for,
while you wash the whole
floor of the library, with your eye.

I want to creep into the auditorium
and rip out all the seats
and force everyone to dance
at every event
even dog shows
even hockey
even pope visits
and especially pope visits,
but crunking, all of us, dry humping
to his slicked back religioso.

I want to sing in the basement of the madhouse
with my headphones duck taped to my ears
so they can never break me out of my routine,
not easily, you’ll never take me
from my own mad shuffle,
without a fight,
without some scratching,

and some twitching,
and some devil tongue,
and some downright tongue.

I want to eat all of the spirit.
I want to fuck on tombstones and in catacombs.
I want to piss my name in the snow of your culture.

I will be the prisoner out in the yard,
collecting rocks,
making a crude chess set,
trying to learn a new way to say fate,
producing a work that is
half scream,
half tune.

Give me one big swig,
and you can have me
for another day here.
I will close the window,
quit the dance and find
my own way home.

Just give me that bottle.
Give me five minutes of your time.
Give me your first born.
Give me your Jack and
I’ll give you my Queen.

I still have the black one
up my sleeve for later anyway.

Give up already,
we’re already 9 floors down,
and 18 more to go.

Get ready for the finish,
it has nothing to do with circularity.

I wanted to give you one last
echo is all.

Is that not what you longed
for from them all?

Just one reverberating kiss
to guide your final ascent?

Or would you like to come along,
have some fun beneath?

It is not

for KW

It is not for you, it is for me
to walk the streets at all hours still
and sing a little, maybe a dance move or too even
if I feel especially on the end of it all,
I’ll weep uncontrollably.

It is just when I am off the stuff for “a few”,
even text the old Argentine “Yeah no drink till June”
that he’ll get a dozen garbled after-texts
which barely make any sense at all.

Well, if they were from anyone
but me,
that is.

It is not you kicking cop cars and slipping them the finger
before running. Unless you’re one of my cohorts.
In which case you’re likely also wielding a trumpet,
the car is likely on fire, the police are likely, confused and
powerless.

I thought of him the other night
when CTV National exposed some random stories,
one where a rape chant originated at my old University.

One about a strange incident in Parry Sound,
in which dozens of Garden Gnomes,
stolen over a period of time, or was it one night?

Who can be sure, they were all lined up in a parking lot,
though
that much is for sure, all in rows, neat and uniform
and giddy and frolicking

like they didn’t give a fuck,
like nobody had abducted them at all,
like, well, foolish garden Gnomes look,
is all.

It reminded me of the great Gnome slaughter of ’98.
I wish I could remember it.
Like King and Salem’s Lot,
some of the demons are yours but
you can never get un-got.

It is not me I seek in the mad ones I have
followed, like weird news-reel made real,
it is within me, that I hope to share even a shard
of them, like a Skesis trying to get a Gelfling,
in Dark Crystal, to sell him some
more soul.

Some more time, to live in digital youth.
Let’s dance tonight, on the old downtown roof.
The one from the past, all sticky with truth.
I’ve got a story for you, that nobody else will
get but you, & just have
to hear what happened next.

I’ve got a story and
it is not
for anyone else.

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.

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining, show me the glint of light on broken glass” – Anton Chekhov

Chekhov wants the glint does he?
I’ll give him something to talk about.
They were beautiful and terrible girls.
“We’re from fucking Montreal man-”
I heard them telling some meat head outside,
and I just had to call back
“Hey, I was born in Montreal!”

Because exotic dancers have always
been fascinating to me and
in my darker moments back then I called
them strippers like everyone else
because I loved certain poets enough to
risk alienation by the crowd at Starbucks,
and because above all else I lived for story,
and story was always about the details.

The ring-leader was leathery in face,
haggard old mop hair held back in a
fraying scrunchy that I can still see, slowly removed,
back at the castle of other dancers who all slept.
This was after the after hour club I went to with them,
like some proud puppy eyed kid, the other meat heads
all staring at us, eating my face with their eyes,
quick as the blow went up noses in every stall.

We ditched a couple other meat heads that
wanted her and the hot one to go back to a motel,
but wouldn’t let me come. I realized I was a feeler.
A tool to see if creeps were to be trusted or avoided.

We cabbed to their secret lair, where no men were
allowed to tread. We crept up a winding staircase,
dawn starting to stain our shadows, the older one
shushing me, the young one smiling at me and saying
things to the leathery one I couldn’t understand on
my mere catholic grade school, non-street French.

There was some sort of comfort knowing I made it
back to the inner sanctum, after all was said and done,
and all the shit was gone and the road rocket slammed,
I sat on the toilet as the steam removed her from my view.

She wouldn’t let me alone, naturally, with the blonde,
and this meant I was sitting on a toilet that faced a mirror
watching the leathery girl as she tried to talk to me and
then in French occasionally to herself, which was the best
thing really, I had heard in a long time. I grabbed a chunk
off the top of a nearby empty case of 24 beer and I jotted
a few deets from the night, and I bet its kicking around in my drawer
with all the other sacred artefacts.

When it was time for me to go she pulled out her
deodorant stick and uncapped it revealing a tight
wad of money instead, and gave me cab fair, and
more or less assured in me, as I know still to this day,
that people are all just looking for someone they can hang out
with, safely. That we are all pretty decent. Even the leathery ones.

But meat heads should never be trusted.

Typical “Nirvana” Inspired Poem

Someone sang it once and they were right
“I only have to do it”
and I was a little fucker back then
when I heard it and I thought it meant
I was meant
for more than what
men are usually meant for.

Someone picked up a brick and
dipped it in cow shit and threw it
through my dreams later
that summer
and it didn’t matter any more.

Someone went away and
now the songs are even worse.

Anyway, I say this only now to you
because for one, I wanted to know you loved me
enough to follow me down here,
and two because you are just another
character who will either be
or not be
fifth business of me,
oh me, oh me, indeed.

I Drank the Kool-Aid Just to Fuck With Them

The whirlpool of the internet
churns out its daily pantomimic
consideration to the better vibration
of Miles’ Silent Way I’m back on his
planet again. I am free from the heady turmoil.
light extends from a skull in some cave
of some forgettable asshole who was
either too afraid or brave enough
to cut his arm off a’ la 127 Hours,

Yes! But, we can take solace in knowing
with every one that cannot, dozens more
one day will be, and will Will their being,
into better positions. It can seem cold to see
it all in such mathematically romantic symmetry,
or it can be the single meme of peace to
reverberate for a minute before being
comment ripped to pieces in caplock
der-der-der’s all the way through Sunday.

The wave of hate that churns out one Hitler
Meme after another churns out more truth
some days than the national news media
summons in a season. The layer upon layer
of new and inventive ways of rubbing the
shit of Monsanto into people’s unknowing
faces and the rapid spitfire insurgency of
Alex Jones para(noia)phernalia alongside
pictures of blue skies and white lines, it all
fuses into one collective kerfuffle and like
deadly unpopped kernal to the proverbial
mouth, shatters the only thing keeping us whole.

It all builds in crescendos, and fills the division
between the real and the believed and the disbelievers,
if anything, further adding to the Conspiracy Theory
and others of the franchise, so now
Thomas Pynchon may just as well be writing for
National Geographic and American Scientific
and that dirty, word hungry Popular
Mechanic, well he just keeps drinking and
clicking and re-posting the night away,
by most readily definition,a purists and divine WASTE.

WASTE- We Await Silent Tristero’s Escape

“Fucking Rimbaud!”

You decided nothing was sacred?
And we stayed all night and chalked
lines of poetry all over the city walls?
Do you remember?

The gorge we jumped into
And how water shot into my ass and had
me crippled for like a week and we laughed?

You screamed “fucking Rimbaud buddy!”
as I leapt off, and that was hilarious on its own,

(I’d rented the VHS copy from Videoscene in
Preston heights and decided I would be a poet.)

We had our crow bars in station wagons at the
junkyard so we would always find them,
and dance around smashing windows like
“The Mask” or “The Joker” just casually
mocking the possibility of our detection.

(I secretly always wanted to be chased by
A dog named Chopper I think, it was my
fave part of the best movie I had ever seen.)

I keep them all in my drawer, these snippets-

It might not be Ray Bradbury Theater,
but it’s a start. Now, let’s go make some more magic.

Must Be Nice

Enough?

I Don’t Understand This,
you say, you’ve had enough?
Of the stuff?

I’ve never heard of this “too much”.
It sounds pretty fucked.
Like, why would you be at in the
first place if you could’ve said no to start?

Like, how you gonna shit on addicts
when you can’t experience that your
self. Like, how many rejects you

think it takes, to get a Hunter Thompson
or an Irvine Welsh?

It takes millions to produce nation
and one mutant to tell them all
“Go to Fuck”

It’s like a feeling of satisfaction
you say, and I would love
to empathize
but I’ve done, would do
anything in a bag
any size
any way any time
when I was laid back
in the dark of that shine.
That “Mine.Mine.Mine.”

What the FUCK is enough?
Never had it,
Not one time.

But you enjoy the comfort,
That shit sounds divine.