vanity

This is Sparta (but not the movie)

I didn’t meet you at a bar.
I am not your friend,
we are not comrades.

This is not a real war
and this is not my true intent,
but blinded we’ll walk a little

straighter, don’t come here.
We hate this but leave before
the song’s through.

I didn’t invite you, this
is invective with a personality.
I didn’t try it came in twitches
and in concert.

My fingers aren’t trumpets.
and the features of the sky
in no way resemble leviathan,
the priesthood or another Jesus.

This is not pick-up trucks rusted hood.
We’re talking one of those old school,
“Blockbuster” joints before boo-tied
treasure got flicked to the parade-mob,

like violent Mardi Gras, this is no
party. This is misery I swear this get’s
too ugly and raucous to pacify or
make famous and chain to a linked brand
fence for carrion devouring, sacrifice.

This is Sparta.
This is Contra,
this is Birth.

The Parenthesis Buzz

Note: Parental Advisory – Parenthesis Buzz Poetry is for the sick-minded, the low and base and sardonic and for anyone who can laugh at South Park, headlines and every other terrible truth on the Naked Lunch menu.

A poem for the movie They Live,
(and people with mildly dark senses of humour)

If you’re duplicitous and you know it, make it show.
(whips a hundred treasures out a window)

If you believe in God cover your ears.
(burns every bible ever written while
dancing hysterically and naked and mad)

This is the evolution of style into bleak satire.
(empties deadly virus into water supply)

This is Sparta. (Kicks man into well)
This is Hell. (“I am God here”)

Good morning dear! (gargles acid and spews it)

Hello Ms. Jonson lovely rose garden as always!
(stomps fellow shopper on Black Friday)

The movement will not be televised!
(entire generation misses point of The Matrix)

I love coming here to eat, so delicious!
(feeds tapeworm in jar under table)

Oh Tommy I’m so glad you found a nice girl!
(spraypaints doll hooker green for irony)

Can’t wait to stretch out and chill after a long day!
(digs own grave with breaking finger nails and all, buries self.)

Poem ends with rash series of empty threats.
(Ginger. Is. Coming.)

Ladies Man

One of the best weed highs
we ever had was around ‘95.

We just started grade 8, my younger
accomplice, who was also a come
from Newfoundland-er.

This kid was a born hustler,
a ladies’ man at 15.

He was great for shoplifting and
in general I owe all the
(extracurricular) criminal/delinquency
to be had in my
Half-assed attempt at being cool, to him.

(Sorry, no energy
for the manic
distancing tools of reforming
grace, or redemptive hindsight,
or even casual reminiscence.

And fuck all the after
school misery, too.)

There is no
Good Will Hunting to be had,
and nobody left anyone
For better things either;
he still has a way with
the ladies, even if the fates have
dulled his senses,
encouraged by all those pretty horses,
the gunmen and the lever,
the stirred-up and the Hammer,
an anvil and a believer.

“You hit on the run,
The run hits back on you.”

That kind of hyperbolic
hyper real meta-
Monster ego destruction

of the Roman persuasion;

the kicking of
men and women into eternal fall,
the removing of hope,
the unadulterated slaughter of it,
time.

Anyway we used to smoke this stuff
up by Cherry Tree Island
(a Portuguese guys backyard
we had assumed as ours),

And one spring, a principal of a near-by
school came up and started giving us
Shit, and I (brave because I was moving
across town and this asshole didn’t
know me from Job) told him a slew
of inventive ways to get fucked, and we
darted across fences faster than he could
flair about in the loneliness of useless
threats; he didn’t fucking know us.

Fuck him.

Those early highs were so liberating
I felt like god whenever I got a few
puffs into the night. We would gorge
on Frosted Flakes and fits of near-fatal
laughing forever, make fun of his retarded
family with their accents so much stronger than
ours, and which we’d never have again the same.

Our unique speech already
like clippings of hair on a barbers floor,
got devoured by the
clean, close shaven-ness of,

The Mainland Dialect.

Stupid Questions

What Do You Do?

I write.
Usually, at night I

rebuild streets
to Miles Davis symphonies

I erect a hundred effigies to city lights
fill dozens of chalices, full.

Oh no I mean,
what do you do so
that society doesn’t
do away with you,
call you scab or fleck,
fuck you from existence
on any given/slow motion
night?

Simple,
I find new things to write about.

I practice my funeral pyre
To the trepidations of horn
and hammer.

But don’t you need something
More?

I have the absinthe nightmare
of my adolescent hi jinx.

I replay my stupendous pride.
Internally, at my soulful cine-plex.

I sneeze and Greece eases into the ocean
a little further, I shit and LA loses a mile

of shoreline,
I trip, and dynasties lay to ruin, smoulder.

What about security, how do you sleep?

Like Kubla Khan meets Mario Bros.
With a slice of Fincher and Lynch.

I sleep between scenes, in a pinch in a ditch,
always the same; another watcher, another eye.

Dreams?

The epic fallout of our time.

Hopes?

To live long enough to see it all fall apart.
And write the first post-apocalyptic poems.

Sekura Street Crescent

The kid who always stood there like our
little sub divisions oracle, our quest giver.

Our helper.

If he needed to know something a price came.
Where his asthmatic sister was, what time it was,
whatever it was.

We made him take out his glass eye,
and show us it too.

It always made me sad that he would do it

but I was too devastatingly fascinated
each time, to look away.

His house was beautiful in the sun
but when the willow out front

took it into mid day shade,
something sinister crept over it.

His mother always cooked Baklava
which for years I associated every
time I read the word Balaclava,
and thus the food seemed illicit,
somehow terrorist.

As foreign as
that little marble
in his head.

Time Storm

For C-

When I was young I believed in everything.
Angels and demons and everything in between.

I believed I would be a legend,
I believed I was chosen for a spell.

Music made love to the frozen neurons and
I even dreamt of super-powers like invisibility.

It got pretty complex, pretty distinct.
A perfect world.

For awhile I dug serial killers.
I’m not ashamed to admit it.
The paperbacks stacked around my room.

I had a mattress back then,
even the frame of a bed was
too constricting too much like the construct
I was so fucking cliché but it felt real, so eat it.

I can get a little obscene.
No show is too small though,
I’ll perform at your bah mitzvah or your
divorce party.

Even if you’re a forgotten celebrity.

I had one of those IBM processors
from the late 80’s
with the interchangeable font-balls?
(I remember seeing them in Kids in the Hall skits)

Fuck I loved that beast. Huge. You could’ve
written a murder mystery or committed one with it.
Both, even.

It whirred like a car, kept a steady engine like hum.
You missed it later if it wasn’t there.
When the ribbons finally died, it was useless.

I kept the fonts for years. They gave me something to stare at,
and before I lost them and before the ink dried up
And they stopped making new ones that size because

technology, let’s face it, doesn’t give a fuck
for sentimentality or its rituals, long before;
they’d given me some of my first great lines.

And they were all clichés too, but fuck it,
they were necessary keys stamped out in the
backyard of now.

My closet tomb keeps them until the wine
one night lets them all speak again.

Know what?
They’re not all terrible.

Friday Night Prophecy

Nothing major to report.

Fell in love on 70 percent of my bus rides this week.

Not a bad week at all.

Listened to Betty Davis every morning,

“They Say I’m Different”

(Song/Album)

The funky ex wife of Miles.

I listened to my other (equally)

crazy writer-friends mix.

It has some great shit.

Some new shit.

Some old shit.

The song from Ghost.

Bohemian Rhapsody.

I can dig it all.

I stuck on this track Paper Planes.

It uses gunshots and

cash registers as instruments.

It’s so catchy. Almost

as real as Moby can make

a moment.

The major love was on screen though,

She was in this crazy German-Turkish

film called Head-On!

She called on these three drunk men

that had cat called her in the narrow,

alley like streets of late night Istanbul.

It was her breaking point in the film.

“Go fuck yourselves.”

Then she charges as the one smoking Turk.

In his jumpsuit, he looks tough

And greasy at once, but

She head butts him quick

like a character in Street Fighter.

They rough her up a bit

and start to walk away.

She curses their mothers,

Which is enough to turn a friendly

Woman beating to a full on fuck you up fest,

apparently.

They kick her hard.

Real  old world beat down.

She still curses them a third time,

until they finally stabbed her.

And she Still doesn’t die.

Not the kind of girl you see fixing

her hair pretentiously in her

overly large cell phone screen

at 9am.

Nope.

This was my kind of hero.

Hard like Betty Davis.

Bleeding with history the same way.

Just given back the right to speak,

and singing indecently well, already.

Nothing much more to report, really.

Might have dreamt of Robin

Hooding the Oscars.

Like in the Disney cartoon

movie, with the arrow

used as a crude clothes line for orphan

fox booties filled with

gold coins.

I had a huge child crush

on the maid Marion fox.

Not the kind you meet on the bus, either.

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.

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