Wednesday, June 10, 2009


I lack creative drive.
what I say feels recycled.
like how cows re-chew their food,
what I say feels processed and flavourless.
I look at what I've written and I simply tear it apart,
I just delete, in a literal sense.
I do not see worthwhile thoughts drifting around which I can elaborate on,
and I don’t have a story.
I feel like I am unable to tap into my pool of originality.
And even that sentence disgusts me.
I am not unhappy
I am just uninspired.
In a bit of a rut.
I want to blame school.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Saturday, April 11, 2009

last night

Without thinking
We change.
Fills up the space.
Takes up the time.
Empties the mind.


look at this beautiful thing i have made for you
look at my beautiful feelings which i pour so willingly
all over your wounds
and all over your short-comings
look at what i have given
of myself for our joy so that we may be what i have always hoped
and have had, found but not

look at this foolish girl
who may have been there in the moment
when you saw yourself so
reflected in another
that you might scream and yell for the pain of loving one who is not yourself so very hated

look not at this woman because she is larger
than a house
and could never be beheld with only two eyes
but look rather at the door of this house and it's elabourite
latch and know
that you can look only through the keyhole
at what once was and may have been
because it is mine

look at my beautiful heart

Friday, April 10, 2009

when we were 16

when inspiration hits like a impatient passenger, on a sunday bus
i take him to place for us
i take him up and down this tiny town
to places far beknownst from you
i take him to my own corners of this non-Timbuktu
we sit a while and ponder things
make love on the swings
i pretend he is you, with your sandy eyes and honest mouth
hands that make me think of trees

i am not really here, you know

i am wherever you decide to go

inhale inhale inhale
on the green tin roof like my marbles in grade two
like my unfinished sentences to those who didnt hear the first
they are insistent important truth
who am i to say what i may and may not do

can i tempt you with a breast
a hidden meaning in my vest?
may you come out tonight to that bar
and dance and kiss and run to places far far far
far so far from what may lie at the end of 5 years and what we may find
amongst responsibilities written on discarded school standard lined paper.
would it all dissolve like smoke and lights and the nighttime haunts
if lit
with this lighter?

a hand sliding through clean, dark hair in the afternoon
fingers placed in summer grass
clasped around condensation on a beer glass
___________fast breathing, braced white bedding and sheets
sweat salty from roaming these streets
endless on endless days walking in my blistered feet
maybe if i lost this mile we could end up someplace
loud and ugly
and there we could sit and fall a time
pumping destruction and filth
into ourselves

finally we are no one (Aug 2008)

i rate sometimes we are just so
there are moments frozen in time, somewhere in the past, where we almost-touch-almost-touch. when i think back i see sharp lamp lights and oldfashioned lampshades and feel a breathless feeling, like after sprinting. it feels like being suspended in mid jump, with a world of possibility boiling over into now. not thinking over things to come, but playing blindman'sbluff with what we don't know. i can see the sky and the night and the streetlights through oak trees and i wonder at what it is to be so young.

sometimes we are just so close.

car parks

maybe its the wind that bothers me the most. the wind that sings of when we knew each other and when we fought to keep our heads afloat.
i've thought that the wind could purify all these sordid tresses and messes of emotions in this attic, or cellar. break all the old wine bottles and make for us a blood river in the wood. i've sat outside for years in the cold, wondering where the breeze has blown you to, and what i would say to the wind if it stopped for a moment to listen to my quarrel with it. how odd, that i could think that i may address the wind.

in warm and clammy silence i damply whisper close to you the softest of things, i want to i want to

and then i thought that if i could live by the ocean, i could meet a young wind and stop it before it ran wild with anyone's heart. maybe i could walk along the coast and search for the magic which i once found in you, and i would not have to listen to old feelings and memories, but banish them to the water's edge.
there would be seagulls and salt and solitude, i wonder if that would finally drive me past the point of no return. vast, empty days spent doubting the existence of the past, as now, here, i sit cramped up in a deep green cocoon.