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.


anything but please

How we have moved from the connections we had as children, the blur of adolescence and the sudden skip to what we find ourselves to be, smarts of a certain rushed wet towel to the thigh. The borrowed moments and faint memories of who we used to know and who we used to play with still matter, don’t they? I cannot really communicate and correspond with your receptors, I cannot really fathom how we are so different and yet so alike in our pure youth; the youngness we share. So brand new and naked with emotion we make our way through the lives of others - becoming one of our own briefly and then closing or letting go of a period of time, which lasted while it lasted and you knew it while you knew it. We move from childsplay to what seems less like it, only shifting importance from running races and crafting art and long grassy sweaty days filled with scabs, but really we keep these things, I think. The ones we mingle with, the little people we were, are the little people we are now and will forever be; when you take off the layer of preconception you coat your eyes with every day.

Could it be that the little child you once were is still there at night, in your most private moments, when you are making up conversations in your head and writing letters which you will never give to the people who you so desperately want to straighten out? The idiosyncrasies you find within you and craft from without you when small and yelling at another small person could be exactly the same 30 years from that time, when you find yourself making friends in some adequately guised adult gathering of equal and alike nature to that of a playground. We look up to these figures who have been here for longer than us, mimic their traits and habits, which have come from a time romantic and unfamiliar and for which we yearn, as it seems filled with so much more purpose and meaning than the time we are living in now. We give anything to identify, as all generations have unsuccessfully given up their time and effort to become what they hope for to be better and more important. The focus shifts, but always the behavior reeks of that same empty pursuit for the thing which will give me the meaning I want for myself. A generation after all the prudish structures of old capitalist white people have been abolished, flounders like a 13 year old girl with nothing to lose, because we see that the structures which our parents held dear were simply the creations of childish fears and inadequacies and the everlasting search for security.

I write as if what I say is somehow important, when really I only want to know more. I want to know more of myself and the world, but in moments like these I know I will never know the world unless I understand my backyard, understanding the significance of scattered playthings and wetcold bathing suits which make up a universal childhood. It does not matter where you spent your first years, in what language or with which parents, for we are all here, now, breathing still and mourning for those who may no longer breathe the life everyone shares, mourning the pieces of ourselves lost to each other at the hands of pain and fear. Sadly, when one comes to simplify everything, all the daily activities we have erected in order to “simplify” our societies lose any allure. I feel like a wet slug, carting my weight from day to day, waiting to finally reach that place where I may shed my slime and climb on that fucking bicycle and ride far far away, towards a promising horizon. Making for myself a life which I want to live and which breeds new thoughts and feelings and experiences and connections, and above all, a happiness of spirit and a healthy love for that which I think is good and can be good. Yet, I am still that same child, dreaming the same dreams and creating realities within my own mind. How lovely it is to be astounded and overwhelmed in a world where everyone strives for similarity. The school teaches you to obey, because it is important to know that you are a small pawn in a very very large game of chess, but school is too afraid to teach you to be yourSelf. It feeds you a diet of cliché’s about living each day as if it were your last, which you eat and regurgitate into little smiles of happy, empty resolve. A world of Selves is by no means a safe place, I can assure you. I wish only that school teach you to be More, instead of delivering the pat on the head and the cookie in the mouth for standard achievement and excellence. If school could interest us, we might actually attend the goddamn place. We waste away our days in social gatherings void of connection or within our homes in devised distractions. But, everywhere it is so… I presume, in my self-righteous musings, about the lives of others.

We do what we think we accept until a new reality opens up, at least that is what I see around me. We pursue merriness above all endeavors. I can only hope that you really do find joy in the places you search, but I know that the joy of silence coats the bottom of the river of happiness in a deep, resounding hush. I am no one, and so are you. Looking at ourselves, we see everything as clearly as the truth of daybreak and sunset, and we know everything about ourselves and can understand the most confusing problems if only we chose to break down the barriers and break-waters we built around our sand-castle at the sea, and let the waters affirm what we already know;

we are everything at all times.