The Terror of Territory
I drew a circle with my piece of chalk.
And stepped inside my province.
I declared, “stay out, this space is mine”.
And everyone obliged.
Radio Static
Radio on to fill the silence
and give company on this lonely night.
Windows down, cool august air
and streetlamps blur my sight.
Your House is Not Our Home
Airways like barricades; your notes are dead to me.
A deaf ear to the nonsense bred to restrict the conscious
…just to dilute our progress.
This is a twisted war, with censored signs of conflict
This City’s Boring Without You
These streets aren’t meant for me.
Though once I thought they were
a few blocks and signs and traffic confines
simply meant to be -
But just a few.
Channel
Soon this won’t be your home
You’ll come back to appreciate the way
the light falls on the leaves
My Love
My father walks the woods
And I was plucked from my nest
And thrown into this cement, living advertisement.
I grasped at what I could
To stay above the masses,
The hollow moving city streets,
Growing, spewing, bustling,
With white canvas faces
Untitled
Eyes shoot like stars, mouths smash, cheeks bout,
tongues run along necks like deserts,
up chins like mountains,
in mouths like wells
wherein secrets burst out.
That Sugar In My Tea
You scientists of a crooked truth.
Holding all your beakers tight.
Talk of all your brewing thoughts,
Has burned, but not shed any light.
The Simple Pleasures
My faith is in that cold rush that
fills my lungs when I step outside
after a long day of inhaling
stale air
and collecting dust in my throat.
Mirror
Her face goes to waste. Hours spent in labour; painted on, layered on, such a beautiful face…
Bored
Girls with LOVE somewhere in their profile pictures
drawn in the sand
Guys and pictures of snowmobiles
Pictures of drunk
and drunk
Corporeality
A thin thought
he pulls out of air, I float
unformed and free
until his pencil hands grasp
the hope of me
Virgin
There’s a dark sense of liberation
It’s the language of angry fists
Raised in the air
It’s the language of every blood type
Pooling in the road
Python
Here on my arm
Wrapped comfortably
Constricting my wrist
So my veins bulge violently
Here on my arm
She is my beautiful…
Underneath the Shrink Wrapped Casing
You’ve marveled at Marvel since you can remember
DC Comics were popular too
the heroes, the villains
adventures by the millions
Supplement
Weezer wrote that they were Tired of Sex
I’m tired of sex as a fetish
Standing in for something else
A sick metaphor
Feed The Priests
I am surrounded by shopping bags that are not mine
And I picture my father standing outside the church door.
Feed the priests and earn your keep.
He lived in the back with my grandparents and the nuns
Until the checks came in
And the priests slowly passed away.
A Server’s Hands
buttons uniform shirt
adjusts name tag
washes nicotine scented fingers
cleans stray food stains from apron
A Dilution
In the sweetest, most grotesque of burlesque shows
Deliberate disintegration
A showcase of imagination
Sleeping Secrets
Sleeping secrets;
They dwell in my subconscious.
Harbouring consequences,
Hidden behind declarations.
Boxes and Other Uneasy Things
Boxes are piled high, to the ceiling
They’re full of things I might never use
Boxes are from grocery stores
I’m too cheap to buy them
And coincidentally, the boxes are beside the door
Innocence
All the poets are dead,
And every lover is no more;
So too the words that quills once writ
and too the words they bore.
And math and machines and technology
have invaded sombre heads…
