Sunday, December 30, 2012

You're Not a Mess For Me




i get drunk to remember you and then i get drunk to forget you. there is no love in either state and i should put down the bottle and stay far far away from you. that girl with the guitar, the country one, she knew you were trouble when you walked in but i didn't ( well i did ) and i couldn't help but fall into your trap of comfort. but now im so uncomfortable, seriously uncomfortable. and there is no amount of drunk that could make me feel a little love because this funk is a distaste case of a mess and you are not a mess i want to get messy with. 

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Fill Me With Poison, Instead of the Likes of You


Why have you yet to bow out?
And why have I continued to let you in. These are the sick and twisted thoughts bouncing inside my head. And why is my heart not such a sunken ship, there seems to be an ocean inside my lungs that just won't sit. A fire has blazed upon my cuffs and you seem to know to put them out. And when my feet are cold from weather and not from cowardliness you seem to bring the heat. And even though there are moments of hallmark and absolute sugar it's always drenched in some sort of green, this slime that I can never be free from, a mold that knows how to turn me. I hate that part of me. The person I become. They say feelings that come back are just feelings that never went away but I'm not sure because I go through you like Kool-Aid and I'm starting to get sick of myself no longer that sugar high that once craved my mouth. Fill me with poison instead of the likes of you.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Familiar Stars and Stripes

and there was nothing to remember, nothing more to remember, just the flag that blew up in flames.
i wasn't even there, countries away, i wasn't even inside myself - far off i felt like i was drowning.
there was so inclination of hope, of restitution. there was no such things - i'm starting to believe
these things never really were on a makeshift table, ready for people to sample to savour.
there is a different kind of feeling when it happens so far, yet with the means of today,
everything is happening much closer than they appear. the emotions are high in such times.
there is a seeping stench that is wafting from where terrible things happen, and i can see
the fire that burns and the pain that was caused even from my sky, where there are no
stars and there are no stripes, there is nature and colour blocks and eventually... a
not so safe place, because evil is in the air, and no where is safe, and slowly we're all
apart of such a horrible place, a televised horror and we're waiting for a familiar face.

Beneath the Moon I Find You


There was this beautiful moment I wanted to hold but my hands were to quick and it passed me. I willed the sun to stay down while I searched the night for it but the sun triumphed the moon and made a fool of me; out on the streets, covered in glitter - bare feet. I walked the sidewalk meeting people's eyes, hoping to catch the moment resting there. I searched the sky and didn't find it there, for the clouds were slumped everywhere. Soon the sun got tired and slipped off between the mountains, the moon came out and there I saw it, not the same but just as bright, you were there beneath the moon telling me to look no further, and we began creating things anew.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Clever Carets


She wore clever carets and had a lavish diet of airfare and fizz. She wore rabbit and never mink. There was a dislocated look to how she felt about paparazzi, but loved the word in itself. There was a different kind of peculiar to her and people tried to bottle it up and sell it for decades. It was unattainable. For her passion was inconsistent and her love was off the cuff. She derailed herself when falling in love and always lost herself to a stiff drink. Her voice melodic and loopy after a glass of wine. She looked her best with tainted lips and sleepy eyes, and her hair always looked better when she didn't try.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Signs from the Pots and Pans


Flowers, stretch towards the sun.
We, curl into each other.
The hum of the refrigerator is our orchestra tonight.
Laughter on the tube, on low.
The glow has become our makeshift fireplace.
The rise and fall of your chest, matches mine.
I am warmed by you.
I am cooled by you.
The neighbors are arguing.
The smash of their pots and pans highlighting our love.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

The Hole in Your Sleeve, Keeps Me

Our coffee cups became empty but our hearts were full 
of all the stories we had just finished telling one another. 
And they punctuation of our stories were heightened by 
the flames that lit our cigarettes, and the hold on the sleeve 
of your collared shirt, allowed you to loop your thumb through. 
And it reminded me of how much closer I wanted to be. 
I wanted to curl up and stay in that hole, and feel the current 
in your veins, it would warm me. 
I didn't say any of that to you, I didn't want you to think I was a creep. 
But it wasn't until you mentioned the depth of my pockets and how 
you wouldn't mind just staying in there all day while I carried you with me. 
..i realized we were both weird and lovable and odd together..

Out of My Reality, a Literary Tragedy

This is chaos and you're not near. My body wilts like a rose trapped in snow. I think my heart has shattered. I cannot find one piece. The oceans swell is gentle but anchors pull my lungs. A storm lurks silently, I think I've lost my mind. I saw your face in the moon but the shine caused me to go momentarily blind. There was a stain on the fire hydrant outside my building, I hoped you'd gotten drunk and came to see me, left your mark. But it was my neighbors dalmatian. I like your spots, the one that nestle on your rib cage, I kissed them to connect the dots and then I'd sleep in your nook. Did I read about you in a book, you seem out of my reality, a literary tragedy.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

The Act of Being Present


The spot on the wall you keep your eyes on because if you looked away, at any moment, you could completely crumble. The state of your company in their ever-present form.They make it matter, they matter to the making. We were thrown a problem, and trouble did not scare us. The world shook us altogether but we did not waiver. Sticking together and pulling through, there is a growing amount of compassion for the genorosity that I've experienced. If I haven't told you, you ought to know. I am thankful for the way you didn't let go, and even when it appeared like we had, in times like this - there aren't appropriate words just the act of being present and the act of time cascading over us altogether.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

In Nature is Where You Will Reconnect


when places merge and you meet yourself among the grass where you didn't think to ever look, for that is what happens to the self. at times, it is too scared, of itself, to actually surrender and speak, often the self is speaking but the self isn't listening to that voice within, it is listening to the devil angel duo on their shoulders, for the outward bound voices are more intriguing, or simply just louder. there is a place, in nature, when that piece of you - the piece unheard, goes to rest. while there it wakes and is suddenly wondrous and adventurous and suddenly not so scared in their entire selfless self and there in nature is where you will reconnected with the pieces of you scattered in the fields and in the oceans and among the flowers waiting for you to notice yourself.

Friday, November 30, 2012

Time is a Postage Stamp

when the twang in someone's voice reminds you of other voices you've heard, and the light soon changes and you're searching for faces that could link to those voices but you know you'll never see them because they're long and gone. then those voices, in the seemingly quickened darkness become angry and you remember why you won't see the faces, and then you remember things have happened. things have come and things have gone. and you ask yourself why you didnt go either, why you chose to stay, and you don't recognize your own voice because you have know idea who you are for the time being.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Everything Looks Better On Fire

Landscapes burning and the buildings crumble to the ground. The fire rises into the sky with a force that swallows the sun. People fleeing with no where to go. No where suddenly becoming this landscape. Ash sprinkles the ground like a twist kind of a rain, the kind you cannot drink slowly but the kind that chokes you as it clings in between your teeth. And even from this far away, atop a soon to be dissolving mountain you can see the play dough mush of once certain things washing away into what you always feared and you will not hesitate with it's pieces but rebuild.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Rocky Coast of My Heart



jaded by the absent state of my mind I am no longer in charge of what I do. there is a face that appears in the smear of blood on the rocky coast of my heart and that face is mean, and that face is tired. I wear my pale eyes with darkness behind as if the sunglasses were created in the womb and coated with cells, the cells that puff up and down whenever my lungs decide to give my entire body a break from suffocation. the face in the roughness of my heart is much older than I appear because of it's butcher mentality - it is taken a beaten but does not render tender as you may think. the swells do not gain pleasure, do not give off passion. the pressures of this face, etched to my heart, is hardened with the experiences of the outside world. the barnacles of reality surviving off pain, there is no releasing such mutiny.

Monday, November 26, 2012

A Bulimic Idea of Keeping You Close




In a state of memorabilia I have a bulimic idea of keeping you close and purging every ounce of our togetherness. But may I state and for the record because if you don't record it there is no proof; you should keep all I've given you because it'll be cashable soon and I want to see you rise and fall. The bankruptcy of your truancy to me would be profoundly new but ultimately revolutionary. There is a different kind of treasure in a sea of dislocated feelings where telephones never ring for the lack of connection is evident. There is a deprivation of dialect that swells within the sheets of unmade beds and stained walls with all the odd shaped thoughts that keep reflecting wonderfully in my nightmares. Red lights flashing for me to stop but I'm coasting on a yellow looking to drown.


Full of It

















Eyes full of secrets.
Hips full of magic tricks.
Heart full of sorrows.
House full of demons.
Bushes full of spies.

Closets full of skeletons.
Wallet full of credit.
Arms full of uppers.
Legs full of downers.
Radio full of messages.

Telephone full of bugs.
Phonebook full of old school tricks.
Ribs full of butterflies.
Stomach full of vodka.
Shoes full of rocks

Socks full of water.
Pockets full of change.
Mouth full of weapons.
Teeth full of stains.
Car full of misbehavior.

Trunk full of misdemeanors.
Wrist full of demerits.
Shoulder full of weight.
Knees full of shakes.
Hands full of tools to take away the pain.




Thursday, November 15, 2012

Espresso Lips



the love brewed in cafes are fast and caffeinated and warmed by words and steam and there is always a frothy kind of idealistic to the kisses. there is also a delectable kind of whipped topping that goes with every blink and you can't help but want to roast in the admiration. it is fruitful and sensuous and the chattering is quiet at times and loud at others and there is always leaning, the leaning over tables and trying to speak directly into the lover's mouth as if their mocha words will respond better with the closeness of your espresso lips.

Monday, November 12, 2012

My Church is a Place Inside of You

My church was a place inside of you. I felt safe and willing to confess my stories. For they aren't sins when I am close to you but experiences. I feel you embrace my mistakes and take me in wholly and holy. You make me feel clean, even in my dirtiest moments. You rise me up. My church is a place inside of you. You have faith I can consume and I've become a believer in you as you have found strength in me. I attend your parish with intense remorse, I plead your pupils to sink my hardships and I  seek a different kind of fellowship. My church was a place inside of you. A kind of mentality I could conjure up while with you, a piece of peace that was good for me. I pray to you, to keep breathing, because without your breath I am at a loss, and I can no longer be lost because I am found within you, the church that resides within your body. I pray to keep you, I pray for residency in your temple, my intimacy. I crave your words. I crave your eternal light. I crave your touch and a place to gain strength. I pray for you to always be with me, and for me to always have the opportunity to be with you. My church is a place inside of you. I seek relief, for I am castaway searching for reverence in your speech.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

My Teeth Don't Deceive Me



Grab me by my teeth because my eyes deceive me.
I cannot conjure up the actuality of you and therefore
I want the solidness of your togetherness against my lips.
Hover there, against my teeth and let the porous parts of me see.
A different kind of pupil within the lining of my gums.
A pale pink inside of a lying crystal blue, an envious green or even dirty brow.
My eyes have clouded over and are no longer windows to inside of me.
Unless I have become to empty that there is just nothing to see.
Grab me by my teeth and shake some sense inside me.
Just a case for all the thoughts that want to leak from my eyes.
Looking at people, all I see is reflections from the sky.
I fear the monsters might not be real and the people
I'm pushing away might want to be there.
I am here with lying eyes and teeth that want to bite something real.
My eyes have deceived me and now all I've got is my teeth.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Limp Ciggs, Corporate Life

Dislocated air.
Suspended in space.
Gaps between seconds,
not sure what to call them.
Butterflies in my face,
once caterpillars in my lungs.
I've lost my keys to my diary.
I am afraid of the thoughts I've placed there.
I pry it open with a kitchen knife-
cut my finger and watch it drip.
Throw the book of secrets into the trash.
Put the can on the curb.
Secrets better out than in. 
Saw the homeless man reading it intently.
Asked him what it was all about.
He told me if was about him.
Using the "I's" for himself.
Told me these feelings were from his 
corporate life- said he wouldn't go back.
I lit his limp cigarette and sat with him on
the curb for the rest of the night, listening to him quiver at our secretly shared experiences.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Adapting to the Resetting Clock

Your clock almost resetting.
A new landscape to tackle.
Same trees, same lovers.
New leaves, new weather.
You don't feel as if they tell you because you're only a couple of days, a few hours into this new place.
Enjoying the repetition of the new age. It seems to sit well in the new mildly coy introductions you are conjuring up over the drinks you surely will clink. Mutual toasts.
The fresh air isn't new but you adapt the "new car smell" to everything.
Because you can.
It's a day of life.
A day of retelling.
A day to remember and to experience.
 You recognize the change but don't feel it's affects.
You crave cold booze.
You crave good company.
You welcome in and wave goodbye,
as if a brand new you has arrived- rather bushy tailed and wild eyed.

Hands Dirty / Shoes Taken / VCRs Running / Tongues Tied

Sometimes I get this urge to call you, but I don't know your number, but maybe I do, if you didn't change it. But what if you did, or you just don't pick up. So I never bother trying when I really feel like talking to you on the telephone. I get the spark to write out pages of lyrics to songs that remind me of you, that make me think of you. Some of these songs, you wouldn't think or image I could link to you, but I have and I want to write them out and let you know. I guess it would be easier to make you a mix tape thing. I wish I saw you more, but I then again I wish you actually saw me, that'd be nice. If you really did see. Me. I see a gap tooth or a good crack in the sidewalk and want to tell you all the wonderful things about them, the things I instantly love, but you're never there and I am always here and I can never tell you and by the time I may happen to bump into you in a crowd cafe - I won't remember and you won't really care. The change in season makes me breath fragments of you in the changing winds, hoping with each inhale I consume a tiny bit of your beauty. I miss you but I can't tell you because we say it like sorries, too often and never fulfilling and we say it as a thankyou, polite and acceptable, but never very meaningful. As if my missing you is like passing a fork. God, you're actually so beautiful but we are so toxic. The left over stardust that has made a concotion of madness and it works so well but is too stubborn to recognize it. To enjoy it, we pass like ships but never give it a go. Truthfully, I'd like to give it ago with you sometimes, with our clothes on and our minds naked. With our hands dirty and our shoes taken, with our VCRs running and our tongues tied. 

Monday, November 5, 2012

The Icing to Sink You

A concern for something much more solid and concrete. That concrete will be the icing on your cake, the icing to sink you. A cinderblock suicide, a house built around your troubles. You can shut the doors and lock the locks but you are always entrapped with the demons. They are attached to you with your prized possessions. I see their teeth glimmer in your earrings and their eyes are alive in your cherry red fingernail polish. You are never alone. Never from those that haunt you. Pretty glamor in the big box mansion. The rich do cry aloud with their pains and gluttony. Their surprised faces are of the cursed admiration they do gain from innocent bystanders.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Era of Bad Boys



The taste of disgust that gathers on my tongue as you spew your melodrama over your rather once kissable lips. The irony of your existence, if laced with actual iron would do me some good. I am lacking the vitamin but you're just a virus. You want to corrupt me. It's flattering in a poisonous way that you even try. You are intriguing, I admit, but now the palpable dirt is just a grime on a window I would rather not look out of. The chaos you perspire is undesirable even in the era of bad boys when everything bad is tempting and everything tempting gets tempted with just much admiration and filth as crime.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Love-N-Bake


Tapping on windows,
you see the lights on.
A fire roars in the kitchen.
Nose in the air, searching for yeast,
nothing homely, not even grease.
Pressed to the door,
feeling the heat.
Awaiting your arrival.
Not knowing your fast asleep.
Thought you'd make a home.
Thought you'd make a feast.
You're lying with another lover.
I set the match close to your feet.
Through the window I watch...
My love for you bake.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Liquid Tongues & Mahogany Things


You catch my attention like the lit end of a cigarette. The way you etch into the space above me, hovering there. I want to inhale you, keep you close inside of me. The quick pulsing light of your inflamed state is that of your eyes. The flash of a cat-like reflex, you have instincts that might instinct me. You are a powerful glimpse of light, slashing through my sultry night. Make believing everything I see, in the corners of this place. Whispering addiction, you are a craving I just can't kick. Liquid tongues and mahogany things, there is a different sense to you. Like a cigarette, I reach for you - you share the light, suck me in.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

HUNTRESS


The huntress locking eyes with the gentleman in the smoking jacket. 
No rifles in this forest of neon lights, boots slick with spilt drinks not mud. 
The dirt on the faces of everyone around is not a product of mother nature. 
The grime of secrets and infidetly worn like bullet links, a weapon appeal. 
The huntress looking like the prey, slinking around with all the right ammunition. 
Capturing moments with her teeth, on the rim of iced glasses. 
The potions are something sultry and pure, knocking out her smoking gentleman. 
There is absolute delight in the clutches of her hundred dollar manicured claw. 
The bait is taken, the man swoons with confidence and cockiness. 
As if  he has the upper hand when clearly she is on top here. 
The huntress loading his lip with the slick of a lipstick tube. 
The huntress tempting her own temptations with the snap of her heals. 
The huntress and the smoking jacket, forgetting the field in the dark of the night. 
The huntress comes alive in the night, with the support of the moonlight.

Take Up the Space Next to Me

The bright crisp hue of the sun on you has me enthralled with the day. There is a swiftness in your breath that puts me to rest while in your lavender embrace. And the way your body takes up the space next to me is quite respectfully appreciated. The way your voice seems like a prayer to me; won't you forgive my lack of clarity, oh the things you do to me. And the way the moonlight casts stars on your slumber puts me at ease and I don't easily sleep through a night in the city but with your warmth right there I am completely knocked out.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Diabolical Plans / Interesting Concepts

Diabolical plans and interesting concepts.
Find me a pen I am bleeding these thoughts out
of my head and I couldn't save myself If I tried, 
for the ink is running way too dry. There is a film that
has adapted to the spaces between my words.
This is where the passion blurs like tears messing up your vision.
Open wide, Sweeteyes, for there is something much
grander here than all these words and sugared lies.
I cannot persist without the tryst for you have made your bed.
Silly folk, with uncommon jokes, slowing down time. 
The decision to stay is casted away with the action of leaving.
All I can do is write about the unconscious decisions and glooming plans.
Not taking a stand because the lack of temptation has me sitting.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Gimmie Grit

What's happened here. 
We're all in a rush. 
Claiming we have somewhere to go. 
I want lightly light knooks with the best scotch. 
Forget the soda, son. I want to feel this one hit. 
Settling into the pit of my being, bring your cigarette box. 
Light me up, don't put me down, let the smoke give us an appearance. 
I want the straight shooter look with the leather taste. 
I want hotel rooms, destroying places. 
I want match book phone numbers and lipstick stains.
What's happened here.
 
Everything so polished. 
Forget the disguise. 
We want to see the good time on your clothes. 
Gimmie grit

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Certain Kind of Stillness

Wandering in and out of sleep, not because I want to but because I have to.
I must do this to myself to know that I am alive, or what I presume to be alive.
There is a certain kind of stillness in my soul that stirs me in it's minor notions and I can't take it.
The pressure is getting to me - the pressures of myself. I feel like I can't get up.
Not anymore, no more, will I force myself to get up, but then I do. I always do.
There is a stream, a stream within me, like I am a valley and there are depths.
I feel the trickle of my brain matter sludge toward the parts of me that want to 
be exposed to a different shapes and lights and different decibles of sound.
I wander in this sleepless state, floating and dirfting, there is a certainty in moving.
But then there is suddenly no where to go, no where to fall and you are at a stand still.
There is a moment that feels like an eternity, that keeps you there. Standing. Still.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Your Light Fills In


There is a short becoming in the way the light falls on your being.
It catches you, as if you were free falling, towards a pile of life. There life is gathered up real high, and you're about to make your mark. The light, it falls on your features, and captures you there, mid air and beautiful. There is a small quake as you awake and not many will feel it instantly But as you grow the tentacles of this quake will spread to each stranger you meet. They'll adapt, to the light, and see you for who you are. Their life will take on a whole new shape,
 as they sprout from stranger to friends or maybe to foe.There is a light, that will stay with you there, forever in the contours of your face. It will shine through your face, your teeth and your ways filling up all sorts of space.

Friday, October 5, 2012

Cavity Vocabulary

Their is a useless web of all your dishonesties spiraling within your eyes. You shield it with all your insecurities and a pungent social media disguise. Your vocabulary is full of cavities and your waist doubling in size; from hoarding secrets and making problems because you're of the fakest kind. Troubleshoot your problems and try to drop them to the side, fooling no one, I see the webs within your twisted spine. You're a different species; not a mermaid or even angel not an alien just the growing scum that clings to beautiful life sources. Whatever fills you up and won't take you down. Rise and shine you soulless mess there is no reason for you to confess.. For you wear your shit right on your clothes, honey take a shower you're rank.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

You're Such a Sponge

there is an acidic rise within my spin 
and i cannot flush you down the sink
leftovers from my plate, a slime trying to 
catch the light - get rid of you from this place.
you're a dud, total flake, getting fatter in 
this place, gulping down everything you hear,
gossip whore from ear to ear. get a clue you
sneaky beast, take your soulless soles to the
next place, ain't got no room for all your stench.
you are nothing but a wench.


Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Attracted to Butter

A monarch on other flies, attracted to the butter. A good girl in a bad disguise, trying to get much darker. A trust fund with no trust, all the funds been snorted. A couple double dipping in other couples love spots. A fire burning all the keepsakes for there is nothing to keep safe. Swimming in a high glass, scotch without the soda to make you feel more at home. A skinny way of thinking and an obesity for the poison. All sorts of odds and never an end. Never ending beginnings and beginnings always ending.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

The Gentlewomen



the gentlewomen with your pill box hat and your pills full of elegance. the gentlewomen fix for a whole suit of gentlemen. your pill philosphy with a cocktail and a dream, pill iQ and pill pad schemes. the pill box purse, with all the trimmings. a pill to wakeup and a pill to sleep. pill with dinner, three with drinks; something to bring you up and something to make you see. the pill that makes your husband to come home, that makes pies sweeter and bird soar high. a pill box queen with a pill infested diary and a pill bottle rattle that clinks with her shadow. a pill box hat for the gentlewomen with the Stepford wife smile and the comatose lifestyle all pretty in lace.


Friday, September 28, 2012

"Disastrous Thinking" on Kobo

I've published a collection of short stories entitled, "Disastrous Thinking" which is now available on Kobo for all of your eReaders, tablets, smartphones, and desktops!
 Click HERE to check it out!

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Bottom Lip

I want to pull my bottom lip over my head and swallow me whole. I want to sink within the hallows of my being. I want to follow that sickly fluttering feeling; like evil butterflies slicing me deeper. I want to just escape. I can't be here but I'll be here. I want to take my bottom lip and pull it over myself. Swallow. Disappear.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Texthonestly

"I like to daydream that our conversations would be long and fiery and wouldn't exactly end but ebb like a tide going out to expose sweet treasures and to rest so it can retain, rush back and capsize on ourselves. I think you and I are people who don't thrive for love but for ourselves. That love is dependent as it is codependent." 

Day Break, Dawn Passion



Passion, seeking it's source in crisp new light. As if pondering eyes closed for the night had visions of such beautiful things. Awakening with the mad dash energy equipped to accomplish. But as the day grows stale, each ticking moment reasonably tying all the loose tentacles of passion together -tidy, severing it's energy. Soon the drive falters. Roads grow simple and easily travelled. Passion no longer speaking softly throughout your being, that soft cooing of wants and needs and got to please... they all roll over in their beds. Awaken in morning light calling loud and to be stifled by the day growing old. Waking up in passion and sleeping like a log.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

My Body On a Trip Without You

There is a place in the space between my eyes where I cannot think of you.
 The spaces between my teeth do not allow me to chew on the thoughts containing you. 
There is a place along my jaw line that holds certain beauty that is hidden away from you. 
There is depth within my collar bones that you will never get to explore. 
There is a little flutter within my ribs that you will never understand. 
The curve of my hips will never round into the concave of your body.
 The rise of my breath will never fall to your chest. The length of my legs will never feel the burn of escaping you. 
The soles of my feet will stride in directions away from you. 
My body on a trip without you. 
Carrying inside of it the most important pieces that I shall always keep away from you.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Missed Connection, Connected


There is this image I saw once of a man and women exchanging glances through separate subway car windows while they are both holding the exact same book. It's a cartoon illustration and I could never figure out if they were making eye contact with one another or with each other's covers. This happens to me sometimes. It's never happened with the exact same book, nor on the subway. However, it has happened to me on the bus with different kind of books. I think my body notices the presents of literature first and then my mind gets this hunger like I've got to know exactly what they're reading. Once that happens and I've obtained a glance of the cover, a snippet of the author's name.. Well usually I am then found out that I am staring so hard and the reader makes eye contact with me but I can never truly be sure they are looking at me directly or now interested in what I am reading. Sometimes you come across someone so engrossed in their novel you cannot even make out their face. You see the entire cover of their book and you almost want to know what their expression looks like. You could then feel this connection with them and it would bind you to them and to their story. I fall in love with people's book covers on the bus. It is a quick fleeting love that lasts only minutes. You slip into a trance, dazed and flattered. You are greedy for their attention. You want to know their thoughts and feel the pages and ask questions like if it is bought or borrowed? It never happens that you have a seemingly interesting conversation with any of these readers, usually no conversation at all. Your snapped out of your timely love with a bell and a shuffle as your dearly beloved closes the book, tucks it away, and dashes off into whatever direction - home or party or place they must get too. It happens to me all the time. Maybe you and I once were in love for a brief little encounter, and it was easy just us and book covers and space and little noises blocked out by the voices in our heads reading every little detail on those pages; and that love, our love, was the easiest kind of love. Sometimes I miss these people I don't even know, haven't really met, but I find you there when I go and open that book I saw you with.

(Adrian Tomine that print changed my life)

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Like Angels in Electric Chairs

the stars, 
gathering together, 
a silent audience, 
only sparkling at the 
mere sight of you, for 
their thoughts are somewhere, 
somewhere lost in space. 
the rare occurrence of becoming, 
something bigger and larger, 
the life that has been presented to you is just 
the play dough.. 
take your hands and shape it. 
the shape that it will take 
can change and will change. 
the want. 
the need. 
the change, doesn't always agree. 
it sneaks up on you like 
angels in electric chairs. 
it mocks and befriends you. 
the stars they are there. 
you can see them, so 
that must be the proof. 
but there is no proof 
to the illusion of your heart sorrowing miles high to catch the speed of 
something galactic. 
people on earth, looking outward. 
people outward looking in. 
the change. 
the want. 
the need. 
stars and people. 
people wanting to be stars. 
change for the better. 
change for the worst. 
the not so rare occurrence 
of everyone around.

Very Berry Philosophy


Trailblazing all my ideas,  you've waited long enough.
 
Claiming some sort of lonely feeling, but you're never far enough. 
Draw all sorts of conclusions, but you claim you're never done. 
Fed up but starving, stop giving me garbage, what has all the recycling done. 
Reusing leftovers from the past, I am not who I once was. 
Reducing me to fragments I have left in other countries, 
came back with a different perspective.. 
you stooped while I was trying to get above. 
You wanted a piece of my environment 
I was hoping you'd just go green and stay away from me. 
You spoiled my organics, persisting on my nature. 
I naturally can't do this anymore, I once was so very fond of you. 
Vegetable crisp, I am reduced to risk, cannot move my limbs to your soul anymore. 
I am cooked, left you devastated and on the hook, 
ready to roast for something much more whole grain than my very berry philosophy.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Loaf is Stale and So Are You


There is a molecule of something real that you must have steamed from. 
I can see it every so often in the way you get caught in the sunshine. 
However, you don't show it much, and I don't think you have any control now. 
I bet you once were a real nice person, or something that resembled something pure. 
You get caught up on all the sugar now though, and you're as empty as a door with no home. 
You welcome in just about everything and quickly adapt to who they are.
You encounter things and like those lizards who don't know any better change.
 
This change can be caught on a reel, slowly motion adaptation. 
This has nothing to do with kindness, defense, or even the weather. 
I see the change take a turn in your face, like a sudden moment of realization. 
Your body switching gears showing feelings you've mastered off the television. 
I catch the plastic in your tone of voice, the way it cracks in a high pitch laughter. 
I can see the chunks of recycled thoughts melt and morph into something you desire. 
I think you've lost all control now, but you must have once been a real life person. 
You don't have a thought in your head that wasn't made with a potion. 
The ingredients suddenly connecting all the dots; 
A dose of passion from the poet boy in the library with his hair ruffled, his eyes absorbing written love. 
A sliver of elegance from the older women who smoothly got off the bus. 
Your eyes not of your own mind, explain things seen through others vision. 
The tales that spew from your tongue appear like jam on toast, perfection and true. 
However the loaf is stale and so are you. 
You have no truths and no lies because you are an empty body - empty like the sky. 
And as empty as the sky maybe, they know their clouds and they are at peace. 
Your demons wrestle within the depths of you and you pretend like everything else.. 
They aren't yours, bits and pieces of things people have said, maybe some of them 
 do expand from the grain of realness that rest somewhere inside your walking casket. 
Stale like bread, appearing wholesome. 
You are nothing but a tall glass of sour milk.

A Fossil of Misunderstandings

Dripping hair, I've crawled from the sea. 
Not one of those ocean treasures you hear about on TV. 
Wasn't apart of something magical, like a fairy tale ball. 
Didn't meet a prince, lose a slipper, or even fall. 
Clothes clinging to my skinned skeleton, see my bones all slimey. 
I've crawled from a place I put myself, deep under the ripples of the world. 
Not encrusted with stories to share of the fish, and all those mer-people definitely myths. 
Dripping hair, I've crawled from the sea, tried to drown the sorrows that have erupted inside of me. 
Placed myself right at the bottom, against the rubble and those creatures no one has names for. 
I couldn't breath or even see - it felt nice to feel outside of me. 
I rested there for what seemed like ages, saw the depths that never changes. 
Decided it would probably be best, to get myself some sunlight at best. 
Dragged my bag of bones up towards the sky, thinking I'd make it to this place called heaven. 
Turns out this could be limbo. We're all in the inbetween. 
The sun touches thing and warms them, dries them. 
We're all wandering and waiting till we can extend further into the clouds. 
I'm not searching for a haven or for anything resembling heaven. 
Gathering myself with the coolness of the sea. 
I've dragged my body to the sun to dry and to try. 
Dripping hair, I've crawled for the sea. 
Hopefully leaving the heaviest parts of me below 
for the next lost and hopless creature to see. 
A fossil of the misunderstandings I use to carry with me.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Pour Me Another Glass of Glitter

Pour me another glass of glitter.
Cut me open, watch my gold wither.
Clinking ice cubes matching the lick of my heels.
Rip my tights and expose me.
Remove the makeup, take a gander at these flaws.
Mismatched undergarments - I am not as together as it seems.
Bedazzled and throwing my morality out the window.
Set my hair on fire, I want to stop drop and roll.
Pour me another glass of glitter.
Watch my truths unravel like your favourite sweater.
Apply some lipsticks.
Lipstick makes things better.

Femme Fatal Viking

In distant places, where people claimed different things, everyone had the exact same hunger. Within the cavaties of their identities, they all craved certain things, differently and together. The rise of seconds in the alotted fame was so twindling and everyone scattered - reaching for their next bump. Soon hatrid grew, a widespread plague, everyone ranting and venting about all the monsters and all the substances they just couldn't stand - while they all slunk to the bathroom to provide themselves with a dose. The sunlight caused them vengences - gave them confidence to wave off all that didn't hide their night cap. The night gave them courage, the ability to dance with their demons, quickly becoming nightly representatives of all their daytime dislikes. The floral prints and studded breasts made everything beautifully dangerous and like a moth to the flame drew the hands to the solids and liquids that could transform a night into fireworks - lifting you way up and crashing you right down into the sand, weighing down all your limbs. The greedy little hypocrite playing cool, calm, and collective - boasting like a cursador, a femme fatal viking with all the right tools to lose herself in the darken alleys with all the right bumps.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Electric Lust / Paper Based Love


Her voice was full of desperation. 
He left the telephone half crooked in the crease of his neck. 
She didn't like the distance. 
He craved to be further from their telephone line. 
She begged to come see him. 
He prayed to be invisible. 
Her heart needed his to beat. 
His heart stopped beating for her. 
She wanted to crawl through the wire and stay in his pockets. 
He wanted to rip the line out of the wall and shed all his clothes, live in the wild. 
She gripped her phone tightly, everywhere she went. 
He left his uncharged, undesired next to a filled ashtray. 
She was in love with the extension of herself. 
He was trying to cut his extension off. 
She needed him like the technology she adapted too. 
He was craving for atleast a paper based connection. 
It would provide longer wait times, built up desire, and possibly even love.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Condom Speech

A mere hopscotching effect on my scotch. 
Pour me another would yeah? 
A different kind of dialect, acting as protection. 
Condom speech, we ain't talking sex. 
Lighten up, say what you mean. 
A lock and key on the bubbling speech. 
Champagne tongue, I am trying to loosen you up. 
Keep your pants on. Just use your mouth. 
I didn't mean that.. Well that way.. But I'll let you finish. 
You spoke of tradition, told me it was in the mail. 
Nothing short of snail speed, you wanted to build the hype. 
I think you're lying or addressed your speech right back to you. 
Little spiders of truth trying to spew from your mouth. 
You keep it occupied with other actions and try the banter on me. 
I enjoy the company. 
Enjoy your disguise. 
Keep it up and you just might die. 
Filled with all the things you showed and never said. 
All the things you never say would shed a little light on all the things I ought to tell you. 
But our mouths can do this for now.