Thursday, February 27, 2014

Inappropriate Claim

Haunted by my own reflection
By the shape of my teeth

I am a walking reflection of fragments
That were woven together with love and certainty

I am becoming uncertain

A nervous ship washes along my shore
Within the grains of the wood I make out my age, to the day

Clouds roll a top of the sinking feeling in my guts
Where I stand, I feel the sand between my teeth

I address the sky and it’s inappropriate claim of opportunity and reasoning
Begging for a conclusion that won’t make a fool of me

I want to leave it to those who gave birth to me, hoping it’ll
snuff out the turmoil, bring it’s intensity down to a simmer

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Bask in a Smoke Show

Colourful tentacles unravel
from a nook that resides just
inside the forehead and down
a long dark corridor that
might've had an exit sign
once upon a time but now
houses all of my great ideas.
I rummage through that nook
looking for my next project.
Some half thought of,
some half started,
some just static waiting to take form.
In this nook all of my
colours light up individual
cigarettes and bask in a
smoke show of epic
times daring one
another to create
something and
to expand their turf
a little further throughout
the contours of my mind.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Medicinal Candy and the Right Connections

Dr. Degree with a wall full of medals trying to dip their hands right inside of you and electrocute some of your sanity. Revive you with all of the right capsules filled with Windex to shine whichever spot you choose to let them see into. Descriptive attitudes from a third party, a party you didn't attend, shines light from a mindless mind as it tries to recalculate all of your time. Not a red cent to bring you home just a pocket full of medicinal candy and the right connections on the telephone. A veil of living created with ingested plastic for a life that is in more of a demand to be feared than relaxed in. And if you don't plant the flowers for your life than what would you have grow?

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Drenched in Each Other's Sentences

There as departure took place there was
fragments of the conversation clinging
to the whites of their eyes. The iris
eagerly acted like a sponge, trying to
slurp up the words that had just been
spoken. There was a moment that
wasn't documented when the spiral
of thoughts and decisions floated
out of the mouth of an almost lover
and wrapped themselves around the
other like the offering of a jacket
at the slightest notice of shiver.

The shiver wasn't a sense of coldness
but calmness and a severe attack of want
on the physical self, an outer body
experience noticed but not documented.
A fleeting sense of attention as tongues
flick out what the mind is conjuring and
biting lips and batting eyelashes
more quickly because you don't want
to miss seeing each and every syllable
tumble onto the table between you.

Departure winds up, seems to be getting closer
with each ignored tick of the clock.
Farewells and See You Again Soons
keep murmuring voices within your
lungs from gasping out and collapsing
the house of words just built around you.

You go home with a settling fire
inside your mind and new thoughts
churn and excitement grows for
another time for you to share them.

Night welcomes you both, separately,
leaving both drenched in each other's sentences.

Fallen into a Gallon of Milkshake

Fallen into a gallon of milkshake with the driest of hands. 
Summer nowhere near the crust of brimming wanderlust.
Sugar highs to pass the time.
Take. Take. Take. Take.
Connecting the dots from dreams
I might not have even had.
Am I living?
Looking into things that might not be happening.
I feel free.
I feel confined.
Feel. Feel. Feel.
There is too much and not enough all at the same time.
To confide without changing the vibe,
without changing the state of mind.
Truths, or just thoughts in general,
things that aren't even finalized
often come to punctuating things in an untimely fashion.
Writing conclusions
before I've made proper introductions

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Match Ink Flow

Proof reading thoughts to check for insanity,
no red pen to highlight the clarity.
Mismatched fonts because
everything is scattered,
who dropped this box of calligraphy?
Cocktail napkins to soak up the ink and the drinks.
The drink is the coach's pep talk
and the body obliges.
Hearts tiny teeth release the clutch
 it causes on the wrist,
and full disclosure is exposed in ill-lit spaces
while wearing ill fitted clothing and trying to
scratch an itch that won't quite quit.
Feelings made concrete in tiny squiggles
and suddenly what you do not say could
mean everything and doors close
that you didn't know where opened and
ink floods pages that eyes cannot
see so that minds cannot be made up
before beds are decided to leave.
And moments are fleeting but you
pen down the ones you don't want to go.
But wickedness is the minds game
because nothing will ever match ink flow.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Many Hiccuping Kitten Moons Ago

Monsters under my bed, but there is no underneath,
the box spring is on the floor and the floor is the ceiling to a
happy couple telling each other about their days, 
with dirty socks shuffling against their floor.
Which in return acts as the ceiling to a man 
who hasn't slept in days.
His floor is littered with half started letters, he can't help
but want to tell her everything on his mind but the drugs
aren't helping him focus. His phone rings, which
is the soundtrack to his neighbours who reside
just below his creaky bed. They don't mind,
they're stoned and rummaging for food in cartons
that expired many hiccuping kitten moons ago.
The building is heaving with isolation as it
houses these people and their feelings, their thoughts
weigh on the drywall. The building is a dirty diary.
People walking in and out of each other's lives.
Making contact, diving and dashing.
A tidal wave of metro living and nothing
to do but bask in the light of the internet
and pray that someone is going to accept
the request and not press the buzzer
unless it's the quick exchange of pizza for cash.
And then back to the mad dash.
Cut the telephone wire, I fear you'll 
hear exactly what I'm trying to say. 

Teeth Churn On Ideas

A surprising light dashes from a place without coordinates and spills across skin that encases molecules and vocabulary and thirst and desire. Eyelashes beat at the same pace of a liquid heart that bubbles with heat and toys from a pocket below the belt. Lips full and lush, lit with a fire, stay still and silent as teeth churn on ideas that form into sentences and lay across the tongue begging to be transported into your skull by the percussion of kissing and the demands of wandering hands. Allow this exploration.