Archive

Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Poetry: The Illusory Shine

August 18th, 2012 No comments

I sat full of myself

The birds singing somewhere down the block

The sun shining on the birds

I looked at myself in the shine of my monitor light and said, “Things are pretty good”

Then the sun went out and I saw my full face

A Jack’O’Lantern of a face, blinking in piggish surprise at what it saw

“What is happiness?” it asked me, and I was hard pressed for an answer until I went out and talked to the birds.

Categories: Writing Tags:

O Nobly Born, or, My Twitter Prayer

August 2nd, 2012 No comments

O Nobly Born
Whose Followers Stretch To The Heavens
Whose Tweets Are Retweeted Until The Stars Above Shake Hands With Them
Peace Be With You
O Nobly Born
Ruler of the Twitosphere
Peace Be With You
O Nobly Born
Let Your Manifest Compassion Be Shown To The Universe
By Throwing Me a Retweet Once In a While
You Stuck-Up Snob
Who The Fuck Do You Think You Are
O Nobly Born
All Blessings To You  

Poetry: Drinking Solitaire

June 1st, 2012 No comments

The young server’s eyes light up as she sees him come in

“Hi! How are you?” as he smiles and mumbles a reply

His favourite seat is empty & he makes a beeline for it

She brings him his favourite beer & he make a beeline for it

“Menu?” she asks with a smile, and nine times out of ten he’ll say yes

The salt and grease of bar food add that certain something to the entire evening, he’s found

Food comes, and more beer comes, and sometimes he brings a book, and sometimes a laptop, and sometimes he just sits there and stares at the air

I should rip it up, he thinks sometimes.

I should rip it up and go crazy and go talk to that woman all alone by herself who is looking at me looking at her as we both pretend we aren’t looking at each other. Go and sweep her off her feet, take her back to her place and fuck till we’re both sore.

I should rip it up.

And usually, by then, his glass is empty, and the smiling young server is right there. “Another pint?” she asks, and usually he says yes.

Whatever she’s offering, it feels more real than the other thing.

Categories: Writing Tags: ,

Silent Echoes

April 4th, 2012 No comments

What who is this shadow reaching from this past I never entered

How does it know me so well when I’ve never seen it before now

It whispers things it should not know

Flesh of my flesh

Blood of my blood

Who cries out in the night?

Is it my voice, or the voices of me stretched back to

Who was I before I was born?

Flesh of my flesh

Blood of my blood

The terrible stinky drunk men marry the

The quiet repressed men marry the

The simple honest men marry the

The scattered sisters go marry the

The times between them the children between them

The marriage becomes the sad that creeps between them

The memories that surround them to

Protect the enrich the fantasies

Every day is the last with a few more flubbed lines

Flesh of my flesh

Blood of my blood

Happiness is that thing out there

We’ve never heard

Categories: Writing Tags:

Scattered

October 13th, 2011 No comments

Ten paces left, four down. Ten paces left, four down. A gigantic X marks the spot.

No shovel or pick with you, time to dig in with teeth and fingernails! Spit the damp cold earth out, don’t swallow any, or you will die and lie there rotting by your buried treasure. Stinking up the murky glade deep in the cold jungle.

Dig, dig! Your salvation lies down there! Pause for breath, then keep going. There, what is that, a vibration under your fingernails. Dig some more, you’ve found it.

Stare. What is it? A wooden box. Dirty and soft. Pull it out. Some kind of lock? Smash it down on that rock over there, and smash, and smash, and smash, and CRACK

A map. To your house. What? There is no treasure there. That is why you are out wandering the forests and mountains and plains. Because there is no treasure at home.

You realise suddenly there is a pain in your fingers. You look, they are bleeding. You wipe them off and the blood wells up again around cracked and missing fingernails, but you try to ignore it all and carry on.

Home? Where is that? You haven’t been there for so long, you’ve forgotten. Best to carry on. Once you find your treasure, you can buy a new one.

Categories: Writing Tags:

The Abyss

June 8th, 2011 No comments

when you get down to it, it’s a cozy little space

not too cold, not too warm, just enough to keep you semi-alert

if only there was porn

when you get down to it, it’s a private little space

little guys in red three-piece suits with tiny cocktail pitchforks poking you so you keep focussed on the plan

if only there was a video store nearby

when you get down to it, it’s a friendly little place

lots of mirrors around so you always see your current attitude to life and you’re never really alone

if only there was someone to wipe down the mirrors once in a while

when you get right down to it, it’s a safe little space

i mean, sure, guys with pitchforks, but they are SO tiny, you barely notice them

i mean, sure, no sign of an exit door, but what’s out there for you?

i mean, sure, that blanket there is nice to wrap around yourself and once you clean that thumb, it’s soothing to suck on

if only there was

if only a

if i could see you again

if there was a way

out

Categories: Writing Tags:

Tumult and Fire

May 14th, 2011 No comments

it is isss a hard a hard night at the Noun and Firkin

the UFC is playing on the big screen, on all the big screens

fans are drinking hard and cheering hard, and then, it happens

push comes to shove, shove comes to punch, punch comes to fight, each other’s friends forming a circle around, cheering for their boy

above them sweaty men wrap their legs around each other while down here the guy in the hawaiian shirt is trying to punch the skull in of the guy in the shorts and baseball cap

finally they get pulled apart and the ambulance comes and the mop comes out and then there is the fight on the pub floor too which also gets cleared up with the help of the police

before the last flash of the cruiser’s light has faded from the bar mirror reflection, the fans are back, cheering at the UFC

Categories: Writing Tags:

Uncomfortable

April 15th, 2011 No comments

He’s a two-fisted drinker, she keeps it down to one glass at a time.

Somewhere in the back, the chef bangs a plastic drum against a sink and the smell of chlorine fills up the entire bar. Water runs.

She talks about her plans for the future. He makes some small talk to keep her going.

The music is too loud for an empty space. It’s trying too hard to make everyone happy.

He walks out the door into the cold spring night. She walks back around the bar and stares into her glass of house Merlot, $8 the sample but I bet she gets an employee discount.

Nothing is going to save this night. Better bail out and save myself.

Categories: Writing Tags:

Old Fat Man

March 26th, 2011 No comments

Old fat man
Scratch to win Keno ticket in hand
Beer belly stopping traffic in the street
Moustache flying out and saluting heaven
Saying “Thank you!” to no one in particular, to everyone at large
Stopping to scratch another square off your lottery ticket
Baseball cap perched on your head by force of will, your square-framed glasses missing nothing
Here is the streetcar! Marching orders start!

1 Fling the worthless Keno ticket into the curb snow
2 Get in front of everyone else
3 Grab the transit pass firmly affixed to the loop around your neck and hold it proudly
4 Present to the driver, stride on, and take your seat

Old fat man
There, but for a few nuances, go I

Categories: Writing Tags: ,

Here Sit The Chemical Men

March 17th, 2011 No comments

here sit the chemical men
storing chemicals through advanced ingestion techniques, liquid and solid both,
some times si mul taneously

that one takes in salt and fat,
that one, salt and fat,
that one, fatty salt,
that one sugar and chocolate

oh wait, that one was a chemical woman

they all take in alcohol in various colours and sizes with different additives (frozen water, fizzy water, fizzy sweet coloured water, frozen sweet coloured water) or the braver do not add, they subtract immediately they subtract their courage they subtract their freedom they subtract their intellect: just faster than the rest, but they all end up in the same place in the end

the earth, the mother of all chemicals, and it gratefully takes back what it has loaned them

to make more chemical men and start over

after all, life is cruel, so eat, drink, and be merryFinancial Alchemy

Categories: Writing Tags: