Seven

Somewhere in his smile he knows that I don't need no other lover.

For you. For us.

As the years stretch across the skyline,
Words are whispered in the night and scratched across pages
Bound together and rustling in the wind.
Our tale continues in front - at our feet,
While the street sweepers brush away the lonely nights from
The path left behind.

I can't remember a me without you.

Lines of lost and forgotten love poems run across my mind
Longing to make them mine and ours.
All of it is fluff and stuffing.
I could lengthen this dedication: pluck images of
Angels and roses and jewels and stars and moons and suns and silks
From the lips of the dead.
When what I have to say is simple and concise.

I love you.

And I love you still.

Barbarella

Strong and tough
no one messes with us.

Soft and beautiful
no one sees the danger within you.

Barbarella -
Barbarella.

I can't help but shake my hips to you
from side to side
and raise my hands straight up
above my head


in the centre - all eyes starring
I am the star.
The hero.

The saviour.

As I sway onto a star
Barbarella Barbarella
I can hear the wind afar
Barbarella Barbarella
whisper your name on par
Barbarella Barbarella.

Strong and tough
no one messes with us.

Soft and beautiful
no one sees the danger within you.

Strong and tough
no one messes with us.

strange compulsions

She sits in the room alone and traces the fake grains in her artificial hard-wood floor.
She picks out one slab and her eyes rest on a single line and follow it from start to end. Her pupils move onto the next line and slowly follow its twists and curves until it reaches the wall. Her eyes focus on every minute detail of the line as she scans the tile. Thousands of phony wood grains fall under her scrutiny as she examines every inch of fraudulent flooring. Looking for solutions amongst the pseudo-wood panels, she continues her task until she traces every line. But it provides her no answers - not this time. For now, the silent mock wood flooring refuses to confess its secrets. at least to her.

She loses interest in the simulated wood floor.

perhaps the walls are more willing to yield

Her eyes glance at the faux-wood wall in front of her. She starts with the left-most line engraved in the fabricated wood. Top to bottom her eyes trace over every line upon the wall. With each completion of a line, she is more assured that the next line will be the one to falter and relent its knowledge to her ever-yearning mind. But each successor, as with its predecessor, is fruitless and she reaches the end of the wall with no more information than when she began. But she is confident the next wall will confide in her.

a brief extended interlude

and all the irony of it.

a wet dry season.
a loud whisper.
dry ice. my favourite.

enough of this non sensical jabber.

it was meant to be a short breath, but soon turned into a lengthy inhale.
if anyone still reads this besides me, i promise to try to keeps these breaks to a minimal length.

all small today.
disconnectanddisjointthoughtsslipthroughthefingersofconfusinglysquishedwor
dsrefusetowritecompletethoughtstodaythisdaynotthesametodayonthisdaysepa
rateanddisparateideasjumbletogetherinavatofsolitarynothingsensehasleftther
oomquietlyclosethedoorbehindher
the importance of space . . .
and pauses.

They Conquered

After all these years.

Our eyes stare at the stage in anticipation as the lights dim and the music stops. Distorted heartbeats gradually overcome the murmurs of the crowd and a hush spreads throughout so that the steadily increasing beat is all that can be heard. Then the three main players step out from behind the curtains and onto the stage:
One dressed to make us laugh with a pink wig upon his head, one dressed to make us sweat - shirtless with a long red headband/sash wrapped around his waist, and one dressed to impress wearing a black golf shirt with collar flipped up.

As they take their respective places, we know they are ready to put on a great show.

One amazing song performance after another - with brief pauses for laughter and witty banter back and forth between us and them.

Jumping and clapping; singing and dancing; pushing and stomping; laughing and yelling. And just when we're about to collapse from exhaustion and feel like we can't possibly stand for another song, they play their last song with such enthusiasm and energy that we are rejuvenated and find ourselves once again jumping and shouting even wilder than before.

The last song ends and the three main players depart with their two sidekicks; leaving us mesmerized and breathless, with sweat pouring from our every pore.

Nameless

Why don't you want me?

You're motionless again.
Listless and lifeless.

My anger feeds pain.

Through with your game.
More of the same.

Winds rustle leaves across the dim lit sidewalks as
a river of ceaseless traffic pours down the street
between us.
I call your name,
but above the horns and squealing tires, everything just sounds like
noise and rage.

Unsated desires explode into an inextinguishable fury.
With pride shaken and esteem beaten,
I tuck my tail between my legs and hide beneath the covers.

Maybe someday you'll want me.
Even if I'm as warm as a corpse,
as moveable as a body tethered to a cement brick sunken in the ocean.

Nothing poetic - just an observation

So it's been awhile since I last posted anything. A long while. I actually went for all of May without writing anything here. Now, as I was looking at my site today, I noticed that this is the second time I have gone a whole month without posting since I started this blog. And the previous month I missed was May 2006. I guess I'm always busy in May doing something. To those of you who still actually read this, I'll promise to post more often, or at least I promise to try to write more often.

Golden Summer

As a warm breeze softly ruffles your golden mane,
your comforting scent fills my nostrils.
and with it, my anxious anticipation of summer grows.
Thoughts of warm sand between my toes and waves splashing
against my thighs begin to rustle off their winter cobwebs
and creep into the light.

Your kingly grace and radiance
permutates the field with such dignity that
no one doubts your royal blood descends
from a godly lineage.

You are my favourite
and that's how it shall remain.
oh heavenly sweet silken Marigold.

Gray Silence

The silence is deafening.
I long to write, but no inspiration comes.
I hear wordless noise pounding in my eardrums.
my thoughts are all scrambled now.
my mouth is noiseless now.
my voice is lost - dead - and gone.

"if you keep losing me" . . .

I've begun to realize that my emotions have little to do with
anything in my life. I can go from high up to low down
as fast as if I dove head first off a cliff. And then I clutch at the mountain's side, grasping and digging my fingers into the dirt, struggling desperately to pull myself up.
But nothing seems to work; I'm making no progress.
and then
and then
and then . . .
In the flap of a bird's wing, I'm at the top with no effort at all. Everything is smiles and sunshine and butterflies.

"I know it’s been far too long in [this] stormy weather."

Soon the sun will shine again.

Honesty is overrated

Some thoughts are best kept silent.
Some words when uttered, only cause fear and worry.
This was not my intention.

The dark shadows who taunt me
belong hidden behind doors, for me to struggle
and triumph over or crumple before - alone.

I should not have opened the doors and
let them into the light
to grow, to breed - gaining strength
amongst their allies.

I went for a walk to shake away their grips,
but I feel them lingering - clutching to my ankles.
Perhaps I'll never shake myself free of them
and I must accept a lifelong struggle with these morose ghouls.
Focussing on them only gives them fuel with which
to burn. me and everyone.

Honesty at long last . . . at all costs. (Revival)

I thought of cutting myself
for the first time in
almost 7 years.
and it scares me
because I could almost convince myself
to pick up that knife
and rub it gently across my wrist
till the red comes forth.

and what scares me most, is that I can't think of
a reason for this.
unlike in the past,
I am
I am content in my life.
nothing I would really change (except perhaps location).
I should be happy.
I am happy
most of the time.
but not right now.
Actually, that's a lie.
What's worse is, I am happy. I am happy right now and still . . .
right now, what would make me smile
is my blood seeping from small cuts across my arms,
onto a knife grasped tightly in my hand.
I have the strength to resist
for now,
but how long will this strength last?
oh god, what is wrong with me?

honesty at long last . . . at all costs.

Apparently not. I never thought I would do this, but I had to delete this post.
I should never have published it.

Death becomes me.

and it comes again.
after so long.
years and years i have kept it at bay,
but yet it is (has been) a part of me. for so long.
I think, something is wrong with me.

I fantasize about my death
be it drowning,
falling,
disease,
loss of blood.
out of (or in) my control.

I dream of:

Water rising up, above my head
as i sink to the bottom,
deeper and deeper.
it caresses my skin as
i slip below the depths.
and no one
no one will find me here.

I slip off a cliff,
and the ground rapidly approaches me.
The greeness of the grass - the trees.
and i long to join the earth and become part
of this beauty.
a part of this world.
If I just reach out my hand, i could touch the
soil rushing toward me.
and then my end will be the beginning of something new.
something else.

I collapse on the ground, no energy,
nothing left of me.
my hair slips between my fingers
and it's gone.
all gone.
I'm bald, and naked, and crying.
It creeps along my veins and there is no escape.
a couple days, and it will be all over.
the laughter, the tears, all gone.
I no longer have the strength to fight this.

The blood seeps from my wounds,
seeps into the earth around my lifeless body.
the brown soil turns red.
I swim in seas of red.
and it's all gone.
I'm far gone
from here.

It's all over. for now.

The romanticism of death. It's all I have.
All I am.

Sorrows and Regrets

It didn't use to be like.
I didn't use to be this bad.
. . .
so similar.
My writing style - the quality -
has decreased as of late.
it may be because i seem to be
incapable of writing while not
under the influence of my red mistress.
less thought into each word, each piece, each punctuation,
and eventually,
all my work has become like free verse.

When will i write for real again?
with real emotion, and feeling, and thought?
i've lost it.
it has escaped me. whatever talent (hah) i ever
possessed has left me.
without a "goodbye"
and i struggle (with great effort)
to breathe life into my work again.

It's gone. long gone.
and i apologize
for these trespasses on your time.
these . . .
useless
worthless
words.

Imagining Darkness

Standing here as I feel your hand slip from my grasp.
and I am alone.
Again.
The first time in years.

Black clouds encompass my sky.
I search through them, to find some light.

. . .

But, there is none.
Darkness surrounds me.
The sun - the stars, have hidden themselves
amongst the encapsulating blackness.
and the light

. . .

there is none.

my eyelids shut tight (out of disbelief).
yet when i try to pry them open,
they remain shut.
(darkness forever).
darkness is all I'll ever know now.
without you.

Red liquid runs between my lips (in an attempt
to comfort me) but nothing is the same.
I am blind without the light.
I call out (cry out) for its return,
but it is gone - too far gone - to hear me.

Alone, alone, alone.

The water rises above my lips; above my eyes.
I cannot see the abyss around me.
The water comforts me and eases my pain.
I feel weightless.
As I sink into the water's waiting arms,
I think, "at least I am not alone anymore."

Winter woes

I hate winter.

The wrathful wintry winds leave me
bitter and dry.
My skin itches and my lips keep splitting.
My nails are jagged and worn.
Each day when I step outside,
the frigid wind blowing against my cheeks
feels like a slap across my face.
It burns. It stings.
The cold attacks my legs through my pants (no matter how thick)
and I imagine thousands of sharp nails digging into my skin
(storming along my veins) would hurt less than this.

My montrously long scarf (wrapped thrice 'round my neck and face) should be able to protect me from the chill - but no - oh no - the arctic weather seeps through penetrating all clothing layers till it numbs the skin hiding beneath.

Just go away.
I wish it could
be summertime
every day.

Miss you love

A ghost in the shadows - hiding behind the curtains.
Nothing is the same without you.

Parties with booze and laughter and song, but still . . .
something is missing. Some loneliness enters my soul.
Missing your laughter and your smiles.
Nothing is the same without you.
I threw another party - danced another dance
without you.
and it will never be the same.
Ottawa is colder without you.

I sit here alone, drinking my red wine, thinking of you.
Always thinking of you.
It's almost been a year since we were parted.
And I'll never be the same
since I met you.

Plans of flying across oceans (even without my advil)
to see your face again.
I just hope I can find my passport.

Red wine isn't the same without you.
Cheese isn't as good without you.
I am not the same without you.

And I miss you love.

A mid winter's night dream

As I drag garbage bags to the curb, I spot the
Sparkles reflecting on the newly fallen snow
like light fairies dancing on ice.
This vision is mine alone.

I stare up at the night sky (beige from the
city light interference)
and tiny snowflakes flutter gracefully to the ground
around me.
The night chill falls upon me, but the bitter wind
has paused for the moment to let me
enjoy this brief scene.

Outside in February - wearing only a t-shirt and yet
I am not cold.
Early today I froze while walking home from the bus stop
with all my winter gear on:
hat, scarf, mitts, and coat.
But now, in my light pajamas, I feel no cold.
The frigid temperature has departed for now
to let me stare up in wonderment at the beauty
of winter.
Everyone else is sleeping in their warm beds and
this second is mine alone.

Finally.
I understand.

Ode to Neena

Neena is so great!
Neena is so great!
I love Neena
'cause Neena is so great!


(I'll write a better one when I get back from work.)
I get to see Silverchair again!!

The Mysterious brown package

I've got a package here for you;
tucked under my arm.
Wrapped all in brown paper - with a black ribbon
tied 'round. It's waiting here for you.
I'm waiting here for you.
To open.
I'm sure it'll be a blast.
Bet you just can't wait.
I know I can't wait
to see the look upon your face.
It'll wipe that shocked look
clear right off.

1
2
3
BOOM!!

Vanishing Act

Just Disappear. Everything.
I'll close my eyes and count to three;
and maybe we won't be here
anymore.

. . . 1 . . .
. . . 2 . . .
. . . 3 . . .
.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"