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[05 Nov 2007|11:04am] |
The Escher stair walls directed nothing, signified nothing, but reflected light better than any mirror and the colour in the place, although sparse, was a deep pool sort of hue, a glittering liveliness as if the actual objects protested the uncertainty of their high-ceilinged enclosure. The curtains were barely curtains, sheer, hiding nothing, the windows unscreened sweat layers of clumsy white paint. It was the type of room where obsessed with ideas (stricken, sprawled, frog legs splayed and pinned) her left breast would fall exposed out of the towel, or shawl, or too large sweater lazily draped around her shoulders for the squirrels and pigeons of surrounding rooftops to see. It was the type of room where the dust collected and spoke legions on the yellowed soles of her feet. It was the type of room where she radiated both gloriously and toxically, providing for and killing her sometimes bedfellows that could not secure firm footing, the polished wood glorified the perished grains the swirled sunken cell harmonies, petrifying the roaches and his large feet. Her left breast, small and soft and hearkening promise fell out beneath the folds and they licked their lips with greed and loneliness, the contingent tides directed by her, cold and ungiving but reflecting some sort of promise in their brightly lit eyes, feasting.
He looked on, steadfast. Sometimes she was obscure, clouded her heavy lidded eyes and his senses with scent, nearly dripping. Sometimes she was enigmatic, her full belly sharply double crossed with ribs and racking chest bones concealing glistening, pumping organs. Mostly she was terrible, a false submissive entreating, a false prophet cradling his head at her breast, a false heart shuddering and grinding at the possibility of a hardened halt and the freedom in returning to the grave. He looked on, steadfast and drew her out thread by thread, spread her everywhere manically, splayed her thoughts and pinned her down, thinly pressed her in every direction, wide eyes looking and he needed her lightness so badly that he unravelled her over and over laboriously he tolled, and struck and kneaded and sowed and she soon had to steal seconds for her defenses, for her retreat, and he was the boy that tried to snag the moon and reel her in and the gravitons conspired destruction and desperately he spread her into smaller parts, blazoned her bit by bit wide eyed mesmerized and she could not refuse him these relics, being his tomb and the left breast fell out and he hungrily lipped his lips, maddened by her aridity, his wet eyes rolling in grief and fear. The waves crashed demanding a particular status against the brick, he knelt at her feet with his head in her lap and she sat straighter than a fresh gravestone, steady.
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| roach poem i |
[27 Sep 2007|09:03pm] |
in this geo-windowed catechism of natural light,
this dust scratched gem of polished wooden floors and
sweating clay-coloured walls lie the keepsake corpses
of German cockroaches.
a proclivity for secrecy, love of sliding bones
and small, tight spaces
contractile tissues like
throats, made the stringy connectors
quiver with dizzy anticipation: here is a chance for
a link, and with a link a set, and with a set
a delicate clasp, a needle in your eye or two hooks, click
click curled lick from the quick, surrender swift!
and i rift, adrift, eagled o’er bald
split o’er sawed, crow cock cawed
outlawed, i spill thence from the east, a roach,
encroached a fine feast.
in the light we are marooned, yellow-bellied
streaked with violet light and violent flight.
out of breath out of breadth stuck on racks sunken sacs
the heaviest death, the gentlest rest, on our backs
the transient light welcomed examination,
with legs curled high she reeked of expired salvation
for the fissures and cracks he wrenched and rubbed
raw her spinal retaliation
and pinned to board she spilled an egg sac of seed
hooks and eyes, crumbed intelligent lies, feelers for
spies, muffled throat cries; all of her cracked mirrors,
wet fevers and tender trials,
unwincing
he pinned all
unreviled, to the lapels of giants and rapists
and thieves.
dust and insect bones crone melodious
elegies up all our sleeves,
catacombs echo simpler reprieves.
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[05 Jun 2007|12:17am] |
I like to relax by reading celebrity gossip. I’ve created an intimate psychology of all of them, based on an UC filter that castrates and criti-sizes the leaking written world of web, press and Viacom. I see in their faces, paraded or paparazzi-ed how they’re really feeling. I can read their body language. I see and love that it’s guarded, how hard they try to protect themselves from clarity the thrashing light. They feel like me, unbelonging, scrutinized, short-gened and knob-ankled and all our other gritty knots showing.
I fumbled in the dark on my way home. I was exhausted after a sleepless, drunken night with a perfectly inscrutable gentleman. I had combined things, strung them together and watched for the reactions. Combustion in an engine, the lingering sickly sweet smell of gasoline. Or sometimes a memory: a glass casserole dish filled with water and an ancient box of food colouring and oh the insatiable reflective orifice, our eyes! I dazzled him, I dizzied myself, I was reeling. The problem with artificial is that at first it’s unfamiliar, see. You remember real leaves, the thick, rich luxury of their waxy green, the light catches them brilliantly, a shimmering car on a desert highway, only muted with the wet, damp, gravity-stricken reality of life forms, stolen carbon sinking heavy. But look how we’ve blended the two already: the green apparition car shimmers in the distance, you can almost hear the engine and the wind is hot and you didn’t know you could sweat this hard and fast and Christ a pane of ice, look at that façade of indestructibility. Look at that car body. Look at the engine and the glass in the windows. Look at the foul-smelling interior. See it in junk piles in forty years. See it incinerated, blown in the wind. And look at your polyester leaf on the tropical houseplant next to the water colour (chug chug chug). Now that’s magnificence. Now that’s eternity. Once you embrace that, that’s change and transformation. Once you embrace that—
He walked into my life suddenly. Came up unexpected. I’d come home from the dark gentlemen and he was a boy. When he came, he’d parked further away and I met him on the corner. Now I know what he’d been like then. Nervous, certainly. Fumbling to open doors, trying to remember what gentlemen in movies did (got laid). Annoyed at paying for parking. Sipping warm syrupy pop sticking to a hot plastic holder in his unmuffled car. Delighted by the straightness of my teeth. Walking long, lean, a step too big. No dancing around like a fairy-man yet. No wings, yet. All earthbound, this one. I’d set my sights higher. I sat on the concrete against the brick building and just fumed at the tops of apartments. Positively curdled with electric antagonism toward the city, bending over and pressing down on me, cartoonishly, I dared pursue a storm. He shivered first with his mouth when he was cold. Obvious, boyish, honest yet sideways. A hint of a whistle-in in that uncomfortable, shaking and pointless intake. The falsely quivering lower lip, a vibration. Remark. He also raised his eyebrows when he did it and it made it sound like a shiver of anticipation. We spoke without words and I left them, traitor. I haven’t written, really, since I went deep, rolled over again and again and again till I found myself burrowed or buried, depending on future events and neuron wiry communication towers (lookie, Lou, they make ‘em look like trees- there’s an idea, hey?).
Although I do not write, when I lie in bed I jumble around words and try to make meaningful phrases. They are not words I think of, but words in his room. I’m going to do the whole thing one day and write a book of poetry out of them. A poster of old JD and her.
Taste anger.
Tan lie, trap man.
He has already written his word-bound, root-bound history and I’ve already written mine. We were carbon and we burned up and now we’re effigies, perfect polyurethane (… although I’d rather be polyurethra-ed) copies. It was too meagre to make sense. My body is buzzing or burning or suffocating or seizing.
But my malnourished belly was bloated full and I lay down and eclipsed some moons with my head and understood the relations between everything. Jumble. First the meaning, the real thing. JD. And then the name. A giant leap. The sound. And then the symbol for the sound. And then the letters. The individual alphabet. And then the tinged inflection of our interpretation. Oh fucking communiqués, I thought I had bled you dry. But here, here is the soma, here is my curling dendritic tree here are my blazing axons. Compute. Or in the language of twenty year olds and other beasts, bend over and receive. Split and seize, and push her away gently the second before you pull her toward you tight, so she’ll never know for sure what’s real. Quarks jumble, and she trembles, and maybe it’s false and far removed but shake your brains out hard. I’m telling you. It’s all just a trip that depends on a view, a viewer, you.
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[05 Apr 2007|12:39am] |
Quixotic by Ira Sadoff
Sometimes he's breezy with you, nudging
a sleepy kind of come here and kiss my forehead,
so the trammeling is spotty, like foreign policy.
Your malleable brightness is alluring,
if you're shiny he's blinded by the pants of you.
But we don't like to see him like this, in the daily
decimated world so full of metaphor it makes you hunger
for a piece of flat road going nowhere,
where you can hum the Dies Irae from anybody's requiem,
and not mean anything by it. Maybe
you don't buy it. But what a well the self must be
if you could find it. I mean how our minds fill like buckets.
Or perhaps I mean it's easy to empty,
to say somebody else is empty,
hypocrite powermonger heartless shit for brains.
Where you are then is a mystery. Running into a spiderweb
on your way to bed. Or everyone has a version
of you, but it's not your version.
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| Don't know about that parallel processing. |
[20 Jan 2007|11:25pm] |
The landscape begs to be silenced in shrouds buzzing indignantly at its old bones, branches and abandoned park benches.
Scanning the scenery buzzards catalogue in long lists, anticipate licked alliterations or thundering rising crescendos.
I have a bad prayer planted, burgeoning to be uttered aloud, allah, hallow ghosts shallowly chaliced grave grails.
This is my body. These are my ribs like handprints. Swoop and dive, brush and push Singing Howler lean in those lips.
He responded to her recklessness echoing up and back into the snowfall the next morning with softer bruises in shades of opalescent.
That soft stuff muffles she murmurs into his shoulder the vibrations ripple in waves, comb open some parted lips, summon some snowfall.
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| Keep warm. |
[13 Nov 2006|02:10am] |
I let him rest his tired clean head of hair on my cold shoulder. I behaved beautifully, I was stoned and benevolent stone. Last year I had surprise, desire, fear. This year I have apathy, boredom bad habit, and smugly superior satisfaction. Here there grow a great many things that are unspeakable. Whorified and blind he's got hang-ups unhung and large fumbling hands and no language. He doesn't know no and he don't know hate lowing deep in morning loins. I swore I swear to never utter, muted, whispered, stuttered, so sleep dear unspeakables, fall down like pigeon feathers in snow, be wet, be guttered. Be pushed aside noiselessly like carnage. Be wiped and scoured into the grain, deep in the wood, blood. Nestle down your roots. There is an ice age coming. If you, little ones, are any fine indicator, you will be frozen stiff, corpse copses. Unmoving sprouts, stunted and shrinking. Freudian and frigid. Delicate and pure. Can't talk about you, terrible experience. Can't acknowledge your presence, sweet bad decisions and daily routines. Falling on me flapping on a prayer mat flag.
Slip in the door, under the crack. Stay at the back and watch with your lidless bored eyes. Survey. Here is a glacial lake. Here is a path for an ice scrape. Here is a great brute Zamboni rumbling, circling slow. Here's a bone collar for skin draping, a hanger for a hanging. Tightly around the neck, shawl yourself about your old gnarled shoulders. Tighter it's cold they're calling for. Snugly smugly bare bear. Watch don't make yourself sick watch.
Here am I, slipping in shoes, shoveling snow off the ice, glaring bright lights, narcotic nicotine narcissist nihil nihil future forecasts nihil nihil a liar lies all the while. Can't speak right now. Hot head? Scalp crawling? Limb sprawling? Damp bed? Flusher-ed? Can't speak about it. Watching ceiling, ok? In a rare attack of tact, contact, head on cold shoulder, knees, toes, beetle roast and ice froze. How I coast, coast coast on my ceiling skates coats the insufferable with dashes of plaster ceiling snow and on my shoulder, dote stark schemes and stole-d tropes. I will wear your pulled tan hide with more sorrow than pride keep me warm in my unreflected life keep me blind in my wormless frozen grave.
Skin of my skin, kin for my kin, and he was less skin than scared and he was less scared than kind and I could not pull his head to my chest to comfort him, I could not stir in my respite in your hide. Silence froze the seconds and sex sowed the stole stitched skin to my unmoving bone, be gone, be gone, I'm sorry, be gone.
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| Keep out, keep out, this is not a welcome mat! |
[01 Oct 2006|10:41pm] |
If introspection, good reasoning and an accurate memory are valid inputs for the process of justification, I'm an absolute irrational mess and the outputs are starting to show it: greased up machine-head with dandruff and a scalp that bleeds in libraries and broad daylight.
Future children, there will be change because there is frustration and there will be clarity because there is a sneaking trickling light electrocuting my red-cluster-celled eyelids when I try to sleep in the afternoon. I hate smoking cigarettes, suddenly, I tolerate bobbling heads and bottled blondes and I can't drink anything anymore but a litre of white wine, no more, no less. Naked grapes, penises peacefully protesting sexual suicide in the form of premature placidity and my genital-wound that gapes. Mr. Goldman, is there a proposal on those pursed lips? Is there a ghost of a whisper? Or is that almost-always-openness merely an invitation for infection and insert? An insert like... maybe we'll rescue rebellion in our refusal to ever heal… an infection like… maybe we're fucking killing ourselves… an input like… aligned allusions and excessive alliteration… there is no knowledge here.
Tactlessly tacking tags to trash might organize your goddamned junkyard but it won't keep away the flies. Words don't work. A snapping dog that snarls might and so she considers becoming a bitch that bites in the real world instead of one that slowly slobbers silver saliva in a pseudo one.
Mr. Goldman gives me a choice, here, see? His teeth gleam, his gums rubbed ruby. (I need a bazooka to my head before I'll ever have the spine to control these ruminating ruins, before I'll channel the ceaseless chatter, before I'll chisel away the weasel in me and prop up rigid easel, a body for this spirit, a vessel for this sense of direction, propelling me bleary-eyed and half-blood salivating.)
If I stay and write and try to keep track of things, attempting justification, attempting reliability, tagging this and that as such and sorting through the genetics, checking history and sources, impaled and empowered by a memory that falters and conquers at regular intervals I'll still run the risk of having justified beliefs that are false. (Reliable's inescapable shadow is fallible and oh, what a fall!) So I snarl them out cautiously and hope that my spit will make them stick the test of tell-tale time.
And if I go out there, as I've tried, if I live in the now and abandon the pen and its ego and I track the truth intrinsically, categorically, Cartesian-like, time-slicing the current into bits of currency I'll run the risk of having truth and never even fucking believing in it. That's how the world feels now without these letters trailing behind me, like idols towering over me, it feels like I'd find all of this meaningful if I could only remember a reason to justify. If I could only work out how the dollar got its value as it burns a hole in my palm. But it's hard to remember and be instinctive when you're scared and faced with the whole truth in an instant for your absorption, O boneless sponge. Justify becomes just defy and you try to steel your spine and brace your brain and keep your upper lip stiff and you bite and bruise your way out and fumble for an off switch in a room that's blinded you with light and you miss the point.
So you go to bed and there are flitting fairy lights repelling gentle sleep. Twenty minutes and a self-induced orgasm later, it's five in the afternoon and you're dreaming of a lapdog with a bulldog face that's trying to rip out your throat.
( PS )
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[07 May 2006|03:12pm] |
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I walked from Queen West and Dovercourt to Bay and St. Joseph. Perspective is a funny thing. Hidden in trickling trellis, tree lined streets, a crumbling comic book store: a retrospective about a Montreal cartoonist cultivating a history of chauvinism, preserving it through noise: the way its tin roofs rattle me, the way its loose screws tinily tremor, in-‘er ears. A boarded up building with junk glued to the sign. Apologies: thanks for your years of support but the shop has closed due to retirement. I want to get to know every corner of the world. I want to feel it the way I used to want to feel people by putting my fingers in the inside of their mouth, scratching their roofs and itchy teeth. I want a protégé again: followed through gardens and between corn stalks by my smooth walking, shit-talking funny curly follower whose glance is the only thing creating and separating this word and that. I don’t like to admit it, but I need that, the glance. O fascination: women may have constructed themselves in light of the male glance, pretty pretenses and lisping affectations, powder and snow white arms. I’ve constructed my whole world for you, watcher. It isn’t about how I looked when I reached on the coffee table: it was about why I did it, the way I moved, the inner suggestion of something latent, boiling up and spilling over in that mechanical movement. In short, I want to give you a way, show you logotherapy. Woman’s guide to meaning. If we rip out their eyes or yours and there’s no more spying. We’re free to kiss our girlfriends and spit on our dead adoring fathers photographs. We’re free to wear loose skirts and squat in the dark. I’d finally be free to write instead of just distract you with apostrophe. O, meaning. O, city. O, o, o, eros. Throwing bricks in a glass house. Huffing and puffing but you can’t ever blow rubble down. I’d have blessed a horizontal line on top of the vertical clear blue. A real cross with a real promise of ruin. It’d have been everything I’ve ever craved when I look at retrospectives and wrecks, when I talk about how I can’t get attached. Creation without you ‘cause I’d have been the girl who got knocked up and finally ignored (nothing like this potential invisibility where I flicker in and out of your tunnel vision). I’d live in Lyon with Louisa nursing a lion-child. I'd lie down in the dust of boarded up shops, defy our little premature tombs: where we lay at night. I think that's the purpose of sex. A big, joyous, brainless fuck you to my death and yours.
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[24 Apr 2006|11:54am] |
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mood |
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chewing my lips |
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Let it be said that talking about emptiness is an exercise in self-perpertuation. In most of my wandering communications, I am so pleased with the most basic, rough shapes of recognition, excitedly I ask, "Do you also see the red square?"
One of the most confounding aspects of my existence is that I still crave, hard and deep, my sinew-tendrils stretching out, my eyeballs threatening to jump. I still crave when I cradle nothing, when I kick around bones and pine-cones.
This is how it happened: I walked down the concrete stairs, aroused at the idea of becoming a fascist and the boot brute; anyway, some sort of absolute power, absolute freedom. It's the picture of myself that I am the most attracted to. I puffed and sucked a wick outside the South East entrance and realized this. I walked back up concrete grounded flights with an utterly shattered conception of self, a cripple. It didn't end there because the unsettling of my spine seems to branch outward into everything like veins unconstrained by a body, like binary code and the permanence of ash. And I've had a safe life in a series of Catholic residences.
None of this is new. Listen, what is so curious is the profound sense of loss, the sink-hole, swirling identities and gutter-water relationships.
It suddenly occurs to me I can barely string together the shit and tin cans in my life enough to rattle you, Ghost, let alone properly assess the idea of zero (a task I thought would comfort me, to know that there was a form for this feeling somewhere in the universe and that it wasn't an illusion- I guess the problem with Plato is that ideas appeal because they are ideal and no matter how hard I rip out his shadow box concepts with clear unfiltered light, I prefer the dark and all that it promises, the shapes of red squares it barely suggests).
There are a lot of things I can't explain. Memory. You, Ghost. My fragmented, unsettled self: that modern dynamic model with all the moving parts and noise-makers. Most of all I can't explain the way I still move: the reaching out of veins, the way loss floods arid things and most of all, when faced with the idea of zero the indignant suggestion that something else must be there. As if there was something substantial to begin with. Even when I'm too tired, as I was last night, to rummage through my drawers in all senses of the phrase, I know that something's there, stirring. It occurs to me that maybe that's all that being alive is. Moving parts, superficial noise-makers. An irrational life-instinct. The way dirt trembles and shifts when something's rising up and resurfacing.
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| Of Angels and Insects |
[05 Mar 2006|11:09pm] |
My brain is walking up my skull, scuttling in circles like a twisted knot of writhing centipedes. My hands drift, break up space chaotically. The back globe of my eyeball twitches as if I’m in REM sleep, making my irises dart and that elusive focus fall apart. It might be the caffeine and a carefully trained tongue that knows which coffees are bright and bold and which have grapefruit spit from Africa. Or it might be that last Saturday, one week and one day ago, I stood on the horizontal brass pole beneath the bar, he set me down, kissed my left cheek, kissed my right cheek, slapped snow on my bare red feet in red thrifted shoes and kissed me that fateful third time.
Yes, this is out of control. There are invisible sewing circles of rumours threading me in, stitching my skin, supposedly sewing up wounds but managing only to wound me with scars. He hasn’t kissed me since, but our glances are being intercepted, hidden bugged mics leaving bug bites. They keep calling me a butterfly, they’ve invented a new verb for me, they call my behaviour butterflying. I float from euphemistic flower to flower and lightly float away. They’re taking away my lightness you know, their thread is made of steel, fixing me firm, ripping me up. Fuck them, I say as I ride the train back to Whitby. There are still ducks in Lake Ontario and have you seen the colour of the water on a clear still day, I peeled an orange, posed and Beck told me that I’m just like a paper tiger, torn apart by idle hands. I think all of this lightness and newness will be a bit ragged come spring. A maggot slithering Lucifer I imagine crawling back to that goddamned cocoon.
Newness is always being swallowed up and deliciously devoured by this old, cantankerous earth. People feel around blindly, up each other’s insides, trying to crawl back up the womb.
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