She described his eyes like drenched violets.
From where did she gather her inspiration?
When she woke in the morning, what motivated her?
I sometimes wish I’d been born in that era.
I sometimes wish I could live in this one.
Instead I am most alive in pleasurable sensations.
or painful ones, the absence of sensations
leaves one feeling numb.

The current way of life
has more bars around it than in her century,
and yet she needed to escape it
less than six decades in, but was she escaping
the time, or was time escaping her?

Her thoughts were not meant for the
common reader, and today the mainstream
flow of ideas is so common and lacking in that
passion which flowed so freely from her clenched fist,
as she gripped the quill in a mad flight
of passion, and let the words fly from her
purpled hands like a flock of birds set free.

She wrote outside her century,
to such a degree that she still exists
in this one, more alive
and relevent than if she had
still breathed.

She described his eyes like drenched violets,
and I can see him walking elegantly
up the path leading from the garden,
a fist full of freshly picked chrysanthemums
and a sprig of delphiniums sticking out
from his ear, like a blue fish,
swimming in the wind
from under the brim of his decourous hat.

Imagine that, she wrote of a woman
and described her like a man.
Together they walked the dogs across
the English countryside, and found
a quiet spot on the grassy hill,
a shaded corner from which they could seek refuge
from the intensity of the sun,
a place where they could allow their affections to flow freely
while engaging in unrepressed laughter.

One was forty the other a decade younger,
but in those simple moments,
the chasm of age and time,
that which leaves the crease of bitterness and
betrayal, of broken promises made to onself,
to float off like the ashes of a cigarette,
when one inhales the potential
of the mind, beyond the limits of the body
and the restrictions of the hours.

Here in this world, the schedules suffocate,
as much as they may motivate,
more so do they tend to
annhiliate one’s vision.

Yet there they sat in careless laughter,
staring off into the wide open
whose only concern
was to mind the seasons,
mind the sun,
the waves of simplicity
and beauty,
whilst marvelling at the
way one’s eyes could resemble flowers
glistening in the morning dew.


Virginia Woolf & Vita Sackville-West



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You lose yourself
when you cannot
the love

when you
the gaze
of sad
nerve endings,

when the sky is stolen
by a blood vessel’s
sudden swell,

when you realize
we are in hell,
but the blindness
is deceiving.

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Beast of Burden

No one should know it
I have this dog
She stays close by my side
No one should see her
She is invisible to others
In the morning I feed her
and in return she
feeds me affection
In the night she whimpers,
I let her out
She wakes me from dreams
this little dog called pain,
reminds me of that day
when you cried with me
because no one
ever could be good enough,
because we were cursed
to suffer this lonely
hurt in silence
and invisibly
until it became
until it bit like a wolf
at our hearts,
eating away
our affection.
until it mangled
our connection.
Sweet little bitch of pain,
murderous little beast of burden.

Written November 9, 2017

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Until She Bleeds

I wish you knew me enough to call me out on my bullshit. I am like a desert where a roaring river once lived. I wish you knew how tormented and torn the shore could be after all that surfacing, my attempt to keep breathing when everything inside of me lay leaden, my desire to stop the wild rushing pulse which makes you cry so desirously for me in the wet dark of this tainted heart.

In the dark, where your naked breasts push up against my back while I run my nails across your skin, I wish I could let you in, or that you could endure the steady stream of sadness which flows so senselessly down my cheek, instead you take your finger and capture my sorrow like a silver minnow which swam down to you from the mercury moon, it swells in my chest like a balloon, floating out into the soulless void. You attempt to elicit joy, as though willing fire from cold soot. I know you want to, you know I want it too. It swims in your bed and fills my head with all this dread, though you tell me not to fret.

I keep slipping away from the atmosphere, I think it’s better up here, looking down on my mother, whilst holding the hand of a stranger, and vanishing into the void. You cannot know the secrets she holds, she won’t let them go for you. There are things she keeps in the dark which you never can see, things which the light erases, things which are hidden in the smiling faces of the crowd.

She was taught it was good when she knew it was wrong, she learned to hold back the song of the sirens in her body, all the black pearls of this painful unravelling. The friction she succumbed to, the silence she surrendered to. The tidal wave of man’s voice eradicating her. Yet you laugh that reckless laugh and invite the enemy in like a fanged companion.

I wasn’t prepared to bleed.

There’s this deep vein which we never cut, that goes on bleeding in spite of us.

You love her like a starry sky on a winter’s night until she bleeds, then you wish summer would arrive.

For you long for the sunrise, to dissolve her from your blood.

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The Favour

Return the favour?
It was a hunger for the flavour
of your climax in my mouth.
It was the desire for the way
my name sounded as it rang out
with your plea for mercy.

It’s the thrill in me,
when I make your skin
scarlet with my teeth and fingertips,
or when I stain your lips
with strawberry.

It’s the way you stare at me
through foggy glasses
and curse me
under heavy breath,
it’s my quest for your breasts
in the dark,
and the static spark
everytime our skin touches,
like a stone in a lake causing ripples,
It’s your hardened nipples
at the edge of my lips,
and the way your hands grip my hips ,
as if to keep from slipping
off the edge of the universe.

Hold me there under the glare
of the milky way,
invite me to stay,
as you always do,
then follow me out into the night,
as we go roaring through
this harsh season
where the city lights
blind our sense of reason.

Let me whisper wet secrets
in your ear,
so that they penetrate
the depths
of your

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Swallowed your cloud of empty
You left me to choke on dry skies
She satiated me with a monsoon
of muraled blue and white waves
We gather together to watch
night transfuse into day
the hours flood through us
like an infinite ocean.
You were the image burned
onto a screen,
the slipstream dream,
made for forsaking
She is my awaking.


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You hold me through the night,
Your arms are branches reaching
out for the wilderness of my body.
I taste the secret of time in your eyes.
She whispers from the river and
cries down the rails in sparks of fire
caught by the ice crystal currents.

I cannot fathom where we began,
I cannot envision an end.
I see sculptured cathedrals
cut across the cold crystal,
which can never be penetrated.

You enter me so fiercely
it makes the stars shatter
into glass fragments of
light, which bleed
through the night.

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Standing in the garden, near the station, overlooking the devastation.
Standing on the ledge, hands held out in frustration. All the while, this icy smile. Charm me like an Asian snake. I sleep and I wake, and you’re still there beside me. Your arms wrap around my bruised butterfly body. This strange mix of dread and curiosity permeates me. I am galloping like a deer into the distance, carrying a forest in my heart, burning like wildfire inside me. I cannot be contained. The universe breaks into meteor showers. I cannot feel the flames. You rise up from the bed and run outside in search of stars, leaving a dark sky in my heart. I feel your absence every time I stare through new eyes. I feel this flood of broken hope surging inside, murdering my desire. I do not want this shattered fate which two star-crossed lovers create. Every ounce of joy comes with a gallon of sorrow, I break bottles on tomorrow and drink away yesterday.

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The Passenger

I’m a passenger on a train with no destination, stopping at every station.
When I arrive, I hope for a reason not to depart. The nature of my travels keeps me roaring with loneliness down the rails. I pass by homes late at night, whose lights are in need of repair. I stare through windows into the lives of others, people with lovers, fathers and mothers who care. When I arrive, you’re not there. The steel grinding halt of this heart causes sparks in the dark.


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Forged from Flames

You came along and emptied me,
empty as the cradle of an expectant mother, whose newborn child lies stillborn in the garden.
I still don’t know why I dreamt you, I only know you were just a dream. You bloom up from the dirt of my soul causing me to choke on this fatal karma. I convulse with agony in our bed, deep in my head I am setting fire to all that you once touched, my body becomes a diamond forged from the flames, you fasten this gem around the finger of a stranger, proposing an eternity of undying love. I awake in the night, mad hot with laughter, knowing you will love as easy as air adds power to the flames. I laugh until the sun gives way to winter, clutching my chest where the throb of ignorance once lived. Now it’s in with the Northern winds, whose cold embrace brings grace. I am the perpetual river, whose surface conceals the corpse of cruel currents.


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Laughter is a Lie

In the silence of words unheard and the world of the unseen, that’s where I held you, in between awaking and a dream, it’s where I hold you still when the world falls away. I’ll always hold you here, even if it’s only a memory.. without you beside me, dreams lose their stars, wishes all die in the frozen sky, laughter is a lie.

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The Cost of Free

That day they were giving out free hugs, you arrived at the station; both arms like bricks of ice in the cold winter air dangling by your side. When you didn’t accept the affection of the others, I knew you felt yourself unworthy, the same reason you rejected food, love, sex, and all the things that make life what it is, because no matter how others hold it dear, you only want to disappear. Without another to lift you up, you will fade into the obscurity of all those infinite arms never feeling accepted, all those reaching arms rejected from holding you.


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Analysis of a Kiss

Science has gotten funny… today they did a new study on the analysis of kisses and what they mean. It’s the way the eyes are fixated and the way the world is moving out of reach from the lips, the way the planets pull down from the cosmos, altering our sense of time. That’s the way you kissed me, but what did it mean? It meant you could orbit earth or teleport to another realm, it meant that we were inhabiting the same star, and it didn’t matter how far, I’d still imagine the perfect kiss, even if we hadn’t shared it, because time becomes vastly altered just by the desire for our mouths to meet in speechless brilliance. This was a taste of what was to come between us, it was delicious and I wanted to savour it in silence, and to laugh at science, because they could conduct a million different studies, and never make sense of the intent of my tongue, or it’s warm, wet dance inside you, shameless in it’s fluency, and eager to create a new universe.

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Among The Poppies

I will sleep with you though you are the enemy, in an alley in a vacated city full of people who are intent on doing, with no patience for being. I will walk along the shores on an island where the blood of the one who began me first pulsed with the waves of the ocean. I will ponder on how you died there across the water from where she first breathed, and imagine the stars as they carry me in my loneliness. I will ask you to hold me, though my body will revolt against your arms, whose tracks could carry trains from hades to heaven and back down to earth again. I will cough and bleed pink love from green skin. I will eclipse foreign lines, foreign voices, who scream out with joy, pleasure, desire, passion, fear, anger, and ecstasy. I will take these foreigners into me, through the main line, and try not to waste a drop of it, try not to let it seep out of me when the dawn comes like a mournful mother, which no amount of obedience could calm and no amount of goodness could cure. I will die there for you and be born for her, I will live for myself out there among the poppies, where no amount of flowers could ever atone for the agony.

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Starry Night

When you were a child, you were laughing in the garden.. you carried this incessant joy to your mother, only to be met with a blank & empty gaze, this is when your heart broke, and from that day you went searching for that smile in others, but it always fades, and when it fades, your sense of devastation is incomprehensible, you feel this soul scorn, so you leave your love alone in the garden with a blank and empty gaze. You see this world as a cold & empty place, and you think all the ones you meet must hide this secret hostility, but in truth, it is a projection of your own inner rage, the sort that has you seeing forbidden images of death, these destructive visions, which seem to arise out of nowhere and leave you with the thought that if others could read your mind, they would run away from you. On the surface you carry this smile, but within you a murder takes place, it is your true self dying, the one who died as a child, while searching for the light through the darkness, a small glimmer of hope out there in the night sky, a starry night in the eyes of the universe.


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Narcissi & Echo

Staring in the water, I find a flower, white petals surrounding a yellow bud, this is the immortal flower of my Narcissus, the adored one who died of starvation while transfixed by his own reflection . He has been resurrected as a gentle flower and his beauty floods the forest. My hand reaches out with longing, but the voice of an ancient sage echoes back, “if you love a flower do not pick it up, because if you pick it up it dies and ceases to be what you love, love is not about possession, it’s about appreciation.” All my life I longed for you to hear me, my voice could not exist without your words, when I approached the pond, my heart fell into it’s murky depths, sank to the bottom and remains there now, unable to love without your deep voice echoing back to me. Now you return as this beautiful flower Narcissi, existing only in silence. So shall I become mute and dumbfounded by your brilliance. Your thoughts will be but a whisper on the wind, haunting my dreams for eternity.

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Narcissus & Echo

The sobs of Narcissus are buried in my chest like an endless blackness, the dark shadow which he never can capture as he lays enraptured by his gaze. I feel his heart on my heart as his flawless body rests on top of me, spent from the endless pursuit of penetration. He enters me, yet nothing ever enters him, in that sense he remains virginal, searching the lonely sea within me for his own reflection. His perfection is like an unbreakable glass mirror, where I remain shattered. I don’t want him to see how much I need him, how deeply enamoured I am by his every movement, and equally by his stillness when his eyes gaze off in the distance, unable to focus on any one person for too long. He blinks and the butterflies flutter. He cannot tell a single truth, for he knows not his true self, a God-like being annihilated in infancy. I want him to know that I will not leave him, even after he abandons me. I want him to find his true vision like an infinite mark of hope tattooed on his soul. I want him to know he is more than this body which forsakes him in his time of need, oh Narcissus, hear my eternal echo, see how I keep myself afloat when you drown in the massive ocean of these other worldly expectations. Can’t you see my ability to die and resurrect myself in spite of your fatal envy? You will hate inexplicably of this I am certain, and yet your hate is only an illusion of your real identity, which got lost in it’s own reflection, and never given the chance at self- expression, never given wings to fly, the unhatched egg of potential, which burns with all the force and passion of an atomic bomb. I drown myself. I do this daily, every time your voice becomes more distant, and yet I resurface again alone in the silence where our world’s lie forever separated.


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Trying to Fly

Life is a detestable mess, where you are forced to dress, show up and give what’s left of your best, what the world has not yet taken, what has not yet been forsaken in the name of all this false freedom, and they fuck you for trying to fly.

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Things More Grand Than Money

When they think they can just say sorry and make up for centuries of red hands then someone has to take a stand so sorry man,, sorry for the ones who are not here today to have their say, it is we who remain who must be the voice for their pain and triumph, fuck Trump and Mein Kampf, and all the years of human oppression, fuck the recession and the epidemic levels of depression leading to no other way out. When you tie your tie and button your collar higher, don’t forget there’s still a raging fire, a towering inferno too high to survive the jump from. You take pride in your flags because it shows another conquered nation defeated, but don’t get too conceited and forget the air on which your own blood relies, it comes from the trees and skies, H20 is more royal than any CEO or sovereignty and don’t forget spirituality and having the responsibility that comes with all that power, or the right to silence when those who are met with violence have no choice but to raise their voices in protest, and hail the civil disobedience, and civil unrest of the slaves of your great nation of corporations, but don’t doubt we won’t take a stand as a people against your plan, because there are things more grand than money on this land worth dying for.

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Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.


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There are times I feel there is no soul on earth with whom I connect truly.
Everytime I get close the rainbow in my darkness turns into an oil slick, and though I should feel appalled, saddened or disappointed, instead I am like a hitchhiker who stands by the roadside staring deep into the oily puddle, where this emulsification of self and other dissolves. I just want to dissolve dissolve dissolve. Drop me like a hit of Acid before a violet light show.

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White are the untruths-like the clouds I touch
when I fall through the sky as I get rejected from heaven.

Hades is too full to accept new arrivals,
so I stand at the departure gate
and kiss the cold lips of an unknown fate,

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Equator of Empty-Rien part I

At least I held onto the dream,
held carbon poison
in my tar-filled lungs,
held like a fish in the gills,
hungry for steel hooks
held lonely eyes
gaze of possibility
before the decades
danced up behind
my back and shouted surrender!

Nobody can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase,

Say “hey, this one is
going to be defective,
an endless series of
impossible starts & stops,
that never come to anything
I advise
you to let it go.”
At least then
You’d know.

Wouldn’t have wasted 39
years attempting the impossible.
would have been successful
on the first go,
as much as you’d always been,
Yes, It came to this,
now release these dead
parts of me.
I tried to tell you
when I was very
I never meant to
be here.

It was a dream,
now let me wake up.
I don’t want to keep
walking into
hitting my head,
my teeth
to be seen.
Laugh at me.
Laugh at me.
I can’t walk
I never could.
this world is dizzy.
I don’t want to
Don’t want
applause for success,
want instead a way
to step off the edge
of the equator.

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Dark Matter

Sulphur butterflies
let go,
be sulphuric,
trust in the elements,
in the minerals:
let lithium in
to dissolve your inertia.
Embrace your own dark matter.
Black powder beauties,
fly free.

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Nothing can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase.
Just before
the big bang
of nothing.

“let go…”

Nothing can hold.

This should come
as a warning label
On a box of

“Nothing can hold you.”

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Smile When I’m Gone

Tonight you send a bird
you send a dead bird
it falls from your hands
your mouth
those dusty edges of fettered
and I smile at it,
because it is nothing.
Tonight I consider ways
to be that bird.
I know they will wonder why I
say sorry to those who cared,
I was not one of them.
I couldn’t be any,
but this featherless



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How To Love A Flower


Many a manner of flowers, bewildering in their beauty
were passed through your hands, encoding zeros.
At such time, I was the one.
perfect beauty
no other flower could emulate.
A stunning blossom, grown from your desire.
The moment you reached for me, the darkness ceased.

You picked me from the womb of earth, and
I was given this new birth.
In that fatal moment your eye flickered,
and the sun screamed for me.


Your appreciation
is the weight of the rock
Sisyphus knows…
constantly pushed uphill,
until it rolls down
too heavy to bear

Your eyes were immortal orbs of power, which melted molten into ash…

Tell me we can have them back…
Take the obsidian,
make it shine again..
make you mine again.



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Dancing on Line 2

“Your version of happiness makes me sad.”
sad the ballerina
as she pirouetted
through the gap
of the metro,
into the oncoming train.

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A House in My Arm

They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
took out a mortgage on my elbow..
these osteocytes are working overtime
for the corporations,
blasting bones to keep the banks full.
This needle is where my entire
foundation was built.
I got engaged that day you wrapped your
warm soft body around mine,
couldn’t imagine a better feeling than this.
I bought you a ring made of pure gold and shimmering
with diamonds, grown
in a dark cave,
which a slave picked
in your name.
I became so big,
watched the neon skyline
while my name
lit every billboard in the city.
This all came
from a 30 gauge
shooting straight
into my arm,
it all went into my arm.
I carry my house, my wife,
all my dreams in this syringe,
it shoots freely through
the blue network
of misfired circuits,
and abandoned
I would have sold my only child.
I never held her,
she lives in my bicep,
the only untouched
wilderness on my body,
which I left clean for her.

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Graduation Day

Maybe in your world, to graduate meant that you would obtain a degree, this means you succeeded at mastering something.
Maybe in my cosmic twist, graduating looked something like this;

9 years old and drunk on tequila we stole, watching the world spin…
Waking up in in a hospital, a mix of faces, both stern & concerned. Later, my mom said she would not nurse us back to health, if we were thirsty, we had to get our own glass of water, take them beats hard, take them spirits heavy.

11 years old, 2 joints of marijuana, they left out on the table.
I left for school and smoked them both on my way there.
Later my mom defended me to the death when the principal told her I was high. The obvious signs were there, the missing drugs, the red eyes, the way I suddenly became so social when I was always the loner in class, the outsider, the one they spoke of in hushed tones.

That feeling of alone which cut like glass through my soul.
Later I would do lines on the strip..We called it the strip,                                                                   it was seedy, dark and defeated.
I succeeded in learning the ways of being enslaved to the white crystal,                                       the powdered kick, the fast morning hit….                                                                                               my own fists against my own unrecognizable face,                                                                          the hatred which wanted me to be wasted.

I tasted the seas of strangers as they entered me, incapable of erasing my need.
Suns were enemies which burned our morning faces.
We danced like we meant it, but then we’d lose balance, forget who we were holding, watching the shape-shift of lovers enclose us, eyes flickering in multicolored brilliance, only to fade to silence and blank stares, or inexplicable rage.

They could not love you, when you were a stranger, but you always felt the hero was somewhere out there on the next big trip, you kept taking it, and he never came, or he always came, but he never arrived, maybe he was too high, somewhere in an alley on Hastings, maybe he was wasting away, the black tar laughter in your DNA, waiting for that proud day you graduated.

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The Girl Who Loved Bones

I can’t reach you, it’s as if you fell a thousand miles below the sea. It’s as if I’m drowning here on earth and you breathe aqua.

I can’t reach you. It’s as if the moon were a sun and the sun were a strange planet from another universe.

Can’t reach through the dark.

You left me holding this undressed wound, without a bandage to cover it. I push and push on this skin and I feel nothing. Where the wound is you make tea, clean in silence, attend a party.

Where the wound is I plan a life that makes sense, looks organized.

Where I am alive, there is a void so gaping wide within that the wound seems nonexistent.

We see to our routines, and carry on as if we hadn’t just been attacked by terrorists. Where my arms were I once held love and my chance of survival increased. Where my skull was before the steel melted, I once held happy thoughts of us together, now your stomach is like the remains from Isis where my life is; a hollow wasteland, burned out and detonated.

This is because you ate the bones of my affection, chiseled them with your sharp teeth, crushed my hope like herbs in a mortar, took the pestle to my dreams, made dust from my kisses.

I know I know, how you love your little bones. How you celebrate your skeleton.

I danced one night with your skeleton, you chose a song whose lyrics I couldn’t comprehend.

Later you told me you hate music.

I thought it was fate,
but we were dancing to your hate.

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Genocide in the Forecast

You quit smoking, but not the SSRIs,
and now you’re taking sleeping pills & Xanax,
you went into hibernation mode,
and I did the same,
we are mirror souls,
without the chemicals,

Since that first day
you struck up a
a match was
lit within me.

and now the long
frost finally
of thawing.

So, here’s my friendship
here’s my honour,
go on keep these,
you might want
to look back on during
our next deep freeze.

This means yes,
I anticipate
a holocaust
of white ash.
This means
a genocide is
in the forecast.

…no socializing
while winter lasts

(For D)

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When climbing high and getting too close to the edge, then being cautioned to be careful for fear of falling and breaking something, is followed by the thought that there’s nowhere left to fall and nothing left to break. When you are awake too late, always tempting fate. When the one you adore lives a very structured routine, and you think it’s obscene how people seem so capable of order. I cannot explain why I am a night bird, why when the whole world sleeps, is the time when I am most at peace. Why I come alive with the moon rise. I do not care for yoga, Pilates or vegan. I have no desire to go raw and drink my dinner through a straw. I won’t be found in a gym, on the treadmill of the world, trying to keep pace. I will be the one who fell from grace. When you mouth the words of a girl who brings you motivation and positive inspiration, by putting roses in quotations, I am the one who reminds you of the thorns.

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I was not created in the image of any God. If I could create myself in anyone’s image, it would not be a Western deity, nor Eastern divinity, nor any entity from Greek mythology, it would be carnal and perfectly imperfect. It is said that we reflect our desires, and that each person is like a mirror manifested by our psyches. If I could, I would create myself in your image, because in you the most merciful Goddess exists, and also the cruelest devil. I could have salvation and damnation in the same breath. My deepest erotic longings  are realized and contained in this one divine being. Your body knows no flaws, even in your scars there is a profound grandeur to surpass any sense of heaven or hell. I want to attend a funeral everyday for the entirety of my existence, just to mourn your mortality. It is the most wicked lie I ever heard, that you will die. I want to go back to the day my first ancestor was born, and drown them in the river, eradicate my entire bloodline, just to erase the moment I learned you were made of decomposing stars.

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Peering in the mirror, I see your reflection in me. It’s always the one who is closest who leaves her imprint on my soul. The name that was given to me at birth was apropos, clarity and light, reflecting through dark, the image of that which is cast upon her. Deep under earth where thirsty roots, like small beings , conscious of their need for the tree, hold deep this vein which replenishes jugular affection. I want your black hair with blue undertones, want the blue haze surrounding you in me, like a cloud of vapor, inhaled and exhaled. When you say I should be things, like the orgasmic thrust you feel in your ilium, this is what I embody. I want your skin as it deteriorates from lack of nutrients, to be my own canvas splotched red, and for my pulse to be your pulse as it leaves your wrists where the indents of my sharpest desire are worn as a bracelet, swollen on the surface, where the ancient ache escapes, to become rain for the desert between your thighs.

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Annihilation’s Bird

Each bird in its place, caged.
One is set free daily.
Extended arm like a runway for aviators.
The broken one sits there envious of the sky,
It will never abide by suicide.
Buddhist principles of non-violence
forbid it forgiveness.
Instead it commits a thousand
silent murders within,
any form of annihilation
afforded by the imagination,
to spurn the body.

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The Reaper

​You were beautiful when you took my hand in your hand, when you held that black cape open, enticing me. You were 6 drinks in 60. You were a pile of white powder that I inhaled, in the hopes of feeling, the tissue soaked red from my efforts. You were lonely bridges at 2 am, bent over rivers, deep as whores. You were strange men who drove by and offered young girls a ride out on the wide open highway. You were razor blades stolen from hardware stores, when I was let out from the ward on a smoke break. You were sutures, charcoal, and the threat of stomach pumps. You were 20 meter jumps into nothing in the hopes of hitting something hard. You were there in infancy laughing, you were there on my first day of school, when I learned what it meant to be different. You are that look in my supervisor’s eyes as she gives me the once over, questioning whether it was really the right thing to hire me, then excusing my weirdness in place of the quality of my work and the level of my seeming dedication. You were the mark on a card indicating my identity, where the line was left blank. You are that thin tipped syringe that hits the vein perfect every time, the one I sometimes romanticize. You are the failed attempts I made, and all my partners who live/d too far, who are incapable of intimacy. You are that mystery man who comes cloaked in high fashion ready to take me on a date, but you never tell me the time. I will never know until I meet you, and then what if we are incompatible? You are always there, waiting in the shadows. You are there when I catch my reflection in a mirror. You were there today when I failed to be perfect, you will be there tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. I can’t starve you out, love you out, buy you out, or drink you out. I can’t write you away or procreate you away. You’re here to stay, ever the immortal victor to my corporeal existence.

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Rebel Rhetoric

Living is radical
when they prefer what is
carefully calculated
algorithms adhere
to interpolated
To live is to
expel yourself
from the radar
rebel in
rise up,
redefine yourself,
as an earth refugee
apply to go
to heaven
apply for hell,
is possible
outside the
of this

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Battle Scars

America never belonged to their forefathers
It belonged to your fathers
and your father’s fathers.
Never forget that.
They drove a strong, proud, red nation
up into Canada,
where they cut off our tongues
and surgically removed our souls.
Red, white & blue
are part of you.
The blood which rushes
through your heart,
which they buried at wounded knee
could not be
without France, without Britain,
without the great red nation.
The enemy is in you,
and the warrior too.
Smearing paint over her cheeks,
she walks free
into the wild country,
bearing their battle
scars within her.

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Candidate 45

The day that Clinton bitch lost
and that idiot won,
my friend in all things strong and femme
held up her arm in a “we can do it” pose.
Tears soaked her cheeks,
while around her bicep
black fabric tied
like a tourniquet
over a tragi-comic,

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The Other Her

You worship statues:
to Jesus,
whose towers fail
to keep erect
when Muslim fires threaten.

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Feline to a Fault

The pitter patter of morning kittens running down the hall,
enter your bed where you lay in lioness sprawl.
Each eats a secret from your mouth
in the cemetery of animal thoughts.
Their razor tongues
attempt to wash your conscience clean
I am naked and 16,
A lithe leopard enters me.
Her dark ennui
transfigures my feminine soul.

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10mgs of joy

The Prozac nation
stopped at Grand Central Station
and rode the main line to oblivion.
No one saw the rust on the tip
of the syringe
from a generation which burned
through the veins
like wildfire
in search of its own happiness.



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Bullet Time

Everyone walks around like they’re in real time.

I walk in the bullet induced haze of a rabbit maze.

My mind is projected on the wall of a cave.

And nothing stays. Nothing penetrates.

I hear the grinding crack of bones when I hit the outside world,

light burns my eyes until I’m blind.

I think I broke something substantial, but I can’t feel the pain.

Others stand encircling me with their mouths agape.

I don’t know if I am supposed to react a certain way.

I have a complete absence of feeling,

even numb pales in comparison to this snuffed out candle of an anesthetized body.

Your smile is a shadow on the wall. Clap your hands and applaud.

I see the wings of an absurd albatross bird.

I think this is meant to be a signal of some kind.

I don’t know why, but people seem to think this all means something.

Maybe I missed mythology class, maybe I should be reading symbols & codes beyond my comprehension.

I turn to Jung again, maybe he can provide a clue as to what this nonsense means.

At least the deaf & blind have Braille and interpreters.

What about those who can’t feel?


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Failed Attempt

If I’d have succeeded
in meeting my heart’s desire
there would be no fire,
no spark of excitement
at the laughing, living,
breathing failure contained
within me.

Then you say I would never see
my mother past forty,
never see the grey
in otherwise sunny

Never have to sign my life away.
I would have made it
to that legal age
where too young gives way
to knowing better,
and simple as that the curtain
would have been drawn shut
for good on these dark,
floater strewn debris,
cataclysmic, catatonic
soul gazing pupils.

I would have had the soul sick
sense of dread at living
and the fearless contempt
that welcomes death.

I would be the same then as now
and now as then,
save the perils of
depleted oxygen.

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Dead Dream

So I dreamt I woke up
I had died and woken up
on the Golden Gate bridge
In San Francisco
And you carried a doll
to a shore
And shot it
in the heart.
It had cotton
they exploded
In a fury of feathers.
I wasn’t sure then
if I saw a bird
or fly,
though I know for certain
that doll kept her smile.

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I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Vertical Over Apical

Memories travel in reverse, like spilled fluid up the cup before it was broken. Irony is I am awake at 2am reviewing chapters on the subject of sleep. REM decreases. As we progress closer to our death we spend less time dreaming, is this because we are closer to finally waking up? She sits in a white chair with a red glare projecting from her eyes. I envision her scalpel as she slices each neck, void of any emotion, this is purely professional, harvest the brain to study the cycles causing disease, be present at the hour of decay, sit at a temporary table and drink something permanent. Drink in sunsets, red dots on white flags, dotted lines: vertical over apical, swim out among a metaphoric sea of trees, hang myself there, like an ornament out of season.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, writing

The Call To Serve

Eccentric hoarder in dilapidated mansion


gives me advice on survival.

Says I stand at a new plateau,

in her time what was known as controversial

was abortion.

In my time, assisted suicide.

holds up her hands in the shape of a triangle,

epic symbol,

for the fundamentals

encapsulating our scope of practice,

like an exoskeletal prism.

You think naively thus?


The doctor only writes the


the nurse follows it.

Thus, the needle,

through the administered I.V,

of a prescribed O.D.


Sudden flashback, lacking LSD,

I see myself in recovery,

my first gold pendant, symbolizing one year

of sobriety, with the ever familiar

polygon, encased in a circle

representing wholeness,

teaching us to give back in service,

but my question has always been


who am I serving?

In this case the vulture

in the syringe.

As I turn to leave, she looks

me firmly in the eye,

through the blur

of her cataract,

says she admires my calmness,

something she never had,

instead she screeched her way out of


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In vivo veritas

[In vitro:]

Crystal violet sky where the sun sometimes rises,

shining light on these molecular emotions,

magnified objectively in a laboratory.

[In vivo:]

The microscope shatters,

obliterating field of view,

blurring my subjective vision of you.

In life, there is truth,

in glass, distortion.

In wine,


Drink the sky, shatter the glass,

stare opaquely


these negative particles,


in Methylene blue;

these warm drops

of humoral immunity

& emotional sterility

fall blankly,


singeing the stitches,

which hold the

child together

inside me,

a severed



into the future.


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