Category Archives: Longing

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.

narcissi….

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

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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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.

 

Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.

 

She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.

 

Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.

 

You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.

 

Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,

together,

swaying under the stars.

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Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Violation

A voice is an echo on the shores of a river, cry of the loon. It is a new moon, a full moon, followed by the long snows moon. Ice encapsulates our memories as we tread the surface of a deep forgetting. To remember is to drown. My heart lives in this perpetual spring, melting into currents that violate the very rhythm of this cold season.

image

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Filed under Ice, Identity, Introversion, Journey, Life, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Mortality, North, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Seasons, Silence, Snow, Solitude, Soul, travel, Winter, writing

Love Crisis

“What do you think? I’m not a starfish or a pepper tree. I’m a living, breathing human being. Of course I’ve been in love.”—Haruki Murakami–

And that’s why I get tense when you ask me who I love, who I have loved. I wish I could take your hand and lead you to a secluded place far above a big city, looking down I’d tell you, “that, over there!! I love the way the moon shines full and rustic in the shadows.” If I could become a particle of light or an ion of black, I’d marry that moon. Look, look over there where strangers walk, the one with the gaze of sadness, you know that feeling of being alone and distant even though you are right next to someone? I could marry that girl. I love his red car, the one he worked and saved so hard for to impress her. I love the way the bakery smells at 4am when all the city sleeps and this warm sweet air wisps up to me as I stand on the terrace, smoking a cigarette, drinking a strong cup of coffee that I made in the French press as my girlfriend slept. I love the way she is unaware of my awakeness. How if she heard me, she would wake up and scream as though she were facing a life crisis at 4am. I should not be awake, don’t I know the time?! But back home on another continent I am at work, punching the clock, tolling the hours, working so hard to make my way back to her again. I arrive on her birthday, it’s nearing Christmas and I’m sick. I’m sick and I have been through holiday travel hell, but I did it all for her, and when morning arrives too soon, and the time zones haven’t worked their way into my system, all I’m asking for is a little consideration. Just a little understanding baby. That’s all I want. I love everything and then when it becomes too much, I empty my cup in the sink and laugh at her dramatics. I love no one and everyone and nothing at all. But am I in love? I am in love with the way I imagine your eyes as they search mine for an answer. That’s what I most love. I love your searching, the way you seek meaning, as if to say, all this, all that we love which is going to fall and shatter like a broken cup on the street below us, would suddenly matter somehow, that the break, the injury would be tolerable as long as it held meaning, as long as it didn’t lie or become enraged and strike you when you got out of place. As long as there was hope of loving further, loving more, loving always.

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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry

Myth

What is it I want to tell you? That this red throb is nothing, that this air can perpetuate without your breath, either inhale or exhale. That you exist in a swirl of random chaos like a flowing current of fierce rhythm that pulls you further down into the black miasma, or the blood stained sky. That there is no you and I. No nothing there where honey flows from crafty hands of chemosynthetic mind, longing for something, untouchable, unnameable, blind. Creating energy out of dark, when there is absence of sun light. That you are a rare night blossom, whose jasmine scent permeates all it touches with the potential of hope, of meaning, of a calm receding, where all life draws in it’s chaotic tides, and the swell of the sea inside releases me, frees me to love you in dreams. In dreams I am a stranger to myself, mirrors cast back reflections of lies. I close my eyes and draw in the darkness, emitting red beacons across the islands that separate us, blink and they dissolve, breathe and they depart. Her small hand heals my infinite ache. Her soft lips take me in, her searching tongue is without speech, in my mouth, where silence falls between two disarmed warriors, with their sharp thrusting. Your eyes are my shelter, they shine on this sorrow, penetrating where nothing else ever could. I leave you as quietly as I arrived, on a bitter winter night, bound for an arctic city, far from the magic and myth of your body with it’s warmth and it’s velvet reprieve. Returning again to the scrape of these lonely hours, the raw, the red, the crimson that throbs under this empty facade.

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Filed under Alone, Arctic, Distance, Identity, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, writing

Synesthesia

On a red Wednesday far away.
How far must one feel before it is real? The smell of vanilla reminds me of the creamy sky when the shape of a dinosaur floats by, reminding me then of old caves deeply unearthed, vapour clouds and the reach of Everest the cataclysm of continents drifting and shifting. I think of you who existed in the same world where eggs were fertilized. The time when our species made the great leap, structurally adapting our homologous bodies, from wings, to fins, to the epic void of these empty arms that never held you. We breathed the same air during the same era and yet it’s as if you are a character in a book that existed in a time I can only imagine. So it is that blue is synonymous with the mountain crest where the roaring Pacific faultline pulls like two magnetic forces, an entire separate continent into the arms of another, that time when cultures collide and adapt into common ancestors of different origins, and you smile that orbital smile as the ozone of your affections protects me from the radiation that threatens complete eradication of our species. I love you duplicitous flower, love you black tar highway whose deceit makes the sky appear deep.

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Filed under Earth, Environment, Evolution, Geographical Cure, Heroin, Ideas, Identity, Illusion, Immortal, Indigenous, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Overdose, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Sea, Self

Sunset

See the future, through a suture of time, stitching minutes through wounds.
We bleed out hours cochlea swell,
barely audible in the mute hope of this stethoscope, where no drum sounds,
no savagery of heart amplifying fire.
no pulse of temple, no Goddess in hips.
no pitch to this rhythmless routine.
take me underground,
bury my body, mourn what I was,
leave flowers in place of,
vacate where I am now,
yearning to flourish,
into the crepuscular,
muscular flex of
this sensual sunset.

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Filed under Future, inspirational, Longing, Poem, poetry, Sun, Sunset, Time, writing

Eternity

Can the lizard crawling out from the wall, refuged in coolness be a transformation of the stone, from which it emerges? Is it possible my heart surges with the voltage to ignite a storm, but not the velocity required to light up a city? With enough electricity it could black out the entirety of our world. Lightning crash of black over vision of future. Apocalypse of heart under glare of sun flare. Or is it merely stillness through a crack, where the perception of feeling jolts us back to the presence of this power, thunderclaps through scorched synapses, fusing where the heart clenches, heavy like the fist of Poseidon? Take the heart out of the equation and there is only the still and cool observation of things that emerge and return, seeking asylum from the vagaries of these moods, the inhale and exhale of cyclic energy repressed in the psyche. What does it mean to miss me? What transformation occurs between head and heart when I hear the succour of your voice in child-like tones, asking if I miss you? What does it mean to miss someone who has curled in the alcove of your most ardent organ? What of the restless reptilian that molted through the heart’s eruption and shapeshifted into the skin of a cold blooded amphibian crawling out from the wall on the balcony, overlooking Eden? Would you know to avoid the temptation, else would all the world turn black again? Would the obsidian shores of Santorini crystalize under the sun, whose bright rays lay buried beneath the blistered basalt of a solidified flow? We might never know more than what draws tide to shore, what causes spark to ignite, what kills the light of our universe, yet the mystery of that most vital organ, remains as arcane as the flint of our gaze through a crack in the wall of eternity.

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Filed under creative, Distance, dreams, Earth, Emotions, Greece, Greek, introspective, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, Self, writing

When You Are Far

A Distance
Exists

When you are far
words grow feathers
coo in soft spectacle
eyes flicking fast
checking flight path

Longitude, latitude,
aerial distance,
scanning path of
least resistance.

When you are far
silence jars wings
suspended in want
the heart feels fluent
this voiceless truancy

When you are far
a distance there is
from North to South
where lauded affection
migrates mute mouth

We rise for a moment
Land for an eternity
in each other

for my love..

When you are far,
your closeness felt
like music,
Deafening
all distance,

when you
are near
Sings,
in harmony
with this heart.

Crystal Kinistino and Candice Daquin

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Filed under Distance, Loneliness, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, writing

Stained Thoughts

Never thought we’d dance together, the way your eyes gazed through me, leaving me to squirm self-consciously, wet from my walk in the rain. And you smiled that really dumb blonde smile, that said “blonde enough to have fun, but brunette enough to know better.”  The element of danger, the risk when I tightened my fist and you smiled the know better smile and chatted about the weather, the obvious, yes it’s wet, yes then, yes now, still. I pulled a pained face and your hand ran down my arm as I stared at the photographs on the desk, three grown children, your phone vibrating, the certainty of that gleam where I knew better this time, and I wondered how does one stay in a marriage so long, subdued. You penetrated me right through to my veins. I felt it up there on the makeshift mobile bed, spinning it’s wheels to a far away land, through the green blue heaven of your eyes, and the stillness of your lipstick silence, hiding the crease of age under beige. There in the travel clinic, with images of exotic world’s,  never ventured to, and the smell of coffee on your breath, taking me back to eleven, when I had a crush on the school librarian. Questions of where I’d planned to go, and when I might return again. From you, who vaccinated my body and contaminated my thoughts.

(About a travel clinic nurse.)

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Filed under Conversation, creative, Desire, Erotic, Fantasy, Humour, Loneliness, Longing, Needles, Poem, poetry, Sexuality

Without You

The whir of the air-conditoner,
the taste of cigarette smoke,
tea, honey, milk,
a warm inner glow, a cool exterior.

The lights from the building
across the way,
myself alone this way.

A book in hand,
opened to a world
that only exists
in my mind,
like you and I,
and our
verbose love.

What about silence
and the body,
with it’s vast vocabulary
of expressions
and meanings
that come as real
and true as this
moment, now
without you?

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Filed under Alone, Coffee & Tea, Crave, Desire, Emotions, Life, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Self, Silence, Solitude, Soul, Technology, Truth

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine

 παρακαλώ,
 παρακαλώ.

You are mine.

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Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow

Undercurrents

Temporary transmutation, permeable, impermeable, opaque & translucent.
You paint my grey sky with dreams of colour! You alter my landscape irrevocably. It is deathless in it’s flight. Black bird of night and scorpions eyes. Everything changes, nothing dies. You are twilight tearing a hole through my cocoon, I feel I can bloom into white orchids, poison your throat with deep songs, right all the wrongs into music that stains silence like an elixir of the soul. I can be the antidote to make your laughter pure like sunsets over tragic world’s, where careless girls dangle their lifeless hands, mute to this orchestra in my blood. Touch me electric, steel blue currents break my pulse, trigger tears. Colour my lips purple with love that bruises inevitably. I want you in me, want to swim in endless oceans of you.

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, creative, Dedication, Desire, dreams, Emotions, Fantasy, Infatuation, Jealousy, Longing, Love, Poem, Soul, writing

Kōna (Snow)

kanakēs- For a brief moment
kaskēyimēw-she is lonesome for her
kaskina- break it off like a twig,
kācikēwin- something hidden.
kām¯wātan-It is quiet,
kāsēcihcē-wash your hands
kehcināho- make certain; be sure,
kinwēs- for a long time
kisin-it is cold.

The cold, brief certainty of silence.
rapidly flowing down stream, within.
The dim solitude of a broken boat.

Orphan child, at the edge of a forest, butterfly spirit, my hands fold inward to my heart, origami bird, snow star love, the great withholding of a dam, (state of vulnerablity,) before we make fire we must conquer the cold. Hidden in the dark, you grow lonesome for the light. Lonesome for her, you pine, lost in a forest of hurt. You wash your hands of her and the quiet kona falls heavy, river caller of the long snows moon, under ice in the woods of a perpetual winter…

love in a frozen state of longing,
crystal cure for obsidian heart.

We depart this way her and I, North and South in opposite directions, the wolf medicine stings at my heels, where the untouchable wound breaks open, all the world thunders in my heart.

bursting open

I cry
I cry

Eons back in time,
when the long snows moon
was new,
before the ice age,
when firebird was risen,
in her orange deception,
I loved her volcano hot
raining white ash
over
dissolving
continents.

We are ice people,
people of the falling snow,
white clay people
people of the clouds,
river people who hear and see,
fierce people with cold hands
and burned out hearts.

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July 16, 2015 · 4:50 am

Ebb & Flow

My blood origin is water but thicker than any oil. We were the people of the rapids, always following the tides in and out, as far as they could carry us in our birch bark boats. My grandfather the great Eagle spirit, who could be called on the wind at will, would carry the message of love across the rivers. My father the feathered dancer, always ran with the shadows, ran with the quick horses, wild across the prairie sky, far on towards the high hills, westward to the mountains. He caught the rapids in his veins, the eagle song rushed through him too fast, and I lost his tracks on the wind, it beat quick through his heart like that rabbit on the rails who cried from the weight of the train cutting across his leg. Love is mercurial this is what I chased. I danced with strangers who I hoped could show me deeper into what I felt behind my eyes, spirits passing by like clouds, dark over my head, deer child in storms, under cover of night, crying to the pleiades, snared beneath a thousand shooting stars, willing forward. This is who we are, these are my kin, wild on the hunt, with a scent in us that says love is of this, caught between these river rocks, these feathers, this sky. We follow that scent towards eachother like wild animals marking their journey home again, we will meet at the shore one day. My father visits me in dreams, speaks through the others, offers symbols to guide me closer to the turtle of truth who rises up towards the light. He told me of the 7 teachings, the sacred ways we follow, a path of shells. The beaver works hard to build up these twig towers of hydro electric power that allow us to connect. But the buffalo speaks of respect, tells me “we all have a gift, don’t waste yours, for if beaver did, he would grow long in the tooth and die,” and then we would have a great loss of life, a loss of light to lead us through these dark times.

image

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Bird, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, creative, Earth, Environment, First Nations, Fish, Folklore, Forest, Freedom, Identity, Indigenous, inspirational, Journey, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Narrative, Ojibwe, Poem, poetry, Saulteaux, Self, Shadow, Soul, Traditions, Verse, writing

Patience

My hands I call patience,
so still they could be mistaken
for statues of hands.

Does the bee get anxious for the flower?

Imprint them in cement on the sidewalk of a big city,
tell them I was here and I waited to touch you.

Encase a star in a golden plaque.

I waited.

I would wait
until they aged and
cracked with loneliness,
like the bee whose wings cease
at the discovery of a rose.

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Filed under Dedication, Desire, dreams, Longing, Love, Poem

Invisible

Thank you for not loving me.
This is only my hand, hold on to it and it becomes no hand, no star, no worldly offering or other thing of meaning, such as a limb that is suspended near my body and lays meaningless without the desire to heal or mend this heart that gushes quietly and violently within…

I can get by on lesser organs than the sun, so vital to one’s existence.

One never knows what she misses, my mouth you press into wishes that blow off like pinwheels from branches and hit the earth spinning

Your leg twisted on air, as a dancer’s thigh gets by on physics alone, no chemistry can be found between the earth and sky.

There is no her.
No I.

An eye peers deep and dissecting into my soul.

What is there remains
invisible.

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Filed under creative, Gravity, Identity, Infatuation, inspirational, Longing, Loss, Love, poetry

Transference

I’d long ago escaped impact,
using anybody as selves,
wants opening poems into a very
structured form of other,
war, blood, rose,
stilettos on whores under
the electric lights
of Europe,
yes
that.

Then love got in my blood, and they said my type was so rare, it might not exist in the veins of any living other.

So I sought out the corpse of words, ashes of tongues entering other mouths, long ago erased from history.

The Anglo- Saxon and Roman bred with Greek and Latin, to invent English and enforce it on savage lipped strangers from other shores.

Somewhere in a hidden cavern under a Spanish night, the one person who held my secret laughed reckless off the edge of a cliff into nothing, and they could never find a cure for this thing that lives in my veins, I tried to bleed it out of me, I tried to make it fly, but it never fled, as much as it bled, it never escaped me.

I only learned to lessen the blow of it as it trailed behind me on the wind, always with a newly transfused smile of joy and a fresh cut of agony.

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Filed under creative, Longing, Love, Malady, Pain, Poem, poetry, Unwanted, Verse, writing

Blason

Eyes richer than gold, with their velvet fold of emerald, and lips that leave rubies envious of ruddy days, days beholden to such fools with jewels. I want to excavate the ruins of you with the patience of a cautious archaeologist in search of the truth to the marvelous mystery of your soul, hidden deep, like pearls of lustrous wonder, those sparkling  stars in the sea of your body that I discover on my slow descent to paradise.

“in the realm of you, my child-like fingers in paste, until qualified for pearl, learned gem tactics in the sands of a slowly awakening memory, an amethyst remembrance of treasurous times.” Emily said and I revised.

It’s true, I’m but a foolish child at the shores of you.

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Filed under Beauty, Blason, Colours, creative, Desire, Emily Dickinson, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Sapphic, Sea, Sex, writing

Invincible

Blood rushed
Aphrodite blushed.
And the morning rain fell
outside my window.

I recall trying to hook a minnow on a line when I was about nine. My grandfather said this was what one did to lure the bigger fish one hoped to catch, they made a splash and their silver slip of fear is what drew the hungry ones near. So we gathered round and waited by the water. The white rush of waves and the violent current roaring past made it all seem so fast, but the waiting and the hunger persisted. Yet he insisted on being still. My grandfather had the patience of granite on a day of rain, which promised an arch of colour in the grey distance of the sky. Why couldn’t I be like that man? He used to hold vigil with the battalion. When his father died, they hailed him a hero of the skies and named a lake after him here in Manitoba “Lake Barthelette” He spoke broken French and then with a swift pull he filled the bucket of ice with our breakfast. I recall huddling around the fire for warmth and black tea, he always drank his tea so strong. Strength and patience were two of his greatest attributes. Up until a few years ago he was still out catching pickerel, picking wild blueberries and chanterelles, hunting a deer or a rabbit, gathering nuts and fixing something with his rough hands…

Perhaps I have that, the power of lightening bolts in my hands on rainy spring mornings, and the patience of granite as I try to silence this hunger swimming inside of me, silvery and uncatchable. The wave of loneliness overlaps the wave of ecstasy, causing a rush that pulls me under into deep places, where emerging I regain my breath as I ponder life and death before the big swell drowns out my consciousness.

Blood rushed
Aphrodite blushed.
And the morning rain fell
outside my window

I’m a helpless minnow striving to break free, blood gushing out of me as they track my metallic scent in the water, mercurial, rust coloured and dangling from a hook, this hook that holds me between life and death as the hungry world centers in with a bone-chilling calm in the midst of all this chaos. I am of the sea, of algae and long vines emerging from entwined blackness, pulling me back to the watery remembrance of a  wilderness where I was once invincible.

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Filed under Adventure, Bleed, Chaos, Colours, Control, creative, Death, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Feast, Fish, Freedom, Immortal, Life, Longing, Memory, Mortality, Nostalgia, Poem

All passion spent

They thought we might be the death of eachother. I could hardly stand to breathe without her body. We tried to abstain, I tried to keep her away, at arms length, but she couldn’t obey. One night her partner lay sleeping in his bed as she read poems to me, and something in the seriousness of her expression made me unable to resist her. We were on a cast iron bed in the adjoining room, every muscle flex caused the bed to creak. I put my hand on her mouth to silence her, but her moan escaped and awakened him. Just a look from her was enough to make me cum, the anticipation of her touch sent comets shooting through me. By the time her skin touched mine they exploded into the night like a million beams of light, blinding me with stars. Maybe it was the fear of being caught that thrilled me, or the way her eyes were etched with green flecks of brilliance and her mouth seemed carved out perfectly to fit mine. One day his relatives were visiting from America and they stepped out while she was cooking dinner, promising to return in time to eat. In their funny Chicago accents they said “dinner smells mahvelous, see you soon.” The moment they drove away I couldn’t keep my thoughts at bay. She was sitting on the sofa drinking a glass of red wine, wearing a white apron, stained with the blood of a wild animal. She leaned into me and whispered that her loins ached as she ran her hand down my leg, I felt the earth break and tremble. She took my hand and led me in the bedroom. Our screams filled the small old house as the potatoes boiled over on the stove and the windows went foggy from the steam. We lay gasping by eachother’s side as the car pulled into the driveway and we ran to make ourselves more presentable, less mangled by desire. They were so honoured to be eating a traditional, Aboriginal meal. As they commented on how delicious it was, it took all my strength not to laugh at the situation, their accents and serious faces, her messy hair and legs lined with scratches, as though she had fought and killed this massive beast alone. I always hoped we hadn’t left evidence of our passion anywhere, but if we did, they seemed to overlook it.

Another time she came to see me at the apartment where I was staying. She held the keys to her truck in her hand as she stood in the hallway explaining the situation. She was carrying crates of books from their house and lining the back room with her possessions, promising to leave, to come be with me. Her hair fell in waves down her shoulders, her tightly toned legs shone from the force of her effort, and she stood there with a slight smirk, eyes shaded from the sun. I walked up and claimed her lips, grasping her wrist I told her to stay and she chased me as I pulled her keys away. She fell on the bed, wrestling me down as she tried to pry my hand open. Her sex pushed against mine and I dropped the keys, she stared at the keys, then back at me while I kissed her. Our clothes were unnecessary restraints that kept our skin from eachother. Later as we lay covered by dew and lust, with laboured breaths suddenly we heard footsteps ascending the stairs. The door opened and we struggled to dress, it was so obvious. My brother walked in with my cousin and they found us that way, completely ravaged. The entire place breathed sex. It seemed to follow us everywhere; at all hours, in open spaces, behind bathroom doors, at the homes of relatives & friends, everywhere we went got marked by our undying passion for eachother and our inability to resist. Her hands belonged to my body and mine to hers. It took more than a decade to kill, but we outlived it. Others weren’t so fortunate.

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Her eyes are a dark cave

Her eyes are a dark cave where I gaze deeply at a thousand stars, traveling in progression through the centuries, a written documentary of our souls. On stone walls I carve out these symbols of affection and she interprets my love for her with searching fingers in the night, tracing those arcane lines into light.

We are each in the other seeking an answer to our own being before the sea rises and washes away our poems, etching our memories like fossils on stones, translating our dreams into beautiful beams that pass from the ash of that dusty distance to our present existence.

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Nothing owns me, only you

Seems like girlhood conditioned me to be that woman who hides in that place between dark & light, the place that casts shadows. It hurts to be admired. To have the same scars as others with the same particles of stars coursing through your veins. Maybe I was eight, but maybe I never existed. I was not yours by blood, but you found me as a girl hunted while night flooded in through the open balcony and you came & went and pretended not to see me naked, violated. That boy, just a budding man had taken me from behind, and all you did was walk away and lock the door on your daughter. I must have wanted it, wanted like the purple and blue left on me by you whenever I ran away. Little girls stray. I always did. But that was so small and inconsequential (like your manhood) and then you had the nerve to say you knew, you know why I was so stunted. Mother was the same, she would hand me away to the wolves. I remember being only four years old and hiding under her skirt, where I felt most safe. That was my first time going astray. I went on many adventures into those places between dark & light, places of non-existence. I would later be reaching for things not seen by others. I was sure I could touch them, make them real somehow, bring them into the light to display. I was in a trailer, riding out into the country, a girl and a wolf, alone together. I felt his  fingers to be like spiders, that was the game; the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the little girl’s leg and into her panties to play, the sky went grey and I went with it. The rain fell and I squinted my eyes at the horses on the open prairies, behind the fence, tamed to be ridden into the distance of the forest, where we once ran free as children, without arachnophobic memories. The rain kept falling, it rained and rained. I was five years old and another budding boy took my hand and led me by a lake, forced himself in my mouth and told me to keep swallowing. That is when I first learned to swim, like a small mermaid, I would swim against the current of the world, unseen, under dark water, just below the surface of the light, in that place I came to recognize as my home. I cannot recall all the ones who gained entrance into my young world, so many trespassers disguised as those who loved me. I lost entire years to those night travels, and there was never a moment when I could reach the sunrise untouched or pure. I was a stained glass version of myself cut from crystal, fragile and breakable, a perfect conduit for the light to pass through, on it’s way to somewhere better. Not one of you could see the logic in my decisions. “Why would she, why would she, how could she?” One day my mother asked me in my twenties if I planned to die a drug addict, and I saw my future, hollowed out, creviced, and dark. I decided at last to emerge from that place, but the darkness followed me into the light, like a hungry wolf licking at my heels, and I laughed at you all, in your fickle facades of marriage and children and happy home lives. I clicked my red heels three times in succession and woke up in a wonderland of my own invention. This time it was a choice, I went willingly with those wolves into the darkest of woods to feed their hunger, quench their infinite, injured need for love. I took up the name not easily given, like a wild gypsy sun dancer and claimed that title willingly. One time my father said he never pictured me a thief, he imagined me as a call girl, something others stole or took with or without permission. Maybe he was always right and I just haven’t envisioned that truth yet. Maybe deep down that’s what they all want for us, to please them and make them feel wanted and important. How important are we, showered by eternal white starlight, yet constantly cloaked and veiled to our own inner beauty? Seems like my girlhood conditioned me to be that woman, and that became my name, in a foreign language, Russian for “woman of the wolves.” Or an Indian name given; my indoctrination into an endless world of night, where I am most at home. I learned to master pleasure. I can easily give it, but I never feel it, and pain is so ordinary to me. I laugh at those who feign these games of pleasure & pain, all those who play like children at being on that border, have never truly felt what it is. Let’s go through the motions together. I will take you where you can only dream of being and when you reach that paradise, you will see that I am the Queen. Queen of wolves & shadows. They pass through me easily, and I take them deep inside of me where there is no fear or hurt, to a place where you can master your own shadow. Watch how the wolf enters the girl. becomes her and her him. One could not exist without the other. Give me what you keep hidden from those who fear you most and I will make it my own. Oh what lovely hands you have, the better to unfold me with. Unfold me like a paper swan and write your name on my soul. I’m bad with names. I only remember eyes and limbs, and how skin gets mutilated by sharp claws as they tear you open. I don’t know what it is that gets so numb in me, I only know women make me come alive like a swan on the surface of a pond, gracefully floating beyond, an endless stream of pretty water-lilies and perfumed gardens. There is never a woman whose name I’ve forgotten. Unique & beautiful like flowers, orchid girl, rose lady, tulip child. They make all that is dull and ugly in this world worthwhile. Make me shine my violet femme, my constellation, my flock of doves. Nothing owns me, only you.

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Sparrows

Sparrows slowly swoon in sorrowful silence from the south as winds wither the flowers in her mouth.

Time lies slowly dying for those immortal sparrows.

Deep in a grave of  lost love my girl withers also.

Her hands, now bones, no longer able to touch me, flowers fading, kisses gone, bleeding through this living memory, that fades with my ageing body.

But the sparrows remain ceaseless with the passing seasons.

I want to be a vine, be a root, or a branch, that winds through the earth, reaching for her.

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For us

I’d like to get some platform boots, a silky pair of black nylons and a strapless strapon. Red and full is how I feel when I see your hard nipple & thirsty mouth, want to take a slow trip South, biting and licking my way through your valleys to the highest peak of pleasure in you, in me, where it hurts, transmit this anti into climax, encircle your shiny pearl with my tongue, the swirl of paradox, the soft endless ness of your velvet body when I enter you slow, rhythmic, then gradually harder, until I need to hold your braided hair, pulling on the reins of paradise, each thrust pushing deeper into you, into me, I need your eyes on mine, so I can journey back and forth between those  parallel worlds where you are both woman and girl. My soul pulsing into that death, that emptiness, that place at the threshold, where there’s no turning back. Brush away the butterfly fluttering in me so constantly, the bird trapped in my ribcage, the viper in my spine, all these things that twist & tangle and unwind me, set them free for you, for us

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Chaos Theory

A voice never to be heard. (things absurd.) The giving up of moments into memories, the sacrifice of self into nothingness, like the self was nothing to begin with, and it wasn’t, it is and it is not dependent on mood. But a mood can create & destroy. What was that they told us? First the thought, then the mood, then the action. But what if I was without thought or feeling? What if I was all id, seething along on impulse, impervious to the outcome, recklessly burning the night alive like a dying star? What if that’s all we are? These cellular beams of nothing, creating self from thought & illusion. The play of existence is transitory, so we can opt to live or die, or merge into another self at random, according to our own will, that gets governed by the heart and guided by the soul, which is immortal. Then this body is a choice and so is yours but are we really free or is that also illusory?  We carry our prisons like luggage or occupations, from one destination to the next, deep in our inner cores, where we fear to tread. Freedom is a state of mind they say, so I can be locked away and still fly, or I can roam forever and never feel alive. It doesn’t matter either way. I dreamt we had a long conversation. I dreamt I heard your voice. I dreamt you meant to tell me something. We had met for the first time in the flesh, and there was nothing to be said that couldn’t be expressed by our bodies, so you said hello with a long and fatal kiss and in that same breath I said goodbye to life and death, I was born in you, anew. Because real love makes us lose our vision and real love makes us see things as they are, in a way we were blind to before. All that pollutes us from the past transmutes into a white light of undying purity in which we create each other, rhythmically like planets, aligned to a divine order, that appears to us as chaos.

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Lost in the memory of another

I never told you I spoke about you from the beginning to any new girl that listened. “She’s an inspiration. Read her. See her magnificence!” “But are you sure she’s only a friend?” They asked as they stood in the shadows on the precipice of what could have been but never was. And I laughed. “She’s a province away and miles out of my league,” and they stared at me perplexed as they crossed their legs and ran a brush through their long hair, combing out the dreams that never materialized, like tangled knots of unfulfilled promise. Until one day you vanished like a star, and I stopped speaking. Until the last girl told me she adopted a dog from your hometown and picked a book off a shelf that you recommended to me. Then I was struck dumb and I walked away and left her with no explanation. “She’s a friend from long ago and far away, ” I said, but my reaction was disproportionate with my words, so that all she heard was that I was a girl, lost in the memory of another.

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If you were coming in the fall

If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year, I’d wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I’d count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But now, all ignorant of the length Of time’s uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting. — Emily Dickinson

I love Emily. I admire her fierce undying devotion. She would go on loving and write countless letters & poems to people she loved but never was able to hold. Her first true love married her brother. I can identify with that undying love and devotion, and the crushed sense of spirit she must have surely felt, but never let destroy her.

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Multilingual

The languages I speak are English, French, Greek and love. In the latter I am a beginner. At neither am I fluent. Truant to love’s feast, I hunger for something I cannot articulate.

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δεκαοχτώ

An inferno dying out in your mouth of clouds, the sharp hungry bird crying out at dawn, 18 reasons to stay, 18 to leave, dekaocto.

A girl I watch from your balcony;
years of stifled song, and the wrongs spill out in silence as she bends down, her tight shorts cutting into my agony.

Through the doorway where you call to me after such a long drought, you force my hand down and tell me to touch you now, but it feels like mercy, like persuasion not to fly, like I want to die.

I want to die separate from all the things you know of me,  but I cannot because I am a muted bird, and you are blind to this feathery thing in me, which wakes in the night hungry & scorned.

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The Eurasian collared dove (Streptopelia decaocto), most often simply called the collared dove-

The song is a coo-COO-coo, repeated many times. It is phonetically similar to the Greek decaocto (“eighteen”), to which the bird owes its zoological name. It also makes a harsh loud screeching call lasting about two seconds, particularly in flight just before landing. A rough way to describe the screeching sound is a hah-hah.

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Filed under Abuse, Bird, Bondage, Death, Freedom, Greek, Intimacy, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, Sex, writing

Red Ochre

Her hair is stained by the 56th nucleon of an Orion constellation, surrounding a planet that rains pure silver.

Curled into long locks by the graceful fingers of a Jupiterian Queen.

Her eyes are green, like emeralds plucked from the Nile in Egypt.

Her body was formed on an ancient land under the sea, somewhere long ago and far away from me.

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Filed under creative, dreams, Infatuation, inspirational, Longing, Love, Mermaid, Moon, Poem, poetry, Soul, Stars

Barrier

Red tape, white tape, things to break and be bound by. Seal my heart away in a box, in storage where it stays, incapable of remaining any other place, but categorized under things to take out when unpacking, things to decorate this empty space.

There was a turning door that alternated between dark & light, among all the places she led me. I could not follow her in, could not let myself process the shadowy barrier I would never have the chance to cross.

Her mouth was gentle and breakable by invisible kisses, kisses stained black, white, dark, light & beautiful in their pain.

We cannot get beyond the dusty smell of death in all the old places we stay.

I see a flutter of butterflies carrying stars to the river, to drop them deep in the murky silence & the gush of waves.

Some day I will drown in stars.

Some day I’ll rise silver & moonstruck, to hold her in my arms and stay in a place where my heart is still and my body never defies me.

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Filed under Beauty, Death, Displacement, Drowning, Freedom, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Poem, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, writing

Gravity

Can you catch death from an owl, or freedom from a butterfly?

Wisdom & transcendence.

I have walked along the palace walls and witnessed the loneliness of the queen; the things she has seen and been above, and the absence of true love in all the stars we wish upon. Saw princes turn into demons and princesses hide away in dark places, praying to false saviours in the sky.

I have rode trains near ancient remains and felt the sorrow of the broken stone goddesses, who are a testament to the war we wage against all that is different.

I sat with you one winter night and you held my arm tight, trying to catch my pulse. It froze like a piece of glass and lodged into my heart.

Midnight arrives and I skate down the river, to the edge of the city. I stare up at the lights in the sky and wonder if it matters that there’s life on other planets if it’s all the same as this.

When I was twenty I drank a bottle of vodka and disappeared. The truth appeared to be nothing but a blur on the horizon. When I woke up I was sober and nearing forty. I found I had missed nothing. Being awake or asleep, life still carries on in the same way with or without us. We have gravity to blame.

I decided to become an astronaut and float above the world, alone. Out here in the dark no one sees me. I hear the desperate pleas of the lost ones back on earth, crying for something, anything to take it all away. Some pray for little  things; like jobs, children, and marriage. Some pray for bigger things; like freedom, truth and love. Not one of them sees how futile their efforts are. Not one of them cares for the things beyond.

In space you are weightless and mute. You can’t hear the sound of bombs going off in the name of love, because bombs don’t even matter and love is only a word. Nothing can touch you when you are free, not even gravity.

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Filed under Astronaut, creative, Death, Displacement, dreams, Earth, Eternity, Freedom, Gravity, inspirational, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Space, Stars, Time, Tragedy, travel

Moon Break

You told me you love me to the moon and then the moon shattered in three crescent pieces on my floor. (The crimson moon necklace made of clay, you bought me on the island that day.) Where will you love me to now that our moon is broken?

Ovid said that although all things are temporary, nothing perishes. Everything is flowing. It’s sink or swim.

I doubt this was an accident.

I meant to replace the picture I had hung in my kitchen that reads:” those who love passionately teach us how to live.” I was going to hang the calendar you sent me for this new year, the one about unlikely friendships in the animal kingdom, and then smash, down from the nail, like a fallen Christ.

Is there really a Hades? Can we take a boat there? What will Persephone say when she hears the news?

We may never see another spring.

What a tragedy.

And I walked about my small coffin of an apartment repeating “I broke our moon, I broke our moon.” Bury my heart at the Acropolis.

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Vacant

Tracing circles in a backward motion, creating spirals between the darkness and light. Erasing the lines that connect our hearts, those same lines that separate our bodies. I should have known in the first breath so that I would not need to stifle the last. Your plane is always bound for foreign places, tickets and stopovers, none of which include me in their destination. I was a slave to the clock and I would have worked until my heart stopped beating as long as it brought me to your door. I lay here with an open window on the night, wind blows into an empty room allowing enough air so that I can breathe a breath that belongs to me and me alone. I grieve a million stars. I swallow an entire continent and digest it slow, it comes up in my throat and lingers there, provoking earthquakes, body tremors. I think I’ll lay here swallowing clouds and oceans, I think my veins are the Great lakes that twist into the Atlantic far on the other side and my arms are the great divide between here and there, between this and nothing, I am bleeding currents, I am flooding cities, this is Venice, or the lost Atlantis we will never recover, this is the death of a lover. The meals we won’t share on the terrace overlooking the Acropolis, the amazing sun setting over the island that has forgotten our silhouettes under the tall palms. The ancient pulse of stone and the emergence of night blossoms will never welcome us together anymore. What I am remains on the tracks where the train carried us home, it never finds its way again, it never inhabits the same perfume of our two souls. One is a breeze passing through a station where the other does not exist to feel it. We are light posts on separate streets in different worlds. Sometimes the same girl wanders in our shadow as if she remembers something and then she keeps walking until she forgets to care whether it is dark or light or if the moon even shines anymore, because none of it matters, none of it ever mattered. I once dreamt I bought a ticket and boarded a plane and when I arrived the sign hanging over the city read “Vacant but for our dreams. Empty but for our memories. ” This is life, this is the welcome we all receive at the beginning and end of our journey and this is also what we carry inside us, everywhere we go and with everyone we meet. The same sad urgency of our departure and the unexpected joy of our arrival.

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July 12, 2014 · 7:17 pm

to love but not to touch

I am no more yours than the moon,
something which you gaze upon at a distance,
through the darkness,
and expect to always shine for you.

Sometimes it’s all too much, to love but not to touch,
sometimes the equator forces the tectonic shift of a continent,
8 feet in the direction of another continent,
many lives are lost, but the earth moves with a magnetic pull, attempting to bring us closer.

In a hundred thousand years
our worlds will collide
and all the love we hold inside
will create a supernova,
which will burn through the sky
and light up the universe.

 

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Filed under introspective, Longing, Love, poetry, travel