Category Archives: Mortality

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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Filed under Identity, Illusion, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Mortality, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Reflections on Nursing 

 

You are like me, it’s how you’re supposed to be, so smile and be free says the bird in her, to the cage in me, creaking silver rusted memories. Abduct and adduct arms fast like wings, to fly on out of this place. Your mind is without limit, flapping like a fish on earth inside your body, and as such your spirit laughs in the face of this absolute powerlessness, the absurdity of a weakened system, which fails to reflect the stirrings of a child within, who knows eternal strength, uplifting. Infantile and so, deemed useless, without the ability to prove oneself worthy. Yesterday centennial celebrations, in a society who is not keen on decay. “I’m lonely,” lady of Italy, who spits out the soup in distaste as I spoon feed her lies, in an attempt to comfort her, silence her, in the kitchen, where they gather our incompetence’s, small checks in boxes indicating our failure to thrive. She says she is lonely, this is the pathos of the human plight, and I without ability to heal, provide the most basic of human needs, company, and a spoon, where her hand has failed to hold, and her mouth refuses to open save for spitting obscenities, which amuse me. Hot blooded Italian from the old country. Her family come to visit, and her granddaughter gives me the once over, a power dyke, and me in white, all white, as though I were pure.

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Filed under Aging, Alone, Loneliness, Loss, Malady, Medical, Memory, Mortality, Nursing, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, 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

Memory’s Marrow

206, and yours were in the lower lumbar, I lie in the slumber of codependency, and when the nurse walks in on me, curled fetally near your rib cage, she assumes I’m your daughter, no use in bothering that it’s 4 a.m., as the old man in room 12b calls for more morphine. Without each other there’s the great depression, you’re the haploid cell in my gene expression, I’m like the repression of two faulty chromosomes along a y-axis, which really means nothing, except that I was the girl who risked death for you. You were the sweetness of tea where the drip of honey diffused viscously between warm thighs. Deeply is how I break in your arms, where they fused steel on epiphyseal lines. I ask God why I’m so easily fractured, and she says it must be love, love like warmth spilling out. They drew lines across your body, where the scalpel wrote poetry from your inability to keep normalcy. Faithfully we love, though the heart could mend or break us. Like natural selection, you ossified and died, as I went on to evolve beyond the collagenous glare of these scars. When the doctor sketched the image of your shattered spine, I thought of majestic butterflies lining the trunk of a tree, as the first harsh breeze of autumn tore them away from each other, and I felt some day, I’ll make my way back and pour my heart out in a cup and you will drink yourself sober, wake up without balding, without the wrinkles dissolving youth, pale skin in the morning, the sputum from toxic lungs, God knows I need a way out of this.

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Filed under Cancer, Coffee & Tea, creative, Death, Depression, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Control, Alt, Delete

You are born in ethereal light, funereal flow through vessel of heart, where  room holds caskets, bassinets, tourniquets, places to sleep, to dream, to waken. On the day of your departure from veins, warmth of crimson, rush of celebration, permeates receptor cells, life the mournful fall, death the joyful rise, pulling coins from your eyes, toll for the boatman, an atheist bent on sinking, cargo of karmic, a vessicle of rebirth, bursting forth, dissolving the old self and its former memories, dreams, hopes, and procreation. Reversal of ego, the fluidity of self. They give you a name, a place, a face, a position between two poles, a selective offering of chromosomes, and then they take it all away, leave you as a blank slate, you the great author, illiterate, inarticulate, mouthing desires, forming fears. Before you get here you are complete, experience erases data-
control, alt delete.

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Filed under creative, Death, Disenchantment, Displacement, Evolution, Identity, Illusion, Journey, Life, Loss, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Soul, Spirit, Time, travel, 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.

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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

Wake me when the world is over

No one to lay next to me, put your hand on my side and tell me do you think I’m going to die? It feels abnormal, where I hurt, but the ultrasound showed nothing, still I worry over the non-pliableness near my ribcage, that foreigner I love trying to break free from the civil unrest in my chest. Maybe the reason it showed nothing is because the bird perches at the threshold, muted; no soundwaves, nothing to hear anymore but the dark murmur of this  undetectable song.Tell me do you think I’ll live this way always, afraid of what’s inside of me,? The blackness that pours out at night when there’s no one there to hold, no one to affirm normalcy or improve my chance of survival. You can’t migrate anywhere when a tumor swell weighs you down. It’s just about how many vials they need to make sure they are doing the job right in killing you. When it’s all said and done, there will be a giant arch over earth; M for Monsanto; 8 billion served. They won’t go out of business until all the bees are dead and the aliens take over, a world that oozes green radioactivity. Then the bird will sing for all to listen, but it will be too late. A world without honey is uninhabitable to humans. I lay here in bed with this malady in my head, and no one to kiss it better, not one sweet soul on earth out of the billions of lonely travelers, At least there’s always dreamland, wake me when the world is over. I don’t want to die alone.

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Filed under Anorexia, Bird, Cancer, Chaos, creative, Death, Depression, dreams, Environment, Genocide, Global Warming is a warning, Harper, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Love, Malady, Monsanto, Mortality, Narrative, Poem, poetry, Swan Song, 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

What if

Power lines and the thought that I could climb.

Your hands gesticulating, motioning me back into a feathery bed of passivity.

The pillars of the bridge engulfed by the engorged red, unattainable love I felt, swirling in violent cyclones of possibility. If I stand and watch the swirl of water, like a small child who perceived herself a screaming fish, spiraling down a drain, lifeless. If your mouth could kiss away the death that overshadowed my withering frame in the halls of a consensual prison, we called work, then nocturnal birds would have never watched my mother from the post facing east, and signalled the ominous, the premonitive , what if…

What if she slept and I was the night guard keeping watch over spirits? What if I stood on the boxes in the back room of the building and tempted my fate with a rope and a crate, tied around a beam, leading somewhere I had once been before this life? What if that exacto knife hadn’t opened my arm and caused such alarm among us? What if when she slept I found bottles of Captain Morgan’s and took the keys to one of the vans in the driveway, took a hose from the industrial vacuum and shoved it methodically, one end in the tailpipe, the other in my mouth, with the doors locked and the radio playing what were meant to be the last songs I heard as I stared up at the starlit sky drinking 21 shots for every year I was alive.

What if all of this and still you took me home and held me by your side until that storm subsided? You laughed and chided my attempts at life and death until I had given all I could of blood and sex to you, and it left me in stitches.

Then a girl turned into a woman and kept walking, unconvinced by your feigned displays of love & mercy. A girl who was nothing more than a serotonin depraved burden to your artificial, feel good, polyana ways.

Climbing power lines, shirking the electricity, jumping twenty feet into nothing for you. It never ceased to  amuse, you wanted something more substantial, like semen and the demon of a vacuous tube, sucking unborn dreams away.

But what if your fingers were razorblades and your lips were a red abyss and every kiss you gave cut into me with the thirst for something deeper?

Things at which you smirked and slithered away, cowering. With the “oh Gods and what nows” when I played Anathema or Theatre of Tragedy, and you walked out of my apartment unable to bear it.

You were the amusement whose pleasure wore out on me. When you could not abide my pain or sustain my darkness.

I surged on alone deeper and deeper, further and further away from you, towards a city where a tenebrous girl flicked her blond hair and noted the sadness behind my smile, able to see more deep, able to keep shadows.

Remember when I told you I was lost? You said you would send a taxi to find me, but you fell over and nearly dropped the phone when I told you I was across the country, where I’d gone on a whim to reclaim something that never belonged to me. So she didn’t and you don’t and what does, belong to me? The names of constellations, the origin of beauty?

Or just this…what if?

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Filed under Bleed, Chaos, Control, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fish, Freedom, Loss, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, writing

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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Filed under Alliteration, Bird, Consonance, Death, Eternity, Freedom, Immortal, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Time, 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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Filed under creative, Death, Greek, Grief, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy, travel, writing