Category Archives: Poem

Uncontained

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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Filed under Poem, poetry, Stars, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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Filed under Flowers, Freedom, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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.

21192427_10155764459172664_171303452211299534_n.jpg

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

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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Filed under Earth, Enslaved, Environment, Freedom, Human Rights, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Poem, poetry, Society, travel, writing

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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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Canada, Canadian, Cree, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Ojibwe, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Rape, Spirit, Suicide, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, writing

Dissolve

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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Goodbye

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,
goodbye.

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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
meaningful.
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
small,
I never meant to
be here.

It was a dream,
now let me wake up.
I don’t want to keep
walking into
walls.
hitting my head,
gnashing
my teeth
to be seen.
Laugh at me.
Laugh at me.
I can’t walk
straight..
I never could.
this world is dizzy.
I don’t want to
spin…
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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Rien

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
contraceptives.

“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
time,
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,
because
I was not one of them.
I couldn’t be any,
but this featherless
joy,
decimated.

the-bird-may-die.jpg

 

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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.

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

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
fade,
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
commitments.
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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Filed under Addiction, Heroin, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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Filed under Addiction, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

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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Filed under Alone, Anorexia, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

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
conversation,
a match was
lit within me.

and now the long
frost finally
shows
signs
of thawing.

So, here’s my friendship
here’s my honour,
go on keep these,
you might want
something
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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Ambivalence

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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Filed under Humour, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Stars

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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Dyade

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,
homicide,
genocide,
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
predictable;
carefully calculated
algorithms adhere
to interpolated
parameters.
To live is to
extrapolate,
expel yourself
from the radar
refuse
rules,
rebel in
response
to
repulsion,
revolt,
rise up,
redefine yourself,
reawaken
the
revolution
register
as an earth refugee
apply to go
to heaven
apply for hell,
anything
is possible
outside the
realm
of this
robotic
reality.

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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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Filed under Aboriginal, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized

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
hung
loose
over a tragi-comic,
self-grandiose
nation.

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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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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
skies.

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
guts,
they exploded
In a fury of feathers.
I wasn’t sure then
if I saw a bird
die
or fly,
though I know for certain
that doll kept her smile.

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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

Confession

I got the results of my x-ray back today,

there are roses growing in me,

and it seems they can never die,

they found butterflies on the thorns

where they made cocoons,

only our lovemaking can heal these wounds.

[~C]

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There are roses growing in you;

I will always remember that August morning when you told me that there were roses growing in you.

Since that day, when they need light, I give them the sparkle of my eyes transformed into sunlight.

When they are thirsty, I empty my body of blood and I become their dew.

When they feel lonely, I serenade them under the full moon

When they are hungry, I offer them my tenderness,

and I cut my arms so they can keep my caresses.

Today, I have a secret to reveal to you; there are roses growing in me too.

Only my roses can live in your garden and yours are always welcome in mine,

but never offer roses to a stranger and never accept roses from someone else’s garden,

because the pain in my soul will provoke thorns to tear my skin off

and a rain of petals will cover my empty & naked body

that lies lost on a pyramid of thorns amid a sea of blood.

[~M]

Written by Crystal Kinistino & Mada Rose

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Bondage, Confessional, Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Hemlock (Truth#1)

I found in you, ephemeral but indelible, this bruise
purple as a twilight sky before the thunder,
where black around the eyes, as charcoal,
accompanying a crimson smear,
your cheek was stained by the memory of my presence.

Each day I arrived to see you sleeping,
bandaged, scarred, and profane, the words
never came, the sentences were anesthetized.

Your disdain grew like a tumour.
Inside needless cells,
carrying comets towards
hell.

The first truth was as bitter
as hemlock in the trial of Socrates.

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Uprooted

​Moth breath over Phalaenopsis,

the sway & swell of city sounds,

In the clay pot, broken, 

but never penetrated;

fastidious flowers, 

desiring winter on a bed of cedar,

stay this way, in virginal foreboding.

8 Seasons pass..

nothing lasts.

that which I called home,

that which I called love.

Fertilizes 

New hope

New eyes,

New bed.

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Perpetual

When I say I don’t know how I could have made it through this without you,

its not a declaration of incompetence or weakness,  it’s a feeling of gratitude.

Of course I am capable, a woman can choose to stand alone.

Its not dependency, need, or loneliness.

I don’t require a manual on how to be strong enough to do this on my own.

What this is, is a wolf in woman’s skin, tearing at her throat to let you in.

If you prefer winter,

go on and forsake

the summer.

The sun that rises also drowns,

in grey horizon.

This warmth of breath,

might just as well smother.

Elements in our bodies,

deplete desire,

for fire.

You with blade,

chip away at ice,

to make something

recognizable,

so that others may say,

It bears striking resemblance

to something real,

attend a festival of ice,

In a bid to feel;

The morning arms that reached for you,

The morning smile that greeted you,

The morning lips which sought in you,

something perpetual.

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Filed under Emotions, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Mad girls love

I dreamt you up inside my head as Sylvia said and you bewitched me just the same, and

then the world dropped dead, and a bird fell from the sky.

I wanted to kiss you, but I found an urn, filled with the ashes of all our burned hope,

stricken by a terror & vitality greater than my ability to contain it,

I swore I’d hold it as a memorial to the love I would never know.

At 21 my therapist told me that real love for me would likely be impossible,

her words, like a curse haunted my existence.

Who gave her such right? To predict my heart’s abilities based on the fickle readings of a

mercurial mind, as elusive and hard to pin down as a butterfly..

That night I rode out to the prairies, surrounded by marshes and countless miles of isolated nature, where I drank as much alcohol as I could and turned on the carbon monoxide, hoping to forget love as it seemed an invention made solely for torturing the psyches of those whose hearts were wild and wide as the prairie sky, too much for any one body to hold, or any one mind to occupy.

It had to be annihilated.

It survived in spite of the poison. In spite of the toxins,

in spite of the way you withdrew from me that day.

I would find a way to outlive it I told you, I’d be inhuman if I had to, but I’d endure this life of lovelessness.

Then I woke up from a very bad dream, and I was in that place known as the afterlife. People think I still exist here. But I died in the café, where you asked me if I wanted you.

I became 3 years old again. My mom was holding my small hand, she took me on a bus ride, and I carried a small bag filled with all my worldly belongings, (everything that ever mattered in my three year old world,) but when we departed, to my horror, my bag was gone, I forgot it on the bus, and it was never to be found again.

When you asked if I might have you, I felt this way, so small and afraid, thinking I lost my world.

I learned to exist so long without it.

When you sat there in the café, with stars in your eyes, It’s like you were this simple, uncomplicated, child with pure virgin eyes, asking me if I wanted the world back again, only the way you asked it was so humble, and you put this strange accentuation at the end of your sentence, as if it were a question.

This antithetical statement “you will love, in spite of it.”

“You will live for the first time in your life, you will defy modern medicine. You will feel true elation, true joy as it was meant to be felt.”

In my bag there were books in which to colour, and girly things, that’s what I recall. And when you came you brought these to me again. You painted my eyes and gave me perfume, you surrounded me with beauty and endless sweetness.

I became 3 again, and the ladies on the bus who seemed so old to me then, remarked “what an adorable child, she has such deep, dark eyes,” and I hid shyly away from their gaze.

When you offered me a new life, in that simple yet amazing way, that is so you, I cried, and I covered my eyes with sunglasses, but you told me, I didn’t have to hide anymore, then you came home with me, where you “sung me moonstruck, and kissed me quite insane, “ and somehow in the most natural & effortless way, you rearranged the constellations.

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Filed under Beauty, Bird, Butterfly, Confessional, dreams, Poem, poetry, travel, 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

Telos

My hands are sad, they speak deep between the lonely crease of love and loss. My eyes are empty, close blankly, refuse to see light and dark, my eyes say these lacrimal glands need to empty out, empty out the countless drops that make up the oceans, leading toward this lonely shore, far from what I’ve come to feel familiar, arms around my body, that say, they love me, arms that say they cannot wait to embrace me, do not speak myths, only articulate truths in sinew, flesh without limit, as though at anytime these arms could learn the way of flight, should I need them, to travel outwards past the clasp of the one who orchestrates a symphony of birdsong, loon cries, geese departing cold Northern shores. Say we are the same in our birdness, that the stars shine with the vigour of burning Gods and Goddesses, for the sole sake of making our dreams essential, or imparting hope that burns eternal. The cup says I am empty, it is mine, I know this because my hand communicates the need to fill it, fill my hand with the glass, fill the glass with water, the water craves my mouth, my mouth craves the water, in this craving, we belong together, are essential elements directed to the common goal of fulfilment. I am a filament, a wick of candlestick, fire is my companion, and the heart a dark organ, that chooses this restless passion to burn. My fingers miss being entwined, I need another hand to fit like a piece of missing puzzle, made of bone that wants to grow, instead I am cramped in my own loneliness. Books line shelves, unread, who say they feel neglected, my eyes visit them, briefly, my mouth utters their contents, sentences fall like strands of hair, in tattered snippets, resembling a person, who wears a braid, and plays a tug of war with words, which never say their true meaning. The clock says follow my hands, I am in circadian alignment, a master of flight. Time says he is angry, a father who died before I knew his eyes were mine, a lover who awaited my touch. This interval in itself resents me when I dress, when I rush out the door, in my hurried frenzy. My legs say stay, my hips pull them back into bed, like reins, my eyes close, and I remember to dream, I see you then, dreaming me, dreaming my veins into rhythm, my nerves into a fevered impulse, butterflies dance down my spine, flickering like candles in the dark, a hot breath of recognition lands on on my neck, from behind. Outside in the garden a rose grows thornless, in consideration of your delicate beauty.

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the ticket soulward

Blackbirds line the plexiglass of the perimeter down Attikus, a bounding pulse, riding through my chest, like an untamed mare, striving for ventricular leap; the streets lie empty as a wrist at the end of a long kiss, and leave me like this και πάλι ένα μαύρο πουλί, landing in the black night, among the cypress trees, calling, swooping, downward, toward the slopes of green, leading to Kiffisia, where the splendor of radiant seasons, throbs like a thousand hearts under one temple, ready to open, ready to thrust away the grey of winter, replace with this, your soft hand, virgin of labor, likened to the flush of sunset that covers the sky in a shy smile, forges the earth to be still, while the cataclysm in my body, swallowed by the Aegean, washes up through the years in the water garden, where her gaze, the gaze of heaven, her lips, forming constellations, which surpass the beauty of a thousand stars when she smiles, her eyes, a deep reflection which sees beyond my waking vision, path of petals, sweet and vernal, where she counts in anxious expectation the moment of our merging, merging beyond blood, beyond time, where trains pass like veins, towards the heart of eternity, you did not board, you did not purchase the ticket soulward, and I thank you for this, in a murmured Latin tongue, which you reject like love.

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The burned out house we inhabit

In the vacant house,

charred wainscot

a flash of memory

captured as a photograph,

where I come to greet her in the foyer,

she keeps that smile,

until my hand reaches to caress,

her face as wax melts,

her smile drips

over the windowpane,

forming stalagmites,

blistered fingers, burned out heart,

her hand emerges from the

ashes,

“holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.”

in absence of identity,

personal keepsakes,

years of collecting ourselves,

kept in boxes, or

displayed on shelves,

soot where our souls once burned

with the vigor of starlight,

caught between rocks,

we push together,

one breath, hot enough to burn

the braid of us,

the knot tied from

infancy to

senility,

somewhere, on the chart

of our development,

we failed our goals;

trust was replaced with mistrust,

autonomy with doubt,

identity with confusion,

intimacy with isolation,

and productivity with stagnation.

We were left with these bodies,

whose faces are as familiar as strangers,

jagged teeth, fading ivory,

loss of skin’s elasticity,

hollowed eyes,

lacking glimmer & glitter,

we decorate our souls,

when we can no longer attend the

celebration of who we are,

but as we fade far,

know that the soul never forgets

it’s purpose,

we came born with a song

and a reason to sing it,

who among us can content herself

with a furled feather,

clutching a long sleep,

if we never care to dream

or awaken?

My wishes blown out,

one final sparkler

lights up the dark room

like a fiery organ,

I multiply each breath,

resuscitating this smothered heart.

Little girls again, we run together,

past rolling brooks, leading to

the water’s edge,

here we walk back,

retracing ashen steps,

I pour lava into the places

where we failed to grow,

forming from ebony pitch,

a shiny onyx tear,

we walk the path of tears,

and reach the ocean

of our separation,

in hope of growth,

tossing these in the salt water

and brine of

rejected kisses,

cold arms,

stern faces,

meter sticks,

belts,

brutality,

and

broken hearts,

we come back none the better,

none the wiser,

the same fleck of

green,

same dark sense of loss,

covers the forest in moss.

 

But I love her,

as I love the

earliest memories

I have,

the ones where hope

thrived in small

corners and

tables were set,

by our imagination,

with no real food,

no real sustenance,

nothing to nourish us,

no hydration,

but the one seed

planted,

was enough to

assuage our thirst,

to restore

the air again,

to allow for flight,

and we rose without thought

or fear of falling.

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Filed under Dedication, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Smiles like Sunscreen

So what if we did away with persona?

What if we shed our lambskin for wolfish fur, and a set

of fangs, bearing sharp our desire for blood, deep meaty flesh,

bones, calcium, and enamel?

What if she said “I want you on my mantle,”

a porcelain doll, where you sit collecting dust,

until she decides to brush you off and make you useful?

What if every day she stared in your eyes, and replaced those

sweet lies with a bitter, unpalatable truth?

 

What if she was cold and uncouth and her words caused

you to shatter, but she just stood in laughter,

mocking your eye as it rolled across the parquet floor,

and when she was done breaking you into pieces,

she put you back together again, buttoned you up,

told you to mind you don’t catch a cold,

kissed you warmly on the cheek, and then stopped speaking

to you again.

 

In her you might see the softened blush of redolence,

moments of passion, intermingled with tenderness,

only to end in incomprehensible violence.

But, what if, by meeting we didn’t mind the first impression,

and the pink clouds of infatuation were replaced by grey,

ominous nebula?

What if she said, “I take an enema because I am so

tense and backed up, that my body refuses to expel

it’s own toxic waste?”

What if she said, ‘I can’t let go, I never climax, because

I need to stay in control?”

What if she told you “don’t speak,

don’t move, don’t touch anything, stay very still, like unseen

particles, because I need for you to cease existing at the hour

when my anxiety is most high, which is at night, when

I think I might die?”

 

If she sat with you over coffee and told you of every

thing imperfect about her, of all her shortcomings,

and solidified reasons for being alone,

then what if she took you home,

and you knew that she wouldn’t touch you,

wouldn’t want you near her, couldn’t bear

the sound of your breath beside her in the bed,

what if she told you these things instead of

pretending to be kind, sweet, compassionate,

the one?

 

What if the sun came with a warning label?

“Might cause cancer, but may also cause flowers to bloom.”

Would we still want to wake up to the daylight?

But we would and we do, we slather ourselves

in u.v protecting cream and admire the beams

as they cut across our field of dreams,

because truth is, we’d rather have flowers

than tumours, so we ignore the signs,

failing kidneys, inability to breathe,

inability to grieve, due to the painted on smiles

we wear like sunscreen.

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Filed under Cancer, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Repressed, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Sad light box

Look inside, all the sun is contained in this box.

Open the lid, let it out, the song changes for each season, a musical wind up game, turn the handle, slowly unraveling melodies. When this opens, who determines what flies out? Pandora pandora, a bat, a bird, a rose blossoming, a frost flower, a hurricane? They say the mind creates it’s own world, and in the box of these thoughts, I hold the night sky, out among the stars, one firebird rises, the rest of the galaxies cry molten tears of obsidian. I turn the handle and your image rises above me in holographic beauty, you float down above me, your lips touching my lips, your eyes like small flames from candles that the dark can never extinguish.

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Dissolution

Though the ocean may be beautiful, it’s tumultuous, unpredictable.
When you pull from sand, the shell of me, I sense you hear
my heartbeat on sonar blips, from far away ships tracking dolphins,
but as I follow the cry under darkest depths, surfacing is empty,
empty, as a photograph of a woman’s feet on the shore,
taken by another woman,
a sinking feeling, as she walks a path,
where no trace of me exists, the sun is pointless, a burning orb
of agitation.

Sleep is futile for the sterile woman, holding a novel, whose
characters were invented on star dreams, dreams of death.
A few words spoken between strangers can mean more than
a decade of silence between the beloved.

Each stranger represents a new world,
her face is a new dream envisioned;
I tell her love is my religion,
that our discovery of eachother was like
the birth of us, and our meeting
will be the baptism.

The things I don’t speak, are truths caught on a hook,
by a small child, with the sunset rising in her eyes;
that the poet is a thief and a sailor,
that the one you most want to attract,
is the one you toss back.

Toss me back, full-bodied, and I become the siren.
I master the ability to swim, my legs become fins,
I am the mermaid others swear
they have seen, I swim downstream,
far from your dreams,
and arrive at a rock on an island.

Until the tide returns,
I am nothing.
You are the tide,
always rushing through me.
I was never able to stand still,
my feet next to your feet,
an image burned in the mind,
like tree sap tears,
the crystalized lachrymose
on a fiery spoon,
of black
dissolution.

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