Category Archives: Suicide

The Lotus Flower

I am gathering breadcrumbs on my way to the witch’s house,

she feeds me on Yeats, Auden, Hughes, Sexton, & Plato,

with scraps of Bishop, Thomas, Joyce, Lowell, & Poe,

Hansel & Gretel are living w/ their father & his mistress in Soho

She invites me in for tea as she immediately

tucks a towel under the door, sealing us in with Death & Co.


Her cottage is a white palace

Its crystals a little poultice,

hidden away from the flammable sun

preserved by the carbon monoxide

ether of her undoing

why is it so quiet, what is she hiding?

in the room off the kitchen,

that black, bellowing chamber,

her jars filled with amber,

her “breasts and hips a confectioner’s sugar

of little crystals, titillating the light,

while a green pool opens its eye,

sick with what it has swallowed”



Suddenly a starving swarm covers

the panes of glass from outside,

while through this our faces reflect

from the mirror in honey-combed brilliance,

“a bonewhite light, like death, behind all things…”


Her drones returning home from their long wintering,

their “lightless hibernaculum,” their Auschwitz,

buzzing in tandem;

“I am, I am, I am.”

seems to offer some “backtalk from the mute sky”


The black boot of her brute daddy,

stomping on his daughter’s

restless grave, that autoclave,

in the cave of her burned out chamber

where the slaves get disinfected


She prepares the oven

the pipes seem to hiss

in their seedy blackness

I am more than this!

more than you, more than this Jew-linen,

this lead paper-weight,

“this dark thing that sleeps in me; ”

its “malignity” screaming for a way out


This dark flesh of fruits,

this rotting orchard fermenting in the backyard,

where the gravestones bob like bald heads

in the dark red of their mossy earth-womb,

even amidst this hell-fire the lotus flower blooms.


–For Sylvia Plath



Filed under Plath, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, 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.


Leave a comment

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

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, writing

The Call To Serve

Eccentric hoarder in dilapidated mansion


gives me advice on survival.

Says I stand at a new plateau,

in her time what was known as controversial

was abortion.

In my time, assisted suicide.

holds up her hands in the shape of a triangle,

epic symbol,

for the fundamentals

encapsulating our scope of practice,

like an exoskeletal prism.

You think naively thus?


The doctor only writes the


the nurse follows it.

Thus, the needle,

through the administered I.V,

of a prescribed O.D.


Sudden flashback, lacking LSD,

I see myself in recovery,

my first gold pendant, symbolizing one year

of sobriety, with the ever familiar

polygon, encased in a circle

representing wholeness,

teaching us to give back in service,

but my question has always been


who am I serving?

In this case the vulture

in the syringe.

As I turn to leave, she looks

me firmly in the eye,

through the blur

of her cataract,

says she admires my calmness,

something she never had,

instead she screeched her way out of


Leave a comment

Filed under Nursing, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

On reading the diary of Virginia Woolf

A small bird flies into the pupil of her eyes, from where it begins to rise, as her tears fall. The wooded path, down which she travels, on her late night rambles, where the colour of the deer match the brambles. It rises there in green light,flooding through thick curtain, collapsing, wingspent on the forest floor, where it comes to rest in the thicket evermore.

Yesterday she was gold plated, gold is not meant to crack in thin line, where falsity falls from fingers, grasping at quill, until this sentence takes flight, by a height of such altitude, paving way for a depth of demise. The bird in her eyes does not rise any more, will not gather in tangled domesticity, will not show signs of sanity, i.e, does not behave obediently.

She shines the silver carefully, and minds the manner of her tongue, lest it be kindling for flame, as smoky sentences rise from pages, where she leaves behind traces of truth, until the waves open the sea, swallowing her heavily under. Outwards and inwards, with no warning of the incoherent tide within her mind.

New dress replaces old, she says she inhabits it for 10 and 11p, at the table forlornly, she scribbles down her reality, what to me can only be a memory, preceding an emotional Holocaust, as the gas chamber glare of her vacant stare, goes unbroken for a century.


Filed under Feminist, inspirational, Journey, Lesbian, Life, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Virginia Woolf, writing


You tie your laces and pull two faces,
one for the stage, one for social graces.
Your black shirt stained by a silver star,
symbolic of the vertical scar on your wrist, flickering in tandem with your pulse, a passing ideation, a vulgar fascination with love, a holocaust, a permafrost of blood coagulating like strangulating sunflowers in a field of hate. You awake again at 4:48, the world disintegrates, nothing stays in place, it all unravels like knotted lace around your jugular, dangling at the end of fascination, the end of circulation. You see a silver star and follow it, it floods the stage, blinding the audience in awe, there’s a long pause followed by a loud applause. You exit with no memory of the tragedy. A beautiful amnesia drowns you in silence, waves of violence wash over your face. The mask falls and shatters, cutting the crowd from view. If looks could kill, there would be a holocaust in my heart for you.

For Sarah.

I had a dream on July 28/15. I was riding in a bus with a strange girl. She had a dog with her. She told me a story of how the dog once bit her. As she recalled her experience  I stared down at her exposed skin, her chest and arms were covered in scars and needle marks. She told me she just let the dog go on biting her because she didn’t have the strength to stop it. I recently read the complete plays of Sarah Kane, which are very horrific, intense and annihilating, but also poetically brilliant and beautiful. There is a play she wrote called 4:48 Psychosis in which the female character spirals into a psychosis that inevitably results in her suicide. Sarah Kane titled the play based upon a time in her life when she was undergoing immense psychological agony. She kept awaking every morning at 4:48 am. Eventually she lost her battle with depression and hung herself in the King’s College Hospital with her shoe laces.
On the night of the dream I was sleeping with her book above my head. Afterwards I awoke and stared at the neon numbers on the clock, 4:48 glowed eerily through the darkness of my room. I shivered with dread and went back to sleep again. My girlfriend in Greece attended the memorial of
Λευτερηs Βογιατζηs , a remarkably sensitive theatre director who adapted her work for the stage in Athens. His memorial was held in the theatre, his coffin was set up on a stage that had sunflowers rising up from it as was written in Kane’s plays. I watched the service via an online newscast. My girlfriend and her mother looked so morose in the crowd. She told me she had a surreal  dream in which she was in a theatre and she saw Sarah Kane. She went to kiss her and Sarah put her hands in front of her to stop her and said “there’s no point , I can’t give you anything, I’m dead!” It’s so haunting  how these coincidences happen. I don’t believe they are anything less than synchronistic fate, a streaming of the psyche into waking life. The title of the poem was inspired by this dream and also by Sarah Kane’s play called Clean, which was written with the concept of love being like a holocaust.




Filed under Cleansed, Crave, Depression, dreams, Poem, poetry, Suicide

Variations on Black

In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.

When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”

“A box of darkness, a gift.”

I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.

For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..

voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”

Fuck you black bastard, no!

I won’t join you.

I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.

A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.

1 Comment

Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing

Jesus Christ of Urgent Care

Sky colossal in it’s charcoal depth,
mouth pitched black where they forced me to drink my salvation,
nurses at the station laugh at my situation,
another O.D for ward 3.
Neon sign over heaven reads; “closed.” 

Stripped down,
dressed in gown & gauze,
no fluffy clouds,
only a chalky film on my tongue,
distorting my words into something disgraceful,

I.V drip,
sanity slip,
curse of concavity weighing
down my soul,
mouth full of charcoal.

Heavy nod,
paging God,
white lights,
fluorescent glare,
Jesus Christ of urgent care.

Leave a comment

Filed under creative, Depression, Grief, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Suicide, Verse, writing

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?

1 Comment

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