New Year

(To be sung to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer)


Ring in the brand new New Year,
have a champagne glass or two.
Make a few resolutions,
make it a point to start anew.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
have another glass of wine.
Party it up with old friends,
they will help you pass the time.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
split some jello shots with friends.
This new year's gonna be awesome,
let's hang out again weekends.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
chug a beer as fast as you can.
That dude did it in ten, flat.
done before I even began.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
kay, that's enough, stop drinking.
Seriously I think you're good now,
no, stop the song. Let's get some air.

Cheat

Emma sat at the table, a plate of fear in front of her and a glass of worry in her hand.

She stared at the man across from her, shuddering as his eyes ghosted over hers as if she didn’t exist. “Please,” he said silkily, that voice of his running smoothly like a melted stream of dark chocolate. The thought made her hungry, and her eyes followed his gesturing hand to the plate in front of her. Steam coiled up to meet her nose, and she tasted bile in her mouth at the smell. She put down the glass.

“Please,” he repeated, a little more insistently, eyes like twin coals smouldering at the edges. She knew those eyes, knew the holes they could burn in her paper heart, so she reached tentative fingers towards the silver.

He smiled as her left hand closed around the fork and her right around the knife.

It was not a pleasant smile. He couldn’t, she knew, smile pleasantly. He had tried, too long ago for her to remember, and too recently for him to forget, but he had failed as miserably as she was failing at resisting him.

Perhaps, she wondered, he hungered for pain as much as she hungered for food, and it made it more difficult for either of them to do what they wanted to?

She felt his gaze on her and carefully cut a slice.

It had been like that the last time, except she had been watching him and he had been eating, and what was on the plate had been infused with saffron rather than the most dangerous kind of magic.

“Emma,” he remonstrated, chunks of butter melting into his voice, making it smoother, richer as she listened, “we don’t have all day.”

She’d said that to him, she remembered, except he didn’t glance back to his bedroom as she had, didn’t appear in any way impatient. He was replaying everything almost exactly, watching for even the slightest reaction.

I won’t give you that, she thought fiercely as she brought the fork to her mouth, I won’t make this worth anything.

His musician’s fingers, magician’s fingers gripped the edge of the table, and his eyes darted from fork to mouth, mouth to fork, not wanting to miss the instant when her tongue brushed it and her senses exploded.

Emma remembered watching him like that, before he’d stopped being able to smile pleasantly.

At the last second, she dropped the fork with a clatter.

“You’ll break the china,” he murmured, voice as soft and thick as velvet.

She’d said that to him, more loudly, with more anger in her voice, and he had replied, “At least it’s not your heart.”

Saul had come from the back then, and pinned his arms behind his back, and made him promise to leave peaceably.

Emma remembered the look in his burning-ember eyes.

There was nothing of that look now, only an insistent concern. “You’re hungry, Emma. You should eat. Trust me, this is just what you need.”

Her memory spun forward. “Trust me,” she had said, pushing his hands away, “this is just what you need,” and he had tried to smile as Saul had laid an arm around her waist and gently led her away.

“It’s getting cold,” he pressed, that silken voice wrapping around her senses, distorting reality. The worry in the pit of her stomach was digesting. It was getting cold, she reasoned, and picked up the fork again.

The instant it touched her tongue, she reached out her arms to push herself away from the table, but the chair was chained to the floor and she was somehow held to the chair, and his eyes were burning, now, burning into her as his fingers tapped on the edge of the table in anticipation.

She gulped down the mouthful and he gestured to the plate. “Surely you’re not finished.”
He was as sarcastic as she had been when he had tried to show her what a fool she’d been. Her mouth was parched and her fingers trembled as she lifted the glass to her lips and worry washed over her tongue, numbing it.

“I’ll leave you,” he purred, magic coiling around his fingertips as he pushed himself from the table, “to think. You mustn’t,” he continued, unpleasant smile just touching his lips, “think that I will change my mind about any of this, Emma.”

He reached the door and swung it open with a thought as she felt the fear and worry gnawing away at her stomach lining and remembered that she had told him that she wouldn’t change her mind, either.

Emma sat at the table, a plate of fear in front of her and a glass of worry in her hand, as David locked the door behind him and left her alone.

When it comes to days like these,

we are possessed by nothing.

So we sit incubating
in our Buddha armchairs,
pyjama-minded,
souls myopic to the
winter tumbling through
windows onto rugs,
swallowing our feet
as we undo the stitches
and cast the needles again
under glorious atemporal
blankets of ice.

Sometimes I look at the post count and realize that it's OH MY GOD ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE POSTS.

But anyways...

The Underground Man (Crash and Burn) [Part I]

[fucking shitty night. here's a depressing half a story which matches my mood.]

In the underground, there is no night or day. Only shadows.
Only the shadows of people I watch in the slight rear-view on the side of the metro train. I toggle a switch and the doors open on the appropriate side to which passengers should be getting on or off. I make sure everyone gets on; toggle a switch, and doors close. A socket board of switches, levers and buttons rest in front of me which have absolutely no use besides their aesthetics and showing off brand sparkling new useless technology. The big red emergency stop which, if used, can jam the train to a dead, complete halt and seriously injure, concuss, or even murder someone in the cart, sending them flying across and falling on top of each other. The big red button tempts me with its lust. I want it. I am in control of hundreds of thousands and lives per day and can easily crash-and-burn every single one of their lives and every single one of their family’s lives. The possibilities are endless, but this non-sense only plagues my brain late at night. It really is non-sense. I was a serious man, raised in a traditional fashion, and there is no room for eccentricity in tradition.

These are the thoughts that have been consuming me for the whole fourth week of duty so far.

And so the shadows behind me enter and exit without a second thought, simply as second nature. I don’t exist because I am the ghost to their benign existence, and I can accept that. I can stare straight with no corrosion and go on for hours on end driving the cart through the darkened underground corridors, making sure they follow correctly on the tracks with zero crash-and-burn, driving through rush-hours and slow hours, getting on time. I even make sure to keep my doors open extra long if I see an elderly person struggling and running after my train before the doors close. Other than these rare occasions where I respectably wait for an elder to get on, the whole point is that people have places to be and things to do. And they have to do these things on time and following a routine. I solidify their routine. It’s not only the poor either who ride my carts; the young, old and wealthy but environmental friendly all ride my carts. When I look at it this way, the job is quite rewarding, you know. People trust me and I do my best to follow their trust.

It’s a simple procedure really. Other than the switch used to open and close the doors, there is a second toggle with a big red sphere handle at the top of it which controls the cart itself. I push it up when I want the train to go, back to stop, and left and right whenever the track takes a turn and the glowing arrows ahead of me on the track warn me to. These glowing arrows which hang as signs in the tunnel are essential for newbies like myself to get used to the system and when I have to turn. Besides this, it's not that tough to be a metro train driver. In fact, it's easy. It’s all sufficiently laid out before you, every little step and responsibility is as simple as listening to whatever the glowing signs tell you and then pressing a button. It's all a step-by-step procedure, and you are that blank area in between the cause and effect, to make sure it gets done routinely. And I am completely fine with the routine, because routine is how things work, it’s what keeps the earth spinning and my checking account growing.

Thing is, it’s been a month since the Montreal Metro system began staying open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. They figured if there were a few willing employees to drive a couple trains a night, then why not add an extra charge after 1AM and leave them open for the night? This way, they keep about 8 (maximum) trains going on non-stop for the night and still make enough cash to pay the drivers.

Being my first month on the job, I got the night shift. And at first is really wasn’t all that bad. I get to work around 10PM, and drive straight until 3AM, take a coffee and "lunch" break, then drive continually from 3AM to 8AM. Then I take the metro home myself, being a shadow for the next early morning driver. I get home at 9AM, sleep until 6PM and then wait for my next shift to begin. It's rather quiet sometimes, but you get used to it after a while when you have your iPod in and the whole world shut off around you.

It’s just that things have gotten a little strange after the first couple weeks. Being completely alone all the time gets to you, creating a pretty bizarre existence. A reality defined by thought. It’s been a month of only me. Myself and my thoughts. And thoughts can be a very bad thing sometimes. My mother always used to tell me when I was younger to not over-think anything and to simply live life out to the fullest. She always told me that my father over-thought and that’s why he “crashed and burned” as the saying goes. His story is another, in and of itself, but let's just say that he didn’t live too long and gave into the pleasures which his body told him were good. He very much liked his liquor, which also didn’t help him when he tried to drive home at 3AM when he was getting back from the bar.

[...]

Jungle Law

No one knew that Phillip Stone existed far away. No one ever went to the jungle there. It was too dangerous. Filled with tigers who could eat you alive and probably would for the fun of it. Venomous snakes so deadly that if you were bit, you were dead before you hit the ground. There were insects there. Mosquitoes so big they could suck up to a pint of blood from a man before leaving him to die from some crippling disease. No. No one went there. It was far too dangerous.

Yet, Phillip Stone managed to reach the age of twenty before he died. He knew how to make fires to keep the large cats away. The fire scared the snakes away too and in any case, he was much too quick for them to catch. As for the mosquitoes, while they were more dangerous if they reached him, the buzzing sound they made let him know where no to tread and when to hide.

Mostly he lived on berries he knew were safe to eat. He was lucky enough to miss eating the poisonous ones during his experimentation. If he could get his hands on meat, he would. He preferred it. But he wasn't an able hunter and the tigers never left any meat on the bone.

When the bulldozers came, he became incredibly frightened. Not only were the noises foreign and loud, but the tigers were frightened and had disappeared within days. It only took days for the bulldozers to reach his living space. He was hiding in a tree when he first saw one. He'd never seen anything so powerful and he kept his distance. He came closer slowly and discreetly. Finally, he saw the driver. He could only stare for all his life he'd believed he was unique. He overcame his fear and felt an irresistable connection with the man in the bulldozer. When the bulldozer was close enough, Phillip Stone leaped out of his tree and landed before the machine. He looked right at the driver who was looking the other way and for all his agility, Phillip Stone was crushed by the bulldozer.

It was reported globally, that it was tragic that something so close to humans had been destroyed but no blame was laid on the driver who was simply doing his job in the name of the human race.

Lobotomy

[I posted this on my own blog a few months ago, and submitted it to my poetry class for workshopping, after which I edited it a bit. Although it may not look like it, it's maybe the poem I've put the most thought into and most things in it are deliberate. So I don't know if knowing this will make reading better or worse, but I'm telling you anyway.]

She stands

There

On the corner of indecision

She jingles

The change collected in the faded recesses of her pocket

Amid crumbs and crumples of paper

And looks

Away

At the street

Where no cars pass by

And the lights change and change back

She jiggles the change

So it clinks and sounds like someone’s home

She juggles the change

Looking out at the darkened windows

Black street

Blacker sky

The red lights shine in her change

Silver quarters reflecting

Glistening

Shine

Tiny beacons of promise tinkling in her palm

Beneath her fingertips

Solid

And empty

As nothing else is

She jangles the change as the lights change and she doesn’t

Green

And an empty white light bidding her to cross

Like death

Only in the shape of a walking man

Held together by a pointillism of lights

She walks

Across

Stands on the corner of decision

And steps into fluorescent beams

Empty smiles across the counter as she walks up to them

And hands over her change

Silver flashing

One last time in the constance of her eyes

Before she exchanges it for a candy from the stand

And steps out the door

Into the bitter air

While the sugar

Rots

Bibliomania, part IV

{Excuses for the length. I hope the content will make up for it.}

When he got home that day the Old Man was exhausted from his journey to the bookstore; he carried with him three bags full of books and could not wait to fall onto his couch and lose himself in their pages for hours. When he arrived at the door of his apartment, however, the Old Man was surprised to find that it was ajar. He stood there, frozen, the heavy plastic bags cutting through his palms, absolutely terrified. Someone was in his apartment. Someone was looking at his books, touching them, stealing them, perhaps; or worse, throwing them out the window or into the oven. Someone was attacking his world and he was unable to act. He thought he heard the noise of metal clashing upon metal, and then footsteps. After interminable minutes of contemplating the tiny crack of the unquestionably unclosed door in stupefaction, the Old Man had taken his decision: he would simply run away, taking with him what books he had bought that day. He would walk away from his apartment building and go to some park and read for hours and hours, waiting for the stranger in his home to leave, and then when that stranger would be gone, he could finally return and assess the damage, hoping that none of his books would have dissapeared. The Old Man remembered now that thieves stole TVs, jewellery, and money -- not books. Having taken his decision, the Old Man was just about to turn his back to his apartment door and walk away, when the door opened on a middle-aged woman holding a plastic garbage bag. A startled look of surprise ran across her features as she saw the Old Man standing their, all dishevelled, but it soon became pity as she noticed his look of absolute terror -- his eyes widened by fear, his brow greasy with sweat, his complexion even paler than usual.

“Dad? Oh, Dad, come on in, how long have you been standing there? It’s just me Dad, come on, come on in. It’s me, Dad. It’s Anne. Here, let me take these bags from you. Oh my, they’re so heavy, how were you able to carry them all the way home. So many books Dad, did you buy all of them? You should really think of going to the library instead. Come on, come sit down, I made some tea if you want some, I brought you food as well. Come, come sit down.”

An endless flow of words, spoken with deafening speed, assailed the Old Man as he was being dragged by this woman toward his kitchen table. He cast a glance of panic at the closed door to his room full of books. The important thing was that his books remain safe from foreign eyes, from foreign hands. Finally the old man was forced to sit down and a mug of steaming liquid was placed before him on the table. Then the Old Man remembered the bags of books he had brought back from the store. He no longer held them. Where had they gone? What had the woman done with them? The Old Man tuned back to what the woman was saying: something about his books. No doubt she had already penetrated within his sanctuary of books and now she would want to take them away from him, starting with the ones he had just acquired. He would not even be able to read them, already that woman would whisk them coldly away from him. The Old Man glanced around the room, and found the bags of books lying on the floor by the front door. They lay there like worthless junk by the bag of trash the woman had wanted to throw out when she first opened the door on him. The blurry silhouette of the woman was still moving about the kitchen with dizzying speed. The Old Man tried to concentrate on her again, on the flow of words that erupted endlessly form her spot in the room, all the while bent over a pot of steaming liquid on the stove. A few minutes later she set before him on the table a bowl of soup, and grabbed his hand to put a spoon in it.

“You have to eat now, dad. Your place is a mess, I didn’t find a scrap of food. There was old bags of stuff I brought you last time, but... I thought you were able to go do the groceries on your own dad, but I don’t think you have, have you? No, of course you didn’t. You can’t live off what I bring you every other week, and I can’t keep on coming here and cleaning up like this. This is ridiculous. Now eat, stop looking around like that, don’t be afraid dad, why are you trembling? Your hands are freezing. It’s me dad, it’s just me, Anne, it’s me, Annie, your little girl Annie. It’s okay. Come on, eat up your soup you must be famished. You have the strength to go buy books, Dad, why can’t you go and buy foo? You can’t live on books! Come on, eat up. That’s it.”

You can’t live off books.

You can’t live off books.

The phrases fell like a weight in his mind, surging ripples of thought that echo across the vaults of his psyche. Someone else, somewhere else, had said the same thing to him, but he had refused to listen.

That night the Old Man did not sleep well. He tossed about in his sheets, sticky with filth and sweat, his dreams mingling with reality -- as close as he could come to remembering. He dreamed of his books, of the people he had encountered in them, of the places he had visited, of the things he had done. They replaced his own life, which he was unable to recall now.

There had been a life, of course, before this. There had been a family: a father, a mother, a daughter. Then, the mother had died, and something happened to the father. While the daughter dealt with her grief and moved on, the father stagnated, closed in on himself, and forgot. Slowly, year by year, he stopped doing normal things like going work, seeing friends, cleaning, and cooking. All he did was read.

He read and read and eventually replaced everything he had inside himself with the content of his books, channelling the stories and people within the covers, and losing all contact with reality in the process.

The Old Man could have remembered all this, that night, it was still inside him somewhere. He did not, however, remember anything other than his books. He dwelt in literature, instead, dreaming of Egypt under Roman rule, of Nazi Germany, of dystopian futures where books were prohibited, and murdered monks in medieval Italy.

Suddenly, the Old Man was completely awake. He knew what he had to do, now. He got up from his bed and walked over to the kitchen. There, he fumbled for a moment with the oven and managed to turn on the gas. Taking the matchbox in the cupboard, he then went into the room with all his books. He went over to his chair and sat down, easing himself in its musky softness. In the dark, he waited.

He waited for what seemed like a long time, until he could smell something different. Something warm, but not comforting like the smell of a book. It smelled dangerous. He waited longer, until he felt light-headed and drowsy. The Old Man knew the time had come. He took a match out of the matchbox and scratched it gently against the side of the box.

You can’t live off books.

“Then I can’t live at all.”

Swept

He comtemplated removing his feet from the coffee table, debating internally whether or not it was rude to do this at another's appartment. He then saw her do the same and assumed it was alright. He was relieved, because even if this wasn't the first impression, it was an equally important one. He wanted things to be perfect. It wasn't his fault; His parents instilled this in him. "Any job worth doing, should be done well, and that's not just for 'jobs'." He sighed in nervousness and chuckled. His discomfort was great enough for anyone to sense; anyone, but her, that is.

She quickly rose from her seat and went to retrieve supplies from another area of the appartment. She stood in the kitchen, staring at the cupboards and finally grabbed her goods. Almost prancing, she returned with lemon wedges, two shot glasses, salt and a bottle of tequila. She was ready to make a mistake.

He was not.

He played with the ring in his pocket while she was away.

Christmas time is here!

I am surrounded by a mountain of wrapping paper.
I here dad's Mercedes rev as he leaves the driveway.
And mom, wine glass in hand, comes over to kiss me on my forehead but I pull back when I smell her breath.
"Why did daddy leave mommy?"
"He's going to see his whore..."
I start to cry. I don't like this Christmas. I look down at my bratz doll and start to pet her hair.
"I don't care anymore, your bastard of a father can go and sleep with the nanny for all I care. And he was surprised I knew!!! The whole fucking town knew! Let me give you some advice Alice, don't marry the richest guy in town, let some other stupid bitch do that. You can sleep with the bastard and have more money. You won't even have to get knocked up!"
She tries to grab my arm, but I shrug her away
"I.. hic... Love you Alice"
I hate her droopy eyes when she is like this, her makeup makes her look scary.
"Mommy your hurting..."
"Shut up you little cunt" she hissed.
I can't stop crying and mommy is squeezing me really hard. Her big boobies are so hard. Last year, mommy went to the hospital and stayed in her room for a week after. When she came out of her room she went back to the doctor. She told me she wasn't happy with what she had.
Her boobis were sooo big after. I thought she looked so pretty.
Mommy is crying on me now.
"Let's pray Alice, that daddy gets in a car accident."
I can barely breath. My Bratz doll is on the floor behind mommy she can't breath either, she's lying face down on the ground. I hope mommy lets go soon.

To Sweep You Off of Your Feet

She registers a twig snapping, maybe from the way she’s stomping around, maybe from the branches she slowly edges away from her face. But it’s the possibility that maybe the sound is distant, a source aside from her own rather, that makes her pause, then speed her actions. She treads through the forest at a faster rate, hears something tear, this time she knows it’s her dress.

Another twig snaps. Louder this time. Closer. She realizes it’s someone, it must be. She’s grown up in these woods, knows every creature, flying and grounded, knows their hesitant and soft steps. Strangers to the forest, however, are a different story.

People, she finds, are different stories. Not at all like the way they are in fairy tales, not at all like the princes of legend, soldiers of history, heroes and heroines with courageous hearts of gold. No, she thinks, people are far from golden.

Another distinct movement. She breaks into a run. There’s something about running that she’s always liked. Chasing my freedom, she thinks dramatically.

‘Slow down!’ she hears the voice behind her, stops immediately and turns around, struggling to catch her breath. Breathing, she believes, or being that much out of shape, is a sign of weakness, and so she breathes through her nose to silence her pants. She sees a figure behind her, also breathing heavily, dimly lit by the light of the moon. Lean yet strong.

‘Identify yourself,’ she says, straightening her back, surprised by the strength in her voice.

The figure only laughs, a dry and amused one. ‘You identify yourself,’ is the response, ‘You do not own the forest, princess.’

Her eyes widen slightly so she forces them down into a frown. ‘It is more mine than yours,’ she replies.

A pause. The figure moves slowly towards her, familiar sounds of twigs snapping echoing in the forest, and she is certain this is her follower. A peasant, perhaps. A guard? The figure stops abruptly as some leaves on the tree above them move just enough to allow a moon beam to shine on her face.

‘You...actually are The Princess,’ the figure says in disbelief.

She rearranges her hair and avoids any eye contact.

‘So far from the castle?’ the voice is softer now.

‘You are to tell no one,’ she says firmly. Hesitates slightly. She straightens her dress with her hands, suddenly unaware of just where to put her hands. ‘Now,’ she continues, bringing a lock of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand, ‘Return to your simple pleasantries.’

‘I must follow you.’

‘No,’ she says quickly, and it comes out much louder than she intended it to. ‘No, you musn’t,’ she says, ‘This is not your quest and I am not your child to care for.’

They stand there in silence, and she briefly considers using a verbal threat, or her father’s cavalry. Perhaps even a bribe. She begins counting the pieces of gold she has in her inside pockets. Thinks maybe a dress wasn’t the best costume to escape in.

‘You are fairer than your print suggests,’ the figure says, tossing her a gold coin. The very coin her face is printed on, etched with vanity and political self-interest.

She catches it with one hand. Throws it to the ground. ‘I needn’t your money.’

‘What riches can I provide you with, then?’

‘Nothing but your silence,’ she says. Turns and leaves, growing weary of the conversation, she hitches her dress and continues on into the forest. Sighs when she hears the twigs snapping again behind her. ‘Return to your home,’ she says with aggravation running thick this time.

‘Perhaps you are not the only one who feels alone in this town, Princess.’

Later, when they reach the edge of the forest, and purchase a boat to paddle across the lake in, she will insist, with a smile, on being called by her first name.

Illegal

“You should be put in jail,” she said casually, interrupting the silence of their tree-branch-sitting, leg-swinging moment. He laughed deep in his chest; pondered shifting his arm to look down into her face, but tossed aside the notion and leaned his head against hers instead, hair mingling in the breeze, tightening his grip on her and the branch as he did. She let out a sigh and extricated herself from the embrace. “I’m serious.”
He cocked an eyebrow and chuckled a little. “And who would arrest me?”
“The Love Police.”
“And who would try me?”
“A jury of your peers, obviously. We have to follow procedure.”
“And who would defend me?”
“Who WOULD defend you?”
“Ouch. Who would prosecute me?”
“I would.”
Still amused, taking his cue from the half-smile on her face and the teasing tone in her voice, he made as elegant a bow he could while sitting on a tree branch, and gestured with a theatrical wave. “Proceed with your prosecution, and we’ll see if I can make my defence.”
“Well. I’ve never made a formal prosecuting statement before. And there’s no jury...” she trailed off, laughing and making origami cranes from the maple leaves.
“Excuses,” he shook his head, “You brought it up. You have to finish it. It’s a little cold; come back over here.”
She threw down a half-finished crane and swivelled her head to glare at him, a half smile still dancing on her lips. “CASE IN POINT. You can’t keep doing that cuddling thing every time we’re alone or we’re on stage or...or...you just can’t. It’s unfair to the extreme – I think I’d classify it as cruel and unusual punishment, torture of some kind, and that, my friend, is illegal.” He pulled back the hand that had been reaching for her shoulder and furrowed his brow, sensing the shift and wondering what exactly had just happened.
“I...I’m not sure I understand, Madame Prosecutor,” he managed, flashing her a half-hearted grin and pulling off maple keys to send spinning to the ground.
“Forget it,” she sighed, “it’s not a big deal. Forget I ever said it, okay? It was stupid of me.” She pulled her hat off of the branch where she’d put it and jammed it on her head, began to struggle with her sweater. He reached over and held it for her as she pushed her arms through the sleeves, lifted her hair out from under the collar as she adjusted the shoulders, feeling the familiar tension in her muscles. Let his hands trail to the base of her neck, smiled a little as she let out an exasperated sigh but didn’t pull away.
“You’re not helping your case,” she grumbled. “A little to the left.”
When he didn’t say anything, she sighed again. “It’s just...you do this thing where you have no idea what you’re doing to me, and I don’t know how or why you’ve decided that it’s okay for you to play with my emotions like this, but your actions are speaking loudly and your words were ambiguous and...and...and I just don’t want to get hurt. Because every time you hold me instead of just hugging me, every time you make some pretence to pull me into you, every time you smile at me as if we have an inside joke, every time you talk to me as you’re passing by and then go back the way you came, every time you touch my arm or my back instead of just saying “hi”, you steal a little piece of my heart. And I don’t want you to have enough of it that I start caring too much, because I’ve been there, done that, bought the freaking t-shirt and I refuse to do it again. PLUS,” and here she spun out of his grasp to face him, eyes flashing into his with a sudden return to something resembling good humour, “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to steal anything, much less someone’s heart.”

Because They Are My Family

they are my trembling sky-drum.

They play at their good weather
by draping blue tablecloths over the dinner table--
but I see them kick
the hot coals of the earth
at each other's bare legs
when they eat.

A wind in itself has never been carried.
A mountain never grows.
Thunder knows no patience.

They all gather like in a
glaring white waiting room,
hoping for the next tic
and the first blow
to fall.

And me?
I am the mouse below,
the creature who cringes at every buffet,
every crackle of the fire,
but blows on embers anyway
as he sings.

Terminal

[Sorry sorry sorry!! I meant to post this Monday but I was maniacally cleaning my room and forgot...but here it is. It's all I could manage to do this week - today was my last day of exams so I'll be able to do better after! - so it's not spectacular and is more of a work in progress...]


Crying sobbing snotting people crowd the sides of walls ready to board the next bus, remoras suckling on the maternal wall of faux-stone support. The digital signs announce departures in ten minutes. In half an hour. In three hours from now. The travelers wait, as if their lives depend on it, as if the reason they’re crying will re-corporealize in front of them so long as they stay in this intimate space of concrete and glass. It’s where they last saw them after all. Therefore, by extension, the terminal is them. Logical. Leaving this place means leaving the person. More so than when the person left them, walked away – maybe even ran – to catch their own bus into their next life, the one awaiting them just over the speckled red horizon. Apart from the person left behind. Separate from the searching chronicles of skin left in the cells of memory. Stories left behind that can replay themselves through repetition compulsion in the darkest minutes past midnight. Ripping tears from ducts in painful blinks against the neon glow of clocks announcing just. how. long. it’s been since they last saw their person. Clocks announcing departures. Clocks announcing when they can leave. Surroundings announcing they never can. Never will.

The Loser

[One of the dirtier stories I have locked up in my drawer (metophorically [is that a word?])]

OK keep it cool, keep it cool. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Alright, stare at her in the eyes, not at the breasts. Fuck, why cleavage on the first date? Fuck fuck fuck. Look at those tits. It’s like a Cambodian kid staring at a water fountain in the distance. So lush and soothing. The goose bumps slightly roughen up the smoothness a little. My cock rises against the tightness of my pants as it slowly rises. The things I’d do to have my tongue wrapping around her nipples at pace of a hundred miles per hour. They must be the crested jewels of eternal life. I love this woman. This is the woman of my dreams. I can imagine myself fifteen years from now coming home from work and fucking her by the kitchen sink while the kids are in bed dreaming about astrophysics. Make it end. I want this. Make it happen, dude. OK keep it cool. She’s talking about art, I know this, I know art. I like art, I don’t get it, but I like it and I like to think it’s what I’m good at. She’s going on about Camus’ L’Etranger, I told her I read it when I didn’t. I am a fucking idiot. Why lie? Now I’m just digging the hole. Look at those tits! Christ she’s wearing a hot pink bra, caught a glimpse. Fuck, I think she might have caught me. No-no-no-no it’s all good, stay cool man, stay cool, wipe the sweat away from the forehead subtlety. You are the man, you are the cock, the possible breadwinner for the future wife and children, and you are a sex God. No one can thrust at a faster pace. C’mon man this isn’t that hard. Well… Be tough but soft, women like the best of both worlds, right? Be incessant in your pursuit, be ecstatic and eclectic and smart and show off without being pretentious. Incessant reminds me of incest, which is weird. Is this chick even eighteen? She’s in university, she has to be. Make her think you want her but you don’t want to be licking her clit all night. I am the man. The man needs some action too. Wipe the sweat. Let’s do this.

She looks at me in the eyes.

“How do you like my tits?”

FUCK.

“They’re… they’re great really. Really great, I mean, I really am mystified by cellular biology and adaptation you know, like the whole nature nurture, survival of the fittest, natural selection Darwin garbage. It really has come to define humanity. And it’s simply grand how breasts provide milk as if the body is born simply to be a mechanism for birth! It’s amazing really. It’s amazing.”

She stares at me straight-up, not even giving a hint. Eyes droopy. And then it comes. The spasmodic laugh of a hyena on Ritalin and vodka echoing through my ears right into my face. The tears are streaming down her eyes. I am funny. I’m good. This is good.

“Where do you go to school again, Chris?”

Lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie.

“McGill.”

“And you’re a biochemistry graduate I’m supposing.”

“You got it. Might even apply to law school after this next degree.”

“Really now. Well personally Chris, I think you’re full of shit.”

I blew it. Like a sperm whale. Blew it like a sperm whale attacking a boat of seamen. Blew it like Pam blew Tommy. Like a prostitute on a pervert. Fucked it up again.

“Well technically Michelle, we are all full of shit. The digestive tract works in such a way where…”

“Goodbye Chris.”

And then there is the distance of the goodbye walk, as I sit in shame. The black leggings are tight against the cup of her ass as it swishes back and forth with each step. Christ. I didn’t have a chance.

I am sitting on my faux-leather comfort chair in front of my computer (newly installed with Windows 98) and I am watching a blonde streaked women shove a ten inch cock down her throat, choking and gargling herself, gagging, tears in eyes. They claim that she is bustiest of busty and I am not arguing. I then wonder how one can be certified-busty; is there a bureau for this type of business? I continue to jerk my cock faster and faster with my right arm getting tired, but I am getting off to the blonde rubbing her tongue around the head of the ten inch cock and I eventually jizz all over my keyboard in unison with the male porn star over the blonde’s face. And as soon as it’s over, I am instantly repulsed by myself and I close the screen as fast as possible. I can’t believe this disgusting objectification, this mindless quick fix. I am utterly disgusted by myself and feel pity for the underage teen sucking cock. And yet, I can’t look away when it is in front of me. This shit is hypnotizing me, it’s just too easy to avoid. I’m actually surprised how a mere ten inch cock can excrete so little semen, but then I just assume it’s all in the business of porn. This is terrible.

Thing is, no one wants to live life anymore, they just want to see it. That explains this whole porn fiasco all over the internet. Sure, guys can be fucking women in real life and vice versa, but at the end of the day, that involves action and meaning and the strings attached are terrible. Humanity would much rather watch visual imitations of life than live life itself. How do you explain film and TV? Life is fucking boring, right? We need this shit to consume until it eventually it consumes us.

And honestly, what is with humanity these days? I grab some Kleenex and begin wiping the cum off my hands and the keyboard. I pull out some cookies from the drawer and begin to eat a couple. Fudgee-o’s.

Why are we so fucked? I’m a loser and I can accept that, but why is it that people strive to be anything when nothing is much simpler?
The humidifier in the background continues to hum and I sit and stare and wonder which video game I will play tonight. A sedentary lifestyle only kills those who aren’t sedentary, right? I mean if you just do nothing, you won’t have any complaints, right? It’s always the athletic-freaks and sluts who can’t live life without a little action and carpe diem. But who needs that shit? I’m comfortable. Right?

I think the problem is that people create problems for themselves as if they can’t get enough of their own thrills. Like the way my parents broke up, got back together and then broke up again. Or like the way my uncle can’t stop drinking wine or my sister can’t stop popping pills. Or the way I can’t stop watching porn. It’s because people are sad and can’t deal with it, can’t deal with not being authentic. It’s as if it has something to do with where I grew up. How there isn’t anyone with a helping hand and there is not tucking in at night. It’s all forgettable. Like this. But the point is that I don’t want to go into details about all that and I don’t want you crying over my spilt milk. All this madman stuff has got to end eventually and we have already milked the last cow. I’m sad, inauthentic, forgettable and pathetic. But I am alive.

I think.

Bibliomania, part III

The white lights of the bookstore, glaring and aseptic, blinded the Old Man for a moment as he came in, hair dishevelled by the wind, eyebrows contracted in a frown of distaste at the light, the music, the people. The Old Man had a complex love hate relationship with the bookstore he went to every other week to replenish his stock of books. He despised going out of his house, having to dress warmly with a scarf and coat as today; he hated the young people who worked there and asked if he needed help to find a book; or the neat, sparse, linear layout of the store. However, what the Old Man hated most about the bookstore was the smell, dry and lifeless, more akin to a strange mix of fine candles and coffee than books. He could not conceive how a store of this size, containing so many books, did not even smell like ink and paper. Nevertheless, the Old Man was obliged to go if he wanted to constantly have material to read and analyse. The bulk of the Old Man’s book collection consisted of a large library he had inherited from his father, books passed down through many generations; but in order to obtain newer publications and things the original library lacked, he needed to come here, to this lifestyle temple of commercial literature, and buy. The Old Man would enter the bookstore, bracing himself for the ordeal, preparing to encounter people, and grunting and nodding he set out at a decided pace among the aisles in order to find suitable reading material. Most of the time the Old Man had nothing in mind, he just walked through the store, reading titles and grabbing books by chance as he went. After some time he would bring the great stack of volumes in his arms to a bench in the corner of the store and there leaf through his selection, keeping those he found interesting and leaving those that did not prove decent enough. After this strike the Old Man would then go around the store a second time, this time searching for titles he needed; books and authors he had come across in his other readings. When he was done, the Old Man would haul his books to the cash desk to pay. This was the part he hated the most of his outings, when he had to willingly come in contact with someone, take out some of the money sent to him by the bank every month, count the bills, ignore the harassing questions of the employee. The Old Man detested his outings to the bookstore because it forced him to put himself in danger, to leave the comfort of his home, his domain, but he needed to add new books to his collection, and therefore his visit to the bookstore were necessary.

The Old Man loved books not only for the knowledge and literary power they encompassed; he loved books for what they were physically. He loved books as objects, too. He found them beautiful; different in size, and shape, and colour, they were sometimes elegant and refined, bound in sober leather, sometimes flamboyant and loud. He liked to see them stacked in neat piles, or strewn with carelessness on the floor, on a chair, on a cushion. He liked to see some open, to observe how dog-eared paperbacks fell limp when they dropped down, like a dead thing. The Old Man liked to touch books, also; from fondling the smallest hardcover, just the right size in his hand, to turning the pages of large art books, enormous like the lid of mighty chest. He enjoyed comparing the grain of the different papers: coarse for the yellowed mass markets, silky for the larger paperbacks, thick and clean for hardcovers, brittle and thin for old books, or the Bible. He also loved to gently pass his finger over the covers, feeling the paper, cardboard, plastic, fabric, or leather from which they were made. And the smell, of course, which he could not help himself from testing for every book he read. If the Old Man liked the smell of books together, as a symbiosis of thousands of books packed tightly in the same room, he also enjoyed smelling each book individually and analysing their unique scents. He found some books smelt strong, like vinegar, and these were often recent and cheap publications, others he found more developed, more complete. Like a connoisseur comparing the aromas of different wines and enjoying the complete body of an aged red, he would note what he smelt in his mind, relishing the delicate balance of the odour. Books were better than wine, though, because they were never spent; you could open a book one day, put it to rest, and open in it in a month, in a year, in a lifetime, and understand the evolution of its smell better than that of any wine. The strong odours, deep and grave, outlined by the musky scent of aged paper and ink, he enjoyed the most, but he still liked the crisp, hot glue smell of a new paperback. The Old Man loved his books with passion and determination, with all of his senses and with all of his being, because his books were the essence of his life, and without them he had no purpose, no existence; without them he would just fade away. So his expedition into the world to collect more books were a necessary evil, a perilous hardship which made him even more grateful for his life of quiet literary contemplation. Every minute of his time outside his apartment, he yearned to have his sofa under him and a book open before his eyes, instead of the tumultuous ugliness of the real world.

"Veins," He Said to Himself, "So Many of Them."

Held in your warm embrace, I look to you.
You look worried and like you're trying to hold back tears.
Even though you hold me so tightly and close to your chest, I can feel myself getting colder and
Weaker.
"I'm sleepy, Hayley."
"I know, sweetie, I know."
"You going to be alright? You look stressed out."

You let go momentarily and a lonely tear crosses your cheek as you force a chuckle.

"No, no, no. Don't worry. I'm fine."

You look like mom. I can see it now.
All these years of people telling you, I disagreed.

I knew I was almost done.

"Hayley?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want a tombstone."

Shoes

I,
I am your shoes,
You’ve walked miles in me,
And your feet are bruised
I am sorry
To inflict this pain on you
Maybe you should try someone else’s shoes
Walk a mile or two

Maybe Boots
Are more suited to you
To your pathways
Through snow and rain
Long grass and hard terrain

Maybe Sandals
So you can dance wherever the wind blows
In almost bare feet
So you can kick them off
And luxuriate in
The feel of sand between your toes

Maybe heels
To give you those extra inches of height
So you can reach
Your dreams
And while away the night
On a dance floor

Maybe no shoes at all
No straps to rub and chafe
No laces to come undone
No heels to trip in
No sandals to lose
No boots to pull on
No shoes to bruise
No shoes


(apologies to those who have already read this on my blog)

Bereshith

EXAMS EXAMS EXAMS


On another note, this poem is so full of flaws, and I'm continually changing it.


I have carved my name
with half-formed fingers
on the side of
my mother's womb


My name is Caedmon
under etchings of buffalo
torn and
scattered to mouths
as hungry as the hymns
that reverberate in
the torchlight of our tents

My name is Homer
because it is all I can give them
with my blind poet's eyes
and my shivering voice
that would have torn me from death
as my teeth from the milk
(so that my mother will
know my face)

my name is Odysseus
my name is
Achilles my name is
Agamemnon
for we shared the same womb
these same desperate carvings of knowledge,
the same unfortunate cries
of life and
relentless death
on the point of the centurion's spear


(because we could not gather
or give
without death
we will burn

because we could not touch
or feel
our sons
we will burn

because we are the last
and the first
of our own
we will burn)


let her begin again.

let her gather the logs
of my father's funeral
until she burns pyres
besides smoke-stained urns
for both dead
before stroking my head

and welcoming
one of them
and all the fires that never fall
to the world.

Madman stuff

[wrote this 5 minutes ago... just remembered it was Monday, thinking about starting a story like this]

The problem is that people create problems for themselves as if they can’t get enough of their own thrills. Like the way my parents broke up, got back together and then broke up again. Or like the way my uncle can’t stop drinking wine or my sister can’t stop popping pills. It’s because people are sad and can’t deal with it, can’t deal with not being authentic. Can't deal with loneliness. It’s as if it has something to do with where I grew up. How there isn’t anyone with a helping hand and there is no one tucking anyone in at night. It’s all forgettable. Like this. But the point is that I don’t want to go into details about all that and I don’t want you crying over my spilt milk. All this madman stuff has got to end eventually, and we have already milked the last cow. I’m sad, inauthentic, forgettable, lonely and pathetic. But I am alive.

Lebel

The street is dark. Well past bedtime for most humans. But the lamp post waits. It knows she’s going to walk past soon. Any minute now.

Its power cable is frayed and it’s painful for it to try and force the electricity through its maimed wiring, but it tries. It flickers, refusing to go out completely, knowing that it won’t be able to turn on again once it goes black, but unable to spend all its energy now, saving that for later. It sputters in limbo, just waiting.

Then it senses footsteps. Her timed pace to whatever music is playing on her iPod, walking quickly with her head down. When she sneaks a look up at the stars, her face shines pale as the invisible moonlight. Her expression is neither happy nor sad. It’s blank. Tired. Wearied.

The lamp post wants to make this walk better for her, as she braces her neck against the cold coughs of wind tearing against the bared areas of her skin. It focuses all its power on filtering the electricity through the faulty wiring.

It flickers more violently as she approaches (she raises an eyebrow as she looks up at the display, unsure of what’s going on). With a final force of energy, the lamp post manages to shine – fully, brilliantly, infinitely – just as she walks underneath. It glows and beams and bites against the biting gusts and dark corners of the street. It is a sun in the inky black.

And as it comes on, she looks up at it, briefly. And she smiles. She shakes her head, not knowing why this always happens, every night no matter what time, no matter if she’s walking or catching a lift home. She sighs a misty exhale, no doubt dubbing it a mystery.

Her path directly beneath the lamp post ends rather quickly, and she turns onto a side street. When she’s out of view, it lets go. Goes black for good. Or at least, until tomorrow night when she walks by again. Because every night, it longs to see that smile of hers one more time. Even if it hurts trying to make it happen.

Passport

- No, no. The question is... Hey, let's ask this guy. Hey! You! What's your name again?

I walk into the dorm to find the young British guy lying on the bed, waving his naked, brown arms emphatically. He is talking to the sweet Australian girl, with whom he seems to have some kind of connection. They often move away from their group to talk in serious, understood whispers. I will learn later that she is hopelessly in love with his best friend, currently backpacking in Norway.

- Charles.

- Okay, Charles. If you have sex with someone somewhere, what nationality is that sex? I mean, is it from the place you had sex in or is it the same as the person you slept with?

- That's not clear at all, is it? The Australian girl laughs. She's wearing a flowery dress, letting her legs dangle from the top bunk. She wears her dark hair cropped short. She's very pretty.

- No, I'm not quite sure I get it.

- Mark here had sex with a Dan-

- Swedish.

- ...with a Swedish girl in Spain. Was it Swedish or Spanish sex?

- Or ass, or fuck, or whatever you want to call it?

They look at me both with intent, wondering which side I'll pick. I chose the option that seems the most logical, but I add more certainty than I actually have.

- Well, if you have sex in Spain with a Swedish girl, it's Swedish sex, because you don't really know how they have sex in Spain, but you have a good chance of knowing how they do it in Sweden.

I've picked sides without knowing it. Mark smiles and laughs and waves his arms some more, the girl brings her legs back up and tuck them underneath her.

- No, no! It doesn't work like that. How can you have Swedish sex if you've never been to Sweden.

- But I have been to Sweden, answers Mark.

- Yes, but the time you had sex with a Swedish girl was in Spain, which means it was Spanish sex.

Their eyes are locked, they are smiling. I join in the debate.

- It's like food. If you have Italian food in the US, it's still Italian food.

- Well, it's Italian-American food, technically.

- If it's French food cooked by a French chef outside of France, it's still French food.

- Food has nothing to do with sex, though!

- It's Swedish sex.

- But you're not in Sweden!

- Well, you're not entirely in Sweden, but part of you is, right?

They both laugh. The girl nods, although her eyes still tell me she's not entirely convinced.

- It must be a male thing.

A long way gone (Last post)

Other than the title of a book I highly recommend, a long way gone is where I feel I've gone in my life in the last three years. It's an amazing thing time. It's incredible how before you know it, you're twenty years old and in university. I can't even imagine what it'll feel like when I'm forty.

When I look back at the last three years, I tend to think that things have not gone well for me. I grudgingly gave up on being a doctor, too soon for me not to regret it. Or at least think about it every once in a while and wonder. I've gone through a languages degree and have spoken barely any Spanish and no German since I stopped taking classes. I am studying English Literature as I try to get into creative writing and yet they've refused my admittance to the program each time I've applied. I started smoking marijuana. The list goes on.

Depression is a terribly clingy disease because as the saying goes, just when you think you've gotten out, it pulls you back in. Fighting it is a drawn out ordeal which is exhausting because it is a lengthy process which never seems there is an end in sight. At first, it takes hold of you completely and you become disinterested in everything. You stop going to class because you can't see why you should. You stop going to the movies because you can't see why you should. You almost stop leaving the house because you just can't see how anything you do will make any impact on your own well being or that of any other being. Or at least I felt that way.

The biggest danger of it all in my opinion is that when you become unproductive because you are so closed in, you start being told you are not doing things properly, because you aren't, and you start to doubt you ever could do things properly again. You get bad grades, you write bad essays, you can't pass a learner's permit exam, you can't make mashed potatoes for god's sake. You lose confidence in yourself and you suddenly can't be successful because you don't think you can be. You feel stupid, you feel impotent and you feel like you're a nuisance. Often, you are sad and either you feel like you weren't happy since the last time you were sad or you are just sad too often. Or at least I felt that way.

But all in all, when I look at my last three years, I can hardly say it's been all bad. In the summer of 2007, I went to Peru on a humanitarian aid trip/vacation with money I mostly raised with the scouts. The summer after, I went to Vancouver with the same scouts and we fund raised the trip completely. Last September, my sister moved back to Montreal after six years in Calgary. I've haven't become a bitter person. In the last two years, I've been a student while working and being a cub scout leader which is quite a handful. Lately, I've started to take an interest in learning to cook. Baby steps are the key. It's funny how when things are going badly, you think of other times and when things are going well, you don't think at all.

I'm getting better. Slowly. I've stopped smoking marijuana, I've attended classes on a regular basis, I've left the house and gone to meet friends and I've recently started eating well again and exercising some. I got my learner's permit today. But I am a long way gone from the happy about my life person I was and I need to keep getting better before I will be better.

There are a few reasons I'm telling you these things.

Firstly, if anyone feels depressed, then perhaps they can relate (sometimes it is hard to tell when people are depressed, I just learned a few days ago that one of my two best friends is feeling like I did at the beginning of my depression.

Secondly, because sharing helps. It's too much to handle by yourself. Doesn't matter who you are.

Thirdly, I want to tell you that this will be my last post as a regular member and while I might post every once in a while, I need to cut some small things out of my life. I have a tendency to bite off more than I can chew and it isn't good for me.

Lastly, don't worry too much about me if that's what you're feeling. I am a strong person with a strong mind. I know what I want and I will get it in time.

Tanks for reading,
Francis

What Would Happen If Pinnochio Said That His Nose Was About to Grow?

Is there any way for me to spin this around and look good?




I play with people's heads all the time.
Sometimes, they ask for them back.

I'm still a virgin, be gentle with m.... OWW!

So everyone hello,
I had to say that I am honored to now be part of the heart rape club!
When do I get to write?
Max...

Frostproof, Waterproof, Fire Resistant

But



you're supposed to be with me..

Mess

He thinks he can write you out of his heart, but he's wrong. It just doesn't work that way. We find solace the only way we know how to, in the heart of a maelstrom of creative ferocity with scathing words and agonized phrases and poems to break all hearts who read, but in the end the writing only makes it worse, aleviating the pain for a few brief moments, piercing the boil of our brokenness and letting the poison out in an obscene flow of mangled thoughts only to find another sprung up a few inches left of centre that's as deadly as the first.

Afterwards the ducks came back

I remember them
near the shores of
lac st louis,
compasses spinning wildly
from the coming frost--

paddling the ice floes,
disbelieving bills
like Scott and his men
before the Norwegian flag,
digging the pebbles of Antarctica
for grubs of honour or memory--

and i lay beside them
where I had
(it seemed a while ago)
collapsed and
opened my throat to the air
until I didn't know
where I was shouting
anymore

A Very Long Interlude

I know this isn't my day and I apologize!! I just wanted to officially replace my Monday posting with this:

http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850
http://vimeo.com/8047850

It's a screenplay I wrote (though extremely tampered with to the point where it's actually possible to make on zero-budget), and a couple friends in Cin Com at Dawson made it.

Hope you like.

#'s

4: Objectivity is an opinion.

9: You call it self-loathing, I call it constructive criticism.

9: Life is nothing other than the meaninglessness I love.

13: Deep within the depths of my soul, I guess I am an atheist.

13: And If I die, it's not the end of the world. Only mine.

14: I promised myself I’d give me a chance, and this is all I got?

14: I write because I have shit to say… I just don’t know what yet.

15: People are like things – some of them are easier to look at than to hold.

18: I don’t judge. Well, I mean, I judge sometimes, with some people. Nevermind, I judge all the time.

21: “You’re the type of person I would’ve fallen in love with twenty years ago.”
“I’m twenty-seven, Ernest. That would’ve been illegal.”

26: “HA! Your hands are so small! You know what that means…”
“It means I have a small penis.”
“Oh… Well, I was gonna’ say small gloves…”

29: Not to sound pretentious or anything, but my hope for humanity was long-lost way before the Twilight Saga was ever written. That was just the nail in the coffin.

29:
'I am lost
We are lost
In one another.
The anger drags
My eyelids
Like tired wonders.
Lawnmower prison guards
And laughable feasts
Of long journeys
By shoeless voyagers’

36: Whenever it comes to a dramatic scene in a work of fiction, the author always begins by describing the weather, as if it represents some type of abstract metaphor within the story. Well, it’s raining now.

39: The only thing worse than radio-friendly rock bands are radio-friendly rock bands who claim their lack of popularity on the fact that they don’t make radio-friendly rock music when it is clearly obvious that they make radio-friendly rock music.

Bibliomania, part II

When the Old Man was finished writing he closed his pen and put it back in the breast pocket of his white button down shirt, closed the binder, and placed it back in its place on the shelf. Although he was content, as he always was when he had read for some time, surrounded by his books, the Old Man was not completely satisfied with the particular book he was reading. He would have only managed to pull out a dozen lines of his tightly packed handwriting from it when he would be finished, whereas good books, masterpieces of literature, could get him to blacken both sides of a page.

The Old Man saw all of literature as a kind of web, a great universe of three-dimensional inter-connectivity to be studied and analysed. Each book, he knew, made references, direct or indirect, voluntary or involuntary, to other books, which in turn were connected to still more books. This web went on infinitely, joining all works of Literature together in a grand, sprawling net of words and ideas. The Old Man sought to map out the different connections between all of the books he owned, all of the books he read, and he wrote down notes on the various inter-book references in his great binders to help him remember them. Sometimes, in moments of particular clarity, when he was reading a great work, written with impeccable style and intelligence, the connections would appear in his mind, clear and bright as strands of silver catching sunlight, and would etch themselves in the void of his thought, linking concepts and themes from one book to the next, across time and space, throughout Literature. In these moments the physical cocoon of knowledge he had created in his home, this room with its heavy smell, this place where his books and his binders filled with notes still kept him attached to reality, all of these things, already precarious, crumbled down and were made useless. In his mind he could read with infinite clarity of vision and understanding from any of his books, and more so he could read any book, written, imagined, or yet to be written, because he had transcended his own existence and glimpsed Literature. His moments of ecstatic literary clarity were not infrequent, but incredibly ephemeral, and he had only, so it seemed, a few seconds to read at great speed the words that passed before his mind’s eye. When he returned to himself, as if awakening from a trance, the Old Man often found himself confused and dazed for a few minutes, but then, regaining his composure and awareness, he would return to the book he had been originally reading, and return to his note taking, awaiting in silence for his next moment of ecstatic clarity. The Old Man had no religion, his religion was Literature; and in the same way his temple, his priests, his God, his prayers, all of these things of worship were encompassed in his books.

The Old Man now walked to the kitchen, and felt a surge of satisfaction and pride. These moments of intense joy came often enough in his life, punctuating his days like surprisingly big waves would a nice and sunny day at the beach, coming as a pleasant, refreshing surprise. His satisfaction originated from the fact that the Old Man felt he was special. He knew that he understood something about Literature -- what some would call reading, although he knew both concepts could not compare in meaning -- that no other human had grasped yet. He should not have cared, really, the Old Man dealt so little with other people, he should have been completely oblivious to their amount of knowledge and understanding in comparison to his, yet he could not help but feel superior.

The only door leading in and out from the room filled with books, the largest in the Old Man’s apartment, led to a small kitchen, which also doubled as an entrance, from which a third door led to a small bedroom, also connected to a minuscule bathroom. While the filth and old age of the room where the Old Man kept all of his books were masked by the incredible quantity of bound pages, in the rest of the apartment there was nothing to mask the dust on every surface, the grime darkening every corner and a sickening odor of stale food. The Old Man washed and ate little, and took as little care of his home as of himself: half the cupboards in the kitchen were without doors, the yellowed linoleum floor was peeling off in many places and the small windows were greasy and half-opaque with years of humidity and filth. The Old Man did not wash dishes, or make his bed, or clean his clothes; these were all activities he did not even think about, and if he would they would have immediately been dispensed as things the others did, those who did not understand the necessary nature of his occupation. The Old Man was oblivious to anything but his books.

The Man Was Made of Bones

(I apologize to those who have already read this on my blog)

I took a walk to the nearest restaurant: a big-time fast-food joint (No need to mention the name, I assume you all know which I am referring to). I quickly and readily ordered my food after agonizing over the decision throughout the walk. I was fairly happy, seeing as I was distracted from the tormenting aspects of my life, but the walk came to an end, my order was placed, and my food, retrieved.

I chose to sit in a booth, that could have been filled by maybe seven or eight people, just to aggravate the masses of people who could not find seats for their large groups. It amused me for some time as my head was hidden behind the trash can and their hopes were stripped when they realized that a lonely man was sitting in the booth in the crowded restaurant. I had a perfect view of the entire place and decided to watch the men, women and children in the establishment.

Oh, how rowdy the children were. Running and jumping, they would fall and scream, going about their games. I thought about it for a moment: the games I used to play as a child made so much sense to me then, but as I think about them now, there were a lot of bases that we did not cover, a lot of loose ends and loopholes.

No matter (where was I?). An elderly man, easily passed his seventieth year of age, walked past my booth. His lower lip was gravity's bitch, as my friend would say. His mouth remained agape and his eyes seemed lost and confused. He wore a winter jacket, tuque and held a scarf in one hand with a cup of coffee in his other.

The man was made of bones. His hand reminded me of Death and I was struck with fear. He sat in a chair, staring at me from a forty-five degree angle as if I were next.

I realized I was stupid to think that this man was Death. If anything, he was Death's next victim. I continued sipping from my drink and ate a few more french fries, all while thinking about this man and what he was thinking. He barely interacted with the world around him. He read a newspaper for a total of ten seconds, grew bored of it and let it slide onto the table in front of him. I looked at him, flashed a polite smile when he looked at me, but to no avail. I do not enjoy being ignored, so I muttered words to myself about his lower lip being gravity's bitch, chuckled and enjoyed my meal.

I made a bet with my inner self that this man would collapse and die whilst exiting the restaurant, that he would not slip, but die suddenly and then collapse, behind the trash can that hid me, right in front of the exit.

He stared at me like he knew I had made that bet with myself. Once again, I flashed a polite smile and continued eating, but I was worried he could read minds. I have been watching a lot of science fiction shows lately and mindreading was a feat I was definitely interested in. Alas, he was angry at the fly that hovered between us. At least, he was interacting with something.

The man got up and collapsed as I thought he would, where I thought he would, in the position I imagined he would land (He must have known something). Everyone rose to a panic: mothers sheltered the children, people crowded around him, one man took charge, because he had taken a first aid class (at least I assume he did), many people retrieved their cellular phones from their pockets and dialed 9-1-1. I sat in my booth, smiling delightfully, muttering the words "I told you so" under my breath. I was proud of my prediction, but it was an easy one to make. I mean, the man was made of bones.

starlight

I'm listening to star-song tonight
and watching wind dance through the trees
I'm playing with moonbeams
and drinking in the breeze

In this dream I can fly without any wings
but I know if I make one wrong move where I'll be
tangled in bedsheets trying to breathe
as my dream sails away like a boat out to sea

Dreamscape

Apologies for the length. This is actually the first bit of my (failed) NANOWRIMO novel, that I've been editing now instead of working on papers for school. So it's not newly-written, but newly edited, anyway. And perhaps next week will be the Week of Actually Writing New Things.

Gwyn was backed up against the wall, her little fists curled, her fiery little eyes dancing with mirth and as filled with righteous anger as only a five-year-old’s eyes can be, when Karl first saw her.

He was eight, small and shy, with a mop of black hair that bothered his mother because, no matter how often she took her sewing shears to it, it always managed to flop into his eyes, and his first thought upon seeing the Gossamer twins leering into Gwyn’s freckled face was “RUN!” His legs wouldn’t obey his brain, and so he stood in the middle of the playground and just stared in shock and horror and wished to be at home again.

Michael and Madeline, Mike and Maddy, the seven-year-old twins who ran wild in the neighbourhood, who cherished an especial hatred for the entire human race for reasons that had nothing to do with their scatterbrained parents and everything to do with their love of destruction, were exactly the same height: a head taller than Karl, a head and a half taller than Gwyn. They had the same porcelain doll features and the same purpling bruises perpetually shadowing their eyes and the same gap-toothed grins that put adults at ease and children on their guard. They had the same tribal braids with the same blue-tinted highlights and the same artistically slender fingers. They had the same eye for targets and the same love of fighting and the same inexplicable taste for cheese and jelly sandwiches. At the moment in question, they were receiving the same glare from the round, freckled, snaggle-toothed redhead and chuckling in the same way at her hostility.

Gwyn was dancing back and forth on the balls of her bare feet and swearing at them like a sailor. “You’d fuckin’ better stop yer laughin’, ya mangy crap-ridden, flea-infested pockets o’ pus, or I’ll fuckin’ be splittin’ yer filthy, hell-spawned faces - we’ll see how yer laughin’ then, ya fuckin’ twinning creeps,” she railed, green eyes narrowing and face so red that Karl would’ve sworn he saw steam escape from her ears if he’d been able to think at all.

So far none of them had noticed him, and he intended to keep it that way. He pulled his sweater sleeves down over his hands and squirmed in his shoes, knobby knees rubbing against each other as if trying to wear through the fabric of his trousers, which they’d already done several times, to the point where his mother, tired of constantly patching, covered the insides of his knees with oilskin and dared him to wear through THAT. Gwyn was posturing, Mike and Maddy were beginning to get annoyed for real, and the three were so absorbed in themselves and each other that they hadn’t bothered to look away from the shadow of the wall to the miserable figure watching them.

Watching. Karl was always watching, it seemed, and as Gwyn took a swing at Mike’s nose and Maddy took a kick at Gwyn’s shin and there was a Gwyn-Mike-Maddy pileup all of a sudden pouring out into the sunlight and rolling like a tumbleweed of childish curses and childish fists, as it became hard to distinguish leather from suede and blue paint from green, Karl watched again.
There was red in there, now, and a flash of white as someone dug their teeth into someone else’s limb and a flash of black as a boot came flying out of the mess to fall directly at Karl’s feet. And still, all he could do was watch, held back by some invisible force from acting or even thinking.
There was laboured breathing and an unearthly silence as Gwyn-Mike-Maddy beat itself into oblivion. And still, all he could do was watch, fingers unconsciously clenching and unclenching, knees violently rubbing together and teeth biting on tongue to keep him from crying out.
There was laughter as Mike and Maddy, confident in their size and strength and twin-ness, disengaged themselves from the lump and Maddy strolled over to Karl to pick up her boot. She looked at him, blood trickling from her nose and cuts on her face and a split in her lip, bruises purpling on what of her body he could see beneath the black leather and green paint, and she slapped his face lightly and laughed before sitting down and lacing up the boot. Mike stood over Gwyn, arms folded and legs spread apart, green paint mixing with red blood to make a nice brown mess on his face, watching Maddy struggle to knot her laces.

Karl stood like a statue until she got up and walked away, thrusting a thumb back at him as she started to speak to Mike in their twin language. Mike’s shoulders shrugged, he jerked his head in the direction of the playground gate, and they walked out in perfect synchronisation, not looking back, not making an intelligible sound.

He waited until he could no longer hear Maddy’s caustic voice or Mike’s high-pitched laughter, then stumbled towards the shaking body on the pavement. He stood watching her for a few minutes, counting the fat, clear tears that rolled down her blue-streaked, red-streaked cheeks, taking in the livid finger marks on her bare arms and the torn skin of her knuckles, before he knelt down beside her and gently touched a round shoulder.

“Get yerself away from me,” she mumbled into her chest, lips moving thickly through the caked blood.

He pretended not to understand her and instead lay down next to her, taking off his sweater and covering her with it, curling his body around hers as the rain and night began to fall at the same time.

Forgive me

Perhaps not up to my standards.

sometimes i believe them

and then we truly are a dying race
we cease being starlight
we crawl back to the sludge
and i watch
and prepare to leave

i take a handful of earth
and a handful of sea
thrust them into my overcoat
pay my bills
shut the water
cast prayer beads to the fire
leave offerings of honey
at the altars of the flies
and walk

they won't hear me knock,
so I pull mud from dripping pockets
to smear over the thresholds
of starlit houses
and warn them
of the imminent
(but ever sentimental)
goodbye

until their children watch at windows
and they close the blinds.

When Two People Come Together And Bash Their Brains and Genitals

Full title (oddly enough it didn't fit, which is quite epic since I usually favour one-word titles :P): When Two People Come Together And Bash Their Brains and Genitals Until They Think They Know What Poetry Is, You Know There’s Nothing Left To Find In This World And You Should Start Looking For The Next One



She lies there, reclined, and says she doesn’t feel like moving, only fucking.

I sit in a chair across from her and feel the need to point out that fucking involves moving.

She says not if you don’t mean it. I ask if she didn’t mean it, and state that it felt very much like she did.

She shifts and looks at me with her razorblade eyes that make my wrists and throat feel wet with thickening life-fluid. The still-sticky silk shifts across her thighs. She smiles and tells me she didn’t know I felt that way. I feel the words racing up my veins.

I clear my throat and tell her she’s fucked up. She raises one eyebrow, the one she’s forgotten to pluck again in her daily-haste of creating simulations of her face. She tells me that no one would fuck someone like her unless they’re fucked up themselves.

We look at each other, her with the playful heat of self-hatred, me with a constricting throat trying to tell her that it’s not what she thinks, it’s never what she thinks, that I think I love her – or could love her if she wasn’t such a whore.

She laughs and tells me not to speak, that I’m like a goddamn church for fuck’s sake. She says she can’t stand what comes out of my mouth and if she wanted a preacher she’d’ve fucked her way to salvation by now.

She doesn’t know what the fuck she wants, and I tell her.

She says neither of us do, and calls me honeycakes. She winks and slinks to the side of the mattress. Her breasts heave over her lingerie and she closes her eyelids in boredom.

She sighs and says that now she’s moved anyway, we may as well screw before the sun goes out.

I look out the window into the unending blackness of a forfeited sky.

I tell her it’s dark.

So's her vagina, she tells me.

I crawl into the bed and we don’t move. We fuck.

[Excerpt from] The Glade, part V.

[...]
It was approximately a week ago when he decided it was time for a change in career path, and he signed up for night lessons at the local Adult Ed. He would be receiving, after all these years, his credits in the tumor-inducing subjects of calculus, physics and chemistry. A part of him decided that he would receive these credits in order to find a well-paying job and provide a better life for his children, but despite the greater motives, the other part of his shallow ambitions were always due to feelings of inferiority in comparison to his peers, as he felt like he was looked upon as the unintelligent, illogical one. It was rather unfortunate that he felt this way, as his grasp on intelligence besides these very few subjects were far beyond the intelligence of his peers. Ernest was too much of an introvert to prove this.
He walked into the classroom – decorated plainly by a Québec and Canadian flag, a brown aging podium and identical metallic desks set against the backdrop of a plain white painted room, overly lit by bright fluorescent lights – the class seemed lifeless and empty-faced. He thought it rather ironic to be in such a bright room when surrounded by the dullest of delinquents, by the utmost of uneducated and uninteresting people. This assumption decided based solely on their appearances. The drowned out faces of the has-beens, this was until Ernest realized that he could not fit in more appropriately with such a group.
After taking a seat in an appropriate grey seat in the back of the class, Ernest decided this would be the final class of Adult-Ed he would ever attend. He slowly tapped his fingers against the desk, staring around at his uncouth classmates. As he criticized, and convinced himself to be of superior intelligence, he was instantly attracted to a brunette woman sitting in the front-center of the class, wearing a tasteful yet revealing grey T-shirt and converse shoes. Ernest stood up and made his way toward her, taking a seat next to her in the front row. He leaned in toward her desk.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” she replied hesitantly.
“I’m Ernest, you can call me Ernie if you’d like.”
The brunette looked severely uninterested in making friends, as Ernest persisted, despite the age flaws of graying patches gloating from his beard.
“Is it just me or are we the only ones here with a little colour, you know, like a little life,” he asked under his breath.
The brunette stared at him blankly.
“Do you have any more pot on you?” she asked.
“Oh, uh, no. Sorry.”
Ernest turned back, sitting straight and staring at the blank chalkboard as he heard a slight giggling coming from behind him.
“But fuck, I wouldn’t mind having some right now.”
A burst of snorted laughter came from behind him and he turned around to see a small, mousy Asian woman with bright red glasses. Ernest felt instantly aroused by her innocence, her small seductive eyes hidden behind the glasses and her short plaid skirt, lifting above her thigh as she sat. Ernest smiled awkwardly at her. The teacher, a chubby man in his late twenties, entered the class and nervously began teaching as Ernest, sitting in the front row, respectably attempted to retain an air of interest.
During break, Ernest went out for a cigarette, unknowingly tailgated by the mousy woman. The day had been rainy, and as night came in, dampness filled under the cloudy sky of night, blocking out the stars and the moon. It had only been drizzling.
Eileen leaned against the rail of the stairway of the Adult Ed community building, quietly looking through her cell phone as a group of students in the class lit a joint at the bottom of the steps. Ernest approached her.
“Cigarette?”
“No, that’s fine. I don’t smoke.”
Ernest placed his box of Peter Jackson’s back into his jacket pocket.
“But if you wanted to get high, now would be the ideal time,” the woman added, motioning toward to group of men at the bottom of the steps, smoking a joint casually.
“Oh I was joking about that.”
“Okay.”
There was a silence.
“I’m Eileen by the way. I think you’re funny.”
She jerked her right hand in between the space between them. Ernest shook it.
“Ernest, nice to meet you,” he replied.
“What brings you out to Adult Ed, Ernest?”
“I just thought I’d finally receive my credits in math and stuff. You know, re-think my career. Go back to university and get a productive degree. I haven’t been productive lately.”
“What do you do now?”
“I write. Well. I used to be a writer. One book published. Thought I would continue with them, but it wasn’t as easy as I thought.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
Ernest finished his cigarette and put it out under his shoe.
“I guess. And you?”
“Oh… well,” Eileen began to squirm and looked uncomfortable as her cheeks reddened. “I’m an accountant.”
“An accountant? Why the fuck are you here then! No offence, I mean, are you just visiting the low-lives of this glamorous institution or something?” Ernest asked as he laughed, Eileen following but rather uncomfortably.
“I don’t know. I’ve been bored lately.”
After his first session of basic calculus, Ernest joined Eileen on her bed as they shoved their tongues into each others mouths, breathing heavily and slowly caressing each other’s bodies. The songs of chirping grasshoppers resonated through Eileen’s open window as her air purifier slowly hummed and distracted Ernest from the task at hand. Despite the warmth, Ernest could not help but feel lonely, a feeling which had been far from rare in his life lately, especially when in the company of others.
“I want you so bad, baby,” Eileen barely whispered as he continued to rub her clitoris.
Ernest suddenly stopped and turned on the lamp next to her bed.
“Sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing. Sorry.”
“Did I do anything?”
“No no, not at all honey. You’re perfect. I… I just forgot to tell you that I’m fucked up, I haven’t, you know, in a while.”
“It’s okay. Can I do anything to help?” she persisted.
“No, nothing. Incurable. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m just going through so much shit right now,” he said, followed by a deep breath. “I just feel that right now, the last thing I need is sex. I need, I don’t know, some inspiration.”
At this point, Eileen roughly began re-adjusting her bra and pants, and put her hair back into place.
“So, sex doesn’t inspire you?” she asked with sharpness in her voice.
“Not anymore.”
“Okay. Well I mean it’s getting late anyway.”
“Yeah I should probably be getting home, the kids are in bed.”
“Wow. Kids.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Mhm, you should probably leave.That sounds best. Responsible.”
“I hope you know it’s nothing personal, I’m just really alone… And the kids, and, you know.”
“Of course.”
They sat up, sitting side to side on the edge of Eileen’s bed, as the crickets continued to sing at their same hypnotic tone. They avoided looking at each other’s faces.
“You know, I’m writing a book now,” Ernest said.
“Oh yeah? What’s it about.”
He hesitated, embarrassed.
“It’s… well. I don’t know yet.”
“Okay.”
“Hey Eileen.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a mess.”