canine querl - 1st dream

Your fags dug deep tearing flesh
And you drew blood.
Persistent in your attack
Hardened I spun, hurled into consciousness
I felt pain, I was befooled.
And as I dozed back in search
You were gone. I am left
Only with blood drippings
And this fear and idleness,
This belief that you are near
Will never change.
I await you return, your affliction
Cover me with burden
Wipe this pride from my arms
This reality meant nothing,
A useless pathetic confession
And without permission, you were curt.
Biting into me, tearing solidity
A patronizing breath, astray in your gaze
You held on vitally
While feasting on dismay
All this a false reality, perhaps
So must i now prepare for your next paroxysm?
And ready will I be...
Take me not by surprise,
This animalistic paradox
I will break through, change
This fictitious tale for good or for worse
In this Whole or the next
Show you cause and effect
As you stare astray in my gaze
In prayer, to die honourably
At the rate of knots.

ergo simulacra

beneath poised semblance
screaming out of control

cache pasted, erased though
encased in marble fences
repulsed with it's own sweat and tyranny
lined up, focused blurred by machete therapy
shadows streamline as dark as sin
grey fever airborne and convalescent by skin
wearing down, weaken from bi-polar bears within

casting glances of obstinate smugness
feeble attempts of absolute design
behind closed doors, a revolution begins
control, an illusionary dogma within
as we stare through windows of bleakness
assassin virus begets a copy of a copy
age, gender, race is of no significance
eradicate this sympathetic existence
that has so become Gods invisioning validity in fidelity

"deliver us from evil" this multi-media spectrum
born into this construct of mass-deconstruction
sever the umbilical, let all wild run
in spirals, as it were, since ground zero begun
once again all becomes a mimic, a senseless sham
reality is our second eyelid
one sees only what one believes
the tragedy junkie, so safe and ignorant
resist surrealist, pardon the relevance

i sense death has reached the edge of the precipice
afterlife is a venue that holds no laws of fear
deranged in fire circuits of this neurosis
these pitfalls of reality seem clearer and near
now tell me why i love to watch things die
while totality waltzes in simulacra before my eyes
embrace the system collapse from a kings distance
and beneath our poised existence
we dematerialise out of control

mais rien

with all vagrancy aside
with all vengeance aside
i stand alone by the seaway skipping rocks
watch them as they hydroplane against the waterline
consumed by this emptiness
this towering inferno burning without ideas
without hope, without fear
i am mais rien

she is my glory, my violet academic
her tears are of adolescences
her smile glazed on false advertisements
zigzagged through cotton belts, through corn belts
i hear her scream, they are but fallen trees
reverberate becomes black as sin
as it all collapses into vacancy
this blazing inferno burning so sincere
without hope, without fear
has metamorphed and become but nothing

we’ve emerged into one but remain liberal
pried apart with crowbars of fate
stepped on by jealousy and desire to follow
i stand away as our savior would
he died for the greater good, so perhaps should i?
be damned, outcasted and crucified?
to rebuild all this is absolute
without hope, without fear
and bound alone by the seaway
everlasting, prideful, defiant…
si jeunesse savait, si viellesse pouvait (if youth only knew, if age only could)

relapse into antiquities

It was nice to see her again.

And so, it was Friday and July’s holocaust heat had been forgiving for once. The dawning weekend had impatiently rolled in sooner than expected and I had decided to invite some mates and birds over for an after work soirée to say the least. As usual, they appeared bearing gifts of sinister poison; of clairvoyance. Courage juice as some may call it, and as we purged on the sunny deck in the backwaters of my flat sharing humor, spreading gossip (rolling eyes) and gestures of emphatic support for the simple task of…whatever, I hear my mobile vibrating along the glass table top. I’ll admit. I answered it with much anticipation.

We had separated over a month ago due to conflicting interests and meaningless arguments. Somewhat of the norm between couples these days. However, don’t THEY say that conflicts are common and miscommunication should be dealt with in compromise? This was not so in our case. We had been generous with our excuses and faults. En masse, it seemed that we both lavished in our own college type dissertation that gripped tightly like talons alas to not adhere to a possessive life together. Be that as it may, aside from our strong communistic leanings, we did share some fruitful and undeniably flattering moments. I have found through rigorous and meticulous affairs that the development of these feelings, sharing these emotional responses can be quite riveting. They affect (infect) you in every possible instant. Your daily thoughts begin to break up as it is hard not to concentrate solely on these moments of intimacy. I remember these flashbacks far too vividly. She would text me on my TELUS cellular with vivacious words like, “…you looked so cool last night…” or “…i want you naked in my bed…” So playful. So whimsical. And we would talk endlessly about intellectual topics and ideology lying in bed naked in our embrace. All those simple memorabilias like scrubbing soap on each others backs in the shower in that spot in between your shoulder blades (lower trapezius) that always felt impossible to reach unless your daily job consisted of contorting your body in strange angles (very présentation du Cirque du Soleil manner.) Or having breakfast together in the kitchen after a night of copious amounts of booze, cigarettes and sex. Memories can be like cyanide. That choking smell of sulfur collapsing every red blood cell in your lungs until the simple task of breathing is non-responsive. The jagged fish hooks slowly tearing your veins out of your forearms inch by inch. Or how your knee caps would feel if they were hit by three inch rubber bullets at point blank range. That burning sensation. The searing of flesh. Those primordial cries of shock and suffering. And you limp away with your image of glue and porcelain that’s still binds you dwindling in wait for the next sledge hammer to smash what’s left of you into neurasthenia.

Naturally, (as if predestined) it was her on the phone in need of a plan to get away from her household tragedies. Of course I would reluctantly invite her to my place as if to bestow her with an effortless escape (Elysium should her middle name be.) And as she arrived, my first and foremost ‘brain-wave’, (laughing as I type) was that I was glad to see her. Well, it has been three weeks since our departure; our reasoning. Typically, her attire would consist of some post-modernistic /”indie-girl” trope, but today her mode was subtly displayed with a shoulder bearing t-shirt and those knee length black tights that hug her slim legs so casually. She was smiling the only way she can. That cute infantile smile; those deep dimples as if pockmarked by Spartan spearheads; those awkward steps as she entered the social circle and motioned an act of belonging (an act of banter – how flatteringly coy) by drinking out of my glass. My initial impression of this was that of her anti-social nature. In our bed sheet conversations, she would express that she did not know how to be affable without having a drink first. I guess these things came easy for me considering my sense of brutal honesty. You watch enough of Jack Nicholson or Mickey Rourke movies or read a Robert Greene, Henry Miller or Charles Bukowski book and you’ve but no choice but to pick up and idea or two about being chipper. That’s not to say that I rely on these things. I use to be quite the shy and lonesome adolescent. Always independent and disassociating with the popular circles and recognizing my self-interests as the most important things that ever existed. A self absorbed bigot if you will. At one point my parents were worried that I had gone deaf and dumb due to my lack of speech presence. If I had words to describe my vitality, they would be transparent, invisible, esoteric. An introvert nonetheless. No different than a million others I would suspect. But I’m rambling again. Let us continue with this curious tale. I decided to make her a favoritable drink to somewhat ease her anxiety. She was partial to White Russians and after two or three, her social abilities became utilitarian. What came next was a barrage of incoherence. We drank until I could not mask my soberness any longer and decided to retreat within the confines of my sleeping quarters. There I found peace from all these toxicants. But what I longed for was accompaniment and (by the irony of fate and her sick tomfoolery) that was what I stealthily received. In my daze of phony-consciousness, laying there on my side, I felt a hand from behind, then an arm as if someone had quietly crawled in to seek some kind of warmth. I immediately recognized her familiar faint scent as she impulsively pulled herself closer to me. Her head bent in a sleepy-soft and drooping movement that was almost woeful as her fingers quietly walked across my shoulders. That comfortable feeling of someone holding you from behind is best described as an act of worship. The one curing light in a sea of catastrophes. She held me closer and I could hear her sensual and submissive moans as she then gently kissed the back of my neck.

Cyanide never felt so good. Our love was a result of a clinical error. And psychoanalysis would woo me with pseudo-liberation's of pseudo-libidos.

"...seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex and it commands the higher price..." Jean Baudrillard

the torture of confession

facing your telepathy
i can scream your silent desire
sacred will these tones contradict
vulnerable to this arid consent
sanctioned only opened spirits
to kill this urge that has always been at the edge of your list
blissful, or so it may seem to cover your virginity

i was once pure
i was once religious

maturity lacks transfigurations
tying these gifts of fruitful tepidness
i now feel weakness, powerless
consumed by our puree of decadence
we have each other, we have no will
surroundings are taboo, a plea to erase
these memoirs of fatality and pain in your uterus
to extract all nothingness

i was once innocent
you were once religious

possibilities of sweetness on technicolor beaches
let's run without fire, let's fly without wings
be true to yourself and these memoirs of chair et sang
puncture holes in my hands to remind me of pain
that sorrow i taste in your uterus
when i peer into your telepathy

i have now the sun
as saturn ascends

one more breath to cheat death
crafted and molded into stone
as a result of my chemical error
and we wipe our tears with pageless silk tyranny

flaccid life of a dark cloud

quantum flashes of existence
as if a sign, as passageway
doors close of gleaming velvet and gold lining
shapes and symbols of Roma
one step closer to reason
to befit taraf de haïdouks

will this become the end?
and how should i adapt...
the taboo of vicissitude
and silent screams of the avant garde
of malene rhythm and charleston
choking grey social classes
of metro fever, domain and value

some will brand us vagabond, nomadic, marauder
seclude your senses, become safe and ignorant
speak not but of needless and roguish transfiguration
for we are shameless, and nameless

we are not one to live symbiotic
immune to the pendulum of blood soaked meat hooks
we are not one to stand in line
while your soldiers take aim
the quantum flashes will blind your reason
and in a sally of synapses
we become a abstracted memory, a fabled tale

send your pounds, and deutschmarks and dollars
buy our threads of velvet and gold lining
our tools of self sufficiency, of self sacrifice
as we linger with the malene of rhythm and dance
still you long for dreams and visions of Roma
to fill and formulate denials
the poetic life you can never have...

the dichotomy of plant genitals

Another morning in the dog park. Another lonely morning in the dog park. Sitting here on this rustic bench contemplating why my life is so opaque. Why I feel so lost and somber marveling at the melody of the fall breeze against my black hair and tanned skin in exchange for the summer sun. And I can see the grass changing colour; the leaves slowly dying. Little spurts of sun peeking through the clouds but only for a few minutes at a time. It’s September and the dog owners are less and fewer today. No more morning canine support groups and stick parties for these masters. Kids and teens are back to school parading there latest fashions and fads, trading stories, spreading rumors. I feel compelled to move thinking about all these bohemian ideas, but as a bike courier the thought of cycling at 8am is far and senseless. Soon I’ll be moving all day at top speed and with that rational, I’ll take another ten minutes to enjoy my coffee and cigarettes and grin at these invisible docile dogs and there masters in silence.

I’ve been plagued with a slowish mind these days. I mean, I’d like to think of myself as a Petit-bourgeoisie intellect and a decent public speaker, but lately there has been a slight hesitation in my speech, the best part of a stammer, which sometimes lends fresh charm to the stalest sentence. Sort of a smart idea getting pulled aside by the intellect police for a routine rubber glove inspection. Sorry sir, no embryonic beliefs through here. You’ll have to do better than that. Step away from the vehicle sir. Now bend over.

I take a puff of my toxic revival and stare at the overcast sky which take no shape. The park is surrounded by these country donut brown coloured complexes and I can see the bedroom lights flicker on and off. I imagine you would wake up, drag yourself out of your Swedish equipped existence, lock yourself into your placid walls, cubicles if you will, for eight hours, and inside these confines you feel safe and ignorant. This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time. Corporate life as some may enthusiastically declare. You pay your taxes, gossip about last nights sitcoms and standby while your retirement plan matures. Then it’s off to Oakville or Grimsby or St. Catherine’s where your little house on the prairie awaits for you to wrinkle, then become flesh and dust. But I’m getting ahead of myself. And maybe I got it all wrong. And maybe it’s all just a terrible tragedy. Or maybe it’s all apart of this surreptitious fabric of life that I can’t seem to attach myself to like worn out Velcro.

I once lived symbiotically with this suggestion of the Velcro Corporate Life. I sold cars for a reputable automobile conglomerate and it seemed to be a job that I had a niche for. I was indisputably a cold-cut-fat and happy person, made a truck load of money, and was carefully planning out the established retirement sarcophagus groundwork. To my parents, I was a success. To my girlfriend at the time I was the perfect catch. And to my peers, I was an inspiration. Not in a Tony Robbins approach, but more of a Glen Garry, Glen Ross sort of way.

But it took a sledge hammer to the cranium (literally speaking of course) to jerk me back to dry land. I guess the devastating rational of a jeering blow to the psyche can do that to you. A spontaneous shift out of ones normality. A juggernaut switch blade sheering through my parallel universe only to present a path; to immobilize and extract the sense in reason.

more to come…maybe

room of candid mirrors

treading through these images of there ecstasy
i want to bore there similes out of my head
as you would a drill of blood and memories
wash away, i burn cigarette holes in my wrists
and seek to overlook this internal pain and suffering
and insomnia, wide eyed stirring my conscious will
to stay alive and breathing

treading through these dark waters for which i cannot swim
sinking desperately down under the waterline
choking on my own desires
i plead for mercy, i choose life
faithless in your comprehension
turn away as i ease this knife out of your back
i seek reclamation and sense agony in your uterus

but you're still alive and breathing

a query of darkness and isolation
searching for loyalty, fidelity
my remedy is basic and condescending
as it should be, as it were
something you would play innocent to
what foolish, dense lies will these cigarette burns tell next
they ascertain that i'm still alive and breathing

let the waters kiss and transmutate this cold and fated anchor
sinking deeper, peering through nothing but blurred delirium
lining my skin with all these counterfeit hallucinations
like a child, light and innocent
burning cigarette holes in your arms
until i'm no longer alive and breathing
then, only then, all will be lost and forgotten

spectacular requiem

started as taboo in reason
faithless has its reckless cries
deliver in your monthly blood
you would rather become sodomy

your sadness bares no noise
i could see fire burning your will down
release is what you weep
as you tread beneath the waterline and see horses

here as your only witness
my blood has never been clean
so young was virgin princess
follow in your bearing shadow
beneath the waterline and horses

we hold hands and we deny to feel
so forbidden, so alive
saliva and blood from one bottle
faithless and doomed
wide eyed, you don’t see me

now close your eyes and cry my infantile
i’ve become your only witness

i remember

the first alluring memory was the incandescent lighting from the desktop lamp on the floor as her bedroom door slowly opened. we had to be silent not to wake anyone in the other rooms. out of respect of course. it was a small room and i remember thinking about some foolish idiom that i had heard perhaps from a dull movie about the room not being big enough for her level of visionary expression. she had a bed that was low to the floor and a black desk from which she would create her masterpieces, her magnum opus. there appeared to be no book shelves and a dresser drawer which she suitably left in her closet. on the floor, an audio unit from which she could plug in her ipod, sat patiently. all these methods of inspiration i thought. music, art, literature. these are the doorways into a world of culture and existence. a social reality that i was eager to explore but to shy to rationalize. and for the first time i could sense the shyness in reason. peering around i remember seeing an array of books, a partially finished illustration, and drawing materials scattered everywhere as if she were the type to work on one prophetic idea and then interpose to begin another. this was unfamiliar territory to me. to be in the den of an actual artisan was something i wasn't prepared for. how fascinating i thought. how vitalizing. for years i practise this art of seduction and was triumphant. unbeaten, as it were. but to become the admirer, the aficionado, the follower. what a sensation. what an impression. this image, this idea of her, radiated over me as if a blinding light were to come soothingly composed. she invited me in graciously as i quietly placed my satchel on the floor not to make any sudden noise and then sat on her bed like a child would in some unknown space. standing in front of me with a pleasing smile, she began to undress. such fair skin. such a persuading aroma. she began to fondle my hair and stepped amid my legs. i avidly kissed her stomach. passion consumed us both as she then kneeled to brush and caress my lips casing her silken arms around my neck. what sweet revelation. what sweet surrender. i took my clothes off with content as she reached over to her ipod and altered the atmosphere with a melody i will never forget. we laid in her bed and our kisses and conversations came easy. she talked while i would listen and then i would talk. it seemed like our conversations came along without strain. we seemed to discover secrets together. when she would discover a good one, she would laugh the only way she could. it was like the joy out of fire. through the talking we kissed and moved closer together. we became heated and decided to make love. i felt her crying without sound. i could feel her tears. that dark hair lay behind me like a flag of death. we enjoined, made slow, sombre and wonderful love and then clinched each other in our naked embraced. i remember. i will always remember...

optimistic theory

an interruption of the natural order, or a disruption of the natural balance of all things can cause one to lose their habitual harmony.

physiological senses

vestibular

visual

proprioception

malicious debris

malevolent fiend

i can tell by the way you're breathing
just like you to wait for me to slip
cynical from your own chronicles
now use me to nourish
that side you've been hiding
no one can see

your appearance is abysmal, take it
suck every bit you could take
you leech, you overweight parasite
suck my will down, push it all down
to that side you've been hiding
no one will see

all this time
drenched in your fidelity
all this time
ignorant and unaware
asleep in this dream like sheep
now it's my time

trust you will play fair

play your tepidness in reason
try on my patience, a little suck
draw on this irresistible desire
draw it down to nourish
this peace that you've been lacking
no one will pray for you

and when there's nothing left
let's pray you choke

inferior

she says i'm paranoid. the inner thought process that is unstable and trouble by excessive anxiety or, as dr.gonzo would call it, the fear. a paranoid android. it's so easy to paste a brand on people, communities, inhabitants these days, is it not? impending danger is something i have a nack for. always look both ways...sign your cheques in a john handcock manner...never get off the boat as stated so eloquently by captain willard as he snaked his way throught the fiery jungle. (plug in the ipod to rid if this internal noise) eleanor rigby lives in a dream. my awakenings have become additionally misty as i age. i use to be clear. i use to be prepared. but no one comes near these days. nothing to be ready for. here lies the lonely assassin. the hired gun. the one who was born to end lives. he eats alone. not because he chooses too. it just doesn't require much effort if impending danger were to rear her ugly head with flags of red paint. he sits in his self made umbrella of belief. tired, but always waiting. running. waiting. a first person narrative parabola.

How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it and was I not informed about the rules and regulations and just trhust into the ranks as if I had been bought by a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager-I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint? - Soren Kierkegaard

inaugurate

this will be my first blog entry on this site so i'll keep it short. once i get blathering, there's no stopping the locomotive. consequently, i have the tendecy to run on in fragmented sentences. i'll call it poetic licensing or a prosaic warrant. my english teacher would later call it a C-. my mother would call it a waste of her time. my father, in his reign of high blood pressure, wouldn't label it as a fixation nor would he care if it solved the worlds many problems. aside from the excessive drinking and the projectile of incubate objects, he was a good man. a "reasonable" man of sorts. but this is not about his life, at least, not just yet. this is about the underlining truth wipped and slathered with dark, mosaic undertones. and so it has begun. the faithful truth of another man seered into this hybrid of periodical uncertainty. awaiting the meat hook realities of these impulsive days ahead.

the tragedy junkie