Snowflake

Every day is a new one
in a million new days
just like it
every day is different
and in difference each is the same
regardless
of individuality
everything is the same
when the ball drops
And as the new day dawns
the snowflakes drift
lazy sorrowful sweeps from heaven
to earthly hell
in the cold that warms the hearts of some
and cools the earth over others
who never made it through the fog
the problem with being a snowflake
is the split personality
do we bring families together
with childlike joy
or rip them apart
with icy-road death
the problem with being a snowflake
is the lack of benifits
life is quick
but fleeting
and as a snowflake leaves the sky
to meet its brethren fading into the ground
no one is there with a bottle of champagne
or a pension
and already
the individuality is gone.

November

with the wild wind like a pack of wolves
ravaging the cracking earth
nipping at closed doors
rattling shutters
thieving the pink from once rosy cheeks
November
with still mornings accompanied by steam
rolling off the top of cups of tea
walking down the street
in the gloves of yawning people
November
with silent gray dawnings
the warm sun dancing across the frozen earth
with frostbitten heels
licking bare trees until they glisten
November
with pensive skies and waiting hearts
the world waltzes through waking slumber
windshield wipers and grandfather clocks
keep the steady beat of the turning earth
when the sun cannot be seen
in November
with fog that pours through city streets
in the stillness of twilight
when anything could but might not be
November
with freezing lakes and skating rinks
and family time in the evenings
microwave s'mores and late-night coffee
dreaming of what will come
in November
with scarves and good hiking
late nights by a fire
hot soup and cold noses
warm nights in cold rooms
couches and blankets and
ducks flying south
for November

*adapted from a concept poem on my other blog: etaunknown.tumblr.com

The poetry has gone out of me

I don't know why

or care particularly

mostly these days

I'm just frustrated

with myself

Dance for me now.

Dancing with the lights off
Dance like a girl
Who's never danced
before
dance like a clockwork
balerina
for me now.
Little bird
on the windowsill
looking so small
dance
will you?
for me now.
dripping sweat
like the tears you never shed
for the deaths
for the hurts
you've weathered
dance, for all you're worth
you won't live long
if you keep your soul
in a box
dance, baby dance
dance for me now.
it's never easy
to take the first step
the first leap
is always hard
but then you're twirling
and whirling
in spite of the world
and it's freedom
from clockworking bounds
dance, honey dance
dance for me now.

It takes a while

but then I'm there again
in rain or fog
or rays of sun
I'm there
tumbling through meadows
or falling down flights of stairs
rolling to the edge of the earth
on hands and knees
I'm there
opening boxes
climbing trees
I'm there
I'm here
I swear
to you
that I will never leave
I've found my nirvana
in spite of myself
in spite of the world around
to spite the world surround
surreal
this is
so strange
and queer
I reclaim
myself
here
I'm there
by the waterfall
counting the pebbles
in my pockets
golden raindrops
dripping from my hands
I hurt so big
the sky might burst
into a thousand shards of blue-green glass
like windsong
like heartbeats
like drum pounds
and low sounds
in the tall grass
I'm there
where no one will look
under the rock
under which
I'm there
or here
departing
or entering
falling
or rising
leaving
or going
searching
or finding
losing
or gaining
myself
far from anyone
who cares
to hate
and loves
to despise
thus

Does it ever strike you...?

That we only refer to people as close minded when we disagree with them
That we only say people have good taste in things when we share the same interests
That we are quick to presume but never quick to change our minds
That almost all wisdom is founded in hypocrisy
That people are always so keen to tell people that they're in the wrong, but unwilling to accept that they themselves may be incorrect
That we destroy beauty by trying to understand it
That anyone who hates Christians because Christians hate others is simply perpetuating the cycle
That the same (as the above) goes for anyone who judges someone for their judgement of others
That civilization is only an excuse for our pride and desire to self-promote

Tell me your thoughts, and what you see.  Do not be so swift to judge or quick to hate.  Be flexible in all that is not essential or foundational, for what is not essential or foundational is inconsequential.

A Drum, Beat by the Universe

And standing there in that concert hall, I fell in love with a new sensation.  I was not a woman, not a girl.  I was no longer just a numbered student in a clockwork world.  I was a drum, beaten by the universe.  The vibrations racing up through the soles of my feet and into my hands then out the tips of my hair.  I was a wild child, something unique and beautiful.  I was free.

Take me there

Take me to where the tall grass grows
for miles and miles
from the dusty earth
to the tilting sky
in the blue
of a prarie
stretched out farther than my eye can see
Take me to that place
where nothing is noisy, is busy, is lazy
where the world works as a clockwork engine
up and down, round and round like a carousel
each person with a place and a pace and a job to get done
that place in which no one races the setting sun
and everything is finished by the time the ball drops
Take me far from the city
to a place where no one is concerned with just how many more stories
we can put on a high rise
we can tell to make us sound interesting
we can fit into an already jam-packed high-action movie
Take me to the place where the people still have time
to talk about life and love and why in peace
where no one is concerned with winning
or making it big
or making it anywhere
beyond making it right
and making it beautiful
and peaceful
Take me to a place where pretension doesn't reign from a gilt-golden throne
where no one wears a mask
to hide themselves from themselves
first and foremost
Take me there,
take me back
before we were civilized
before we were enculturated
into this monstrous thing
we call the modern world
this disgusting
appalling
ridiculous
daunting
painful
and wasteful
unreasonable
vicious
spiteful
uncaring
stone-cold
and cruel
thing we call advanced and improved
the modern world.

Drifting

out at sea
in a bucket
somewhere between
here and there
near and far
I sleep.
somewhere between
at peace and at ease
I am
now
drifting dangerously
much too close
I lie amidst
the place I've been
and where I am going
a bright new future
adrift
a raft
where
am I going
what shall I be
once I drift to shore
drifting
somewhere between
awake and asleep
one morning
I wrote
a poem
so beautiful
so true
defining my life
in a nutshell
but the way things go
is that you never remember
the things you realize while drifting
so much for profundity
so much for originality
we are only dreamers
adrift in the sea
of thought.

I wrote this awhile ago- reflections of a bird

This cage is a curious thing
The bars are made of gold
in the corner sits a velvet cushion
waiting on me
sometimes I feel like I'm outside
Looking inside
at myself
in this cage
Alone.

This cage is a curious thing
sometimes I feel like I'm free
And then
Out of the corner of my eye
I glimpse the golden glint
the bars
surrounding me
no rescue in sight
Alone.

This cage is a curious thing
Sometimes it feels like home
But then I remember
What freedom felt like
I was alive, once
Alive
I was happy
but now, nothing
save gold bars
And me.

I still wonder

what you think of

whenever

you close your eyes

I hope you think of me

every once and a while

I hope you dream of me

I hope I make you smile

sometimes
And once again 
I am cursed by the wonder

the wondering

the wandering

do you care

the way I do

the way I want you to

the way you tell me to

do you care

do you love

do you think

do you wander

are you cursed

by the wonder

the wondering

the wandering

too?

do you stay up late

some lonesome nights

and stare out the window

at the stars above

wishing

and wondering

that and if

someone might love you too

I honestly hope

and I honestly wonder

that and if

you are cursed by this longing

too.

Something more to life than neo-pseudo-hipsterdom?

*bear with me, here comes some truly terrible poetry.  Don't hate me though,  after spending all morning brushing up on my rhetoric skills I was tempted to write an ode to parentheses.*

Sighing softly, in the afternoon, Helen poured herself another cuppa tea
Rearranging her face in the microwave window
there must be something more to life than this
sitting by the computer
typing out a paper
staring at the golfing green across the path
removing onions from chilled soup
with a pair of broken, faded, jaded chopsticks
there must be something more to life than this
blowing roiling steam
off a mug heated to high
reading an theatrical, esoterical, Socratical debate
why was Meno such an idiot?
and why am I such a judgemental, neo-pseudo-hipster?
there must be something more to life than this
there must be something more to life than this
I bet there is
beyond computers, paper bags, skyscrapers
on the other side of the fence
which none of us will ever reach
when we realize life isn't about what we are doing
what we call ourselves
what we think of the world
and each other
perhaps we will see
that there is something more to life than this
than us
something more to life than us, than this.

Canada, writes?

So, the Canada Writes short story contest (CBC) is open for entry.  I don't really know if I should enter or not- what I do know is that I want to.  I'm also tempted to enter something (poetry or prose, poetry or prose?) for the Vancouver International Writer's Festival, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to go out on a limb like that.  I'd like to though, and that's what it comes down to, isn't it?  Is it?

It’s been awhile

since we last met

on winding streets

in run down cafes

travelling the world

on our greyhound buses

it’s been awhile

since I’ve seen your face

and heard your laugh

but that’s the thing

about wandering friends

you don’t see them often

but when your paths cross

everything seems to fall into place

it's been awhile

since I've heard your voice

but I've got it in a recorder

inside my head

it's never been lost

and I'm never lost either

with it with me

like this.

it's been awhile

since I've read a letter

with just your name

in the return address spot

because you know

people like us

we never stay in the same place

for long.

it's been awhile

since we last met

in a bar

or a restaraunt

late at night

it's been awhile

since we shared a joke

about things we remembered

from before.

but that's the thing

about wandering fiends

you don't see them often

but when your paths cross

everything falls into place.

The apologetic of being

For a day

I lived

for a day

I laughed

for a day

I loved

for a day

I knew

for a day

I was

and for a day

I will be

A part of me

is crying

is dying

is loving

is leaving

is living

is giving

is smiling

is laughing

is here

is there

is now

is later

is believing

is knowing

is thinking

is dreaming

is dancing

is being

is being

is being

is being

is being

for a day 

I was

and for a day

I will be

in a world

caught up

in doing something

in being someone

I'll be

be

be

For Alex, the way I recall him

I love you

I know.

it’s crazy and weird and you’re beautiful

and perfect and strange

and I love you.

for the way you curl your toes over the edge of the sidewalk

and the way you brush the hair away from your lips

and for the way you dance when you think no one is watching

on the corner of the street with your headphones on.

I love your smile

the way you laugh

the way you look at the sky

when you think it might rain.

I love your nose

the way it wrinkles

when you hear a good joke.

I love your eyes

the way they always seem so happy

even when you aren’t

I love you because you think you might be gay

I love you because you deny it so vehemently

I love you because you’re afraid and it’s beautiful.

you’re beautiful

and you don’t even know it.

I love you

I know

you couldn't understand it if you tried

because you've never seen yourself as lovable

it's sad

because you're so wonderful

and you

like everyone

deserve to know that you're loved.

She's a good girl

somewhere deep down inside her soul
she knows it
she thinks
but on this tuesday morning
the ground wet with dew
and the sky blue with a disapproving glare for the solitary runner
she can't quite believe it
she's something evil
something wild
and her feet pound the earth with the force just right
to force it out of her
send it showering into the sky through the tips of her hair
she hopes
but honestly
she knows
that she doesn't fit in a stained glass housefilled with stained glass light
in the shade of a steeple
where the pastor preaches love
and the people see evil behind every mask and corner
because if they knew her, they'd hate her
without a second thought
but it's dangerous to think like that
because she isn't there for the people.
she's there for the one who loves her
and wants her
thinking about the people is enough to send her running
back to the proud and the shackled
to laugh, and cuss, and drink, and smoke
and kiss the one whose heart she broke
again
it's dangerous to think like that
because she tells herself
she'll strive to be
the good girl she isn't
she'll try.

She sat in the forest

till leaves fell from her clothing

and the ends of her hair whipped up into vines

her hands rooted themselves to the powdery earth

and she slept like a tree in the winter

the willows grew around her

the years flew by like seconds

the dawning sun of each morning blending into twilight grey

the dew falling on her silvery shoulders

painting the grass and dirt

with starlight

birds nested in the crooks of her elbows

mice nestled in the folds of her eyes

the forest moved subtly

with each passing moment

alive and solemn and still

growing

as only a forest can

the sun danced through the gaps in the leaves

pine-cones fell to the springy earthy ground

the moon gazed upon the night

like a watchman from a tower

noticing each detail as a world of its own

the girl in the forest sat

a living, breathing thing

with a place in creation

of her own

then she awoke

and the scales fell from her eyes

and the binds from her wrists

the gag from her mouth

and she realized what we’ve missed

in the cities

and the suburbs

and the computerized

robotified 

lives we lead.

A librarian maybe

or a cinematographer

maybe a poet

or a midnight photographer

a conductor of trams?

or a sec'er'atary

a writer

a reader

collector of words.

a musician 

a busker

or maybe an actress

a woman with flair to be sure.

perhaps just a lady

who works in fact'ry

and spends the night trav'ling vicar'sly through books.

a wife

a mother

a lover 

a friend

a short order chef,

or coffee maker

the crazy lady who plays pretend

the designated cookie-baker.

a zoo-ologist traveling far away,

the one to arrange the set for a play
a visitor to the renaissance faire
a drifter who's always on the go
from ocean to mountain laden with snow.

a woman with flair

a woman with flair to be sure.

Yes, I am aware.

I realize that there has been a lot of very bad poetry on my blog lately.  I'm really sorry. 
See, the thing is that most of what I've been writing lately has been slam poetry.  The catch is, most of it is only half finished.  What I have is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself, but, as it is half finished it is not ready to be posted anywhere.  So you'll have to make do with the spur of the moment rubbish I've been turning out lately.

Also, just in case you care, I've been writing a lot of other stuff lately.  Paragraphed studies of people and such.  Most of it is pretty lame. 

Also, just in case you're still reading and I haven't bored you to tears, I just got back from a six week vacation.  Actually, I got back about a week ago but that's a moot point.  I went to Africa.  It was... well, it was Africa.  I have different stuff written down somewhere but I'm too lazy to post it here.

Cheers.

Imagining

over coffee, my mug becomes a paper fan
and I am a Japanese lady
with my eyebrows plucked
and my hair drawn back
my face powdered whiter than snow.
I smile, hidden, safe behind watercoloured paper
You cannot touch me.
Imagining, till something snaps
deep down inside
I tumble through the darkest nights
searching through the dustbin in my soul for something real
Windmilling, finding nothing but nothing to break my fall
There's a point now, when, grasping everything around me
And holding things up to the light
Examining the artifacts of myself
I have to wonder
What is real and what is false
I'm a mystery, even to myself

Back Home

Well I'm back, I guess
From travels abroad
but home doesn't feel like home anymore
and I'm tired
from red eye flights
with movie screens
and airplane dinners
Well I'm back, I guess
from far away places
with sleepless nights
and pristine beaches
and I'm tired
from all the things I've seen
and may never see again
I'm back, I guess
but I'm not ready to be home
I'm not ready to do the things
I don't want to get done
I'm tired
just thinking
about all I must do
Now that I'm back.

To do before I leave

Packing my bags for a long trip I realize I'm not ready
I'll never be ready to find my way
In a world so buzy
So lazy
So crazy
I'm so tired of leaving this way
I know that I've got to give myself a vacation
Got to take a minute to pull back the curtain
And de-clutter my mind for a while
But I know that I never return with a smile
That's quite like the one I wore the first mile
I know that nothing ever works the way I want it to
And I know I'll toss and turn every night that I'm gone thinking of you
You drive my crazy
Mostly because I never imagined it could be quite like this
Living my life from kiss to kiss
I never thought I'd find love in a broken world, I swear
And I fear that I won't return in one peice
With my suitcase in one hand and my heart in the other
I swear I'll try to come home to you
But I know that I won't
Because as the plane takes it's first steps up the runway
I'll be changing
And every time I touch back down
Every time I turn myself around
With every wish you were here postcard I send
I'll be changing
And I won't be myself once I reach the end
I know.
But what's life without some changes?
Packing my bags with the things I won't need
I pull some underwear off the shelf
And I pray to a deaf, dumb, blind god for help
Where am I going?
Where will I be?
And what will I, what should I do with myself?
I pack more pens than clothes
More journals than socks
I carry my suitcase a mile
Just to put my belongings on trial
To see if they weigh enough
I'm so heavy
I can't walk another step
Can't take even one more breath
I'm so sick of myself
And the trains
And the planes
I'm tired of traveling alone
And I wish I could take you along
Every where I go
Every road I walk
I wish you were there with me
Every person I meet
Every meal that I eat
I wish you were here with me.
Packing my bags before a long trip I realize I'm not ready
Everything is in order, save my heart and my mind
I could leave today, but I don't know what I'd find
I don't think I can do this alone
You can't leave the gate if you can't open the door
I realize that I'm more afraid of my own backyard than I am of the sea
And I wish I could bring myself to walk outside
but there are a thousand things I'll have to get done
A thousand things I'll have to do
before I leave.

Your socks will be on the drier

Your socks will be on the drier
If you need them, that's where they'll be
Because I've finished the washing
I'll leave them on the drier, you see
They'll all be in the family room
talking about me
but their socks will be on the drier
and if they need em, that's where they'll be.
Your socks will be on the drier
they'll be waiting for you there
and I'll be having my morning cry
which will give you all quite a scare
but your socks will be on the drier
in the laundry room under the stair
Your socks wait on top of the drier
and if you look you'll find them there.
Your socks will be on the drier
I've finished giving em a good clean
The socks will all be on the drier
Though I fear I've made quite the scene
Your socks will be on the drier
It's the start of a brand new routine
In which I leave the socks on the drier
once the laundry's done and they're clean.

Bus stop haiku for Kerouac

sitting writing
at the bus stop
I contemplate life

people buzz and hum

waiting for their lives

to arrive

the boy on his skateboard

plays with his keys

staring at the clouds

hoping for rain

on a summer's day

I bring an umbrella

in the dark

shadows drift

I cannot sleep

corner standing man

gazes at the girl

his eyes unfocused

broken looking girl

with the green hair

what's your story?

sitting with her

on a hot afternoon

I sigh inwardly

waiting at the bus stop

I call you

-again

plaid shirt man

looks my way

his eyes smolder

leaving the bus

I catch a glimpse

of his sketchbook

alone in my room

pick up a book

I slip off the dust cover

highway blues

roll out of the radio

just ten more miles

fishing for words

for the beautiful stranger

'love your hair?'

empty road

I walk slowly

feeling freedom

lipstick stain

on the rim pf her glass

my heart breaks

parlez vous?

a lady asks

shake my head and leave

her dyed red hair

and deep gold tan

set the room ablaze

writing on

this crumpled napkin

much nicer than paper

Alaska

She moved, naked
within the room
and he watched
from without.
her hair black
her eyes glowing purple
her skin painted green
by the light of the midnight sun
as it shone through the window.
she opened her eyes
pausing her step
to turn on a light
and she saw.
and then what?
a loss of innocence?
a gain in knowledge?
an awareness of-
something.
she pulled out a book
she pulled on a skirt
and sat by the fire
-she put on a show
reading.
he watched her then
late into the night
he watched her fingers
flip the pages slowly
one by one by one.
a graceful dance
the song she hummed
swelled in her heart
and outwards
upwards
inwards again
notes pulsing
one by one by one.
and she cried with the dawn
tears coursing down her chin
dribbling into her lap
one by one by one.

The Writer

Smoke drifted lazily in the room, winding up to the ceiling.  He stood in front of the crowd, eyes cast downwards at his paper.  his head was balding, despite his youth.  The room was silent. 
He began to speak, slowly at first, then quickly.  His voice was crisp and clear.
"You all have a misguided opinion of me.  You seem to think that I am some kind of genius, an artist, an intellectual.  I'm not."  He stared at the men in the front row, at their suits and their ties.  He glanced back down at his paper and continued: "I am nothing but a collection, an emporium of all the things I've ever read.  I've never said anything that wasn't a quote from somewhere or other.  I have no opinions but the ones I've read in books and in papers.  I am completely unoriginal- a kaleidoscope image of all the people I've known.  I don't truly exist.  You've said many times that I'd be missed, but I would not be.  You would miss only the convenience of me.  The convenience of having a walking, talking museum of all mankind's lesser traits.  You don't believe me, I see that.  You can't accept that I am merely a plagiarizer of all the things you've said.  That all I am is a menagerie of words and books."  He looked out at their faces, at the murmurs spreading in their throats. "But thank you for your support.  I accept this trophy with pride."
The crowd surged forward, to hug him, to assure him they loved him.  And they did.  They loved him because he was nothing, a reflection of themselves.  They loved him because at his core there was nothing but words.  He was their soundless gong, their broken window.  He was their empty bottle, their blank masterpiece.  He was their tuneless hum and their sorry reflection.  And the writer watched them with sad eyes, he watched their angry-sad mouths and their hurt-hungry arms and he was saddened.  Because in the end, they defined him too.

Well, well, well

So I wonder how it's going ta go
And I wonder how it's going ta be
I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
I wonder who I'm going ta be
Who I'm going ta wish I was
I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
I wonder where I'm going ta go
I dunno where I'm going ta be
But I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
The future- what's it going ta be
What'll life be like for the world
We all say well, well, well
Today
So many questions gotta be
So many answers never found
I hope I be well, well, well
Tomorah

Rain slicker, Star slinger

A rain slicker drips on the hook by the door
She pulls a revolver from a bedside table drawer
She holds the barrel to her ear and thinks no more.
The stars shine naked in the black night sky
Concrete sees the changing day as people pass it by
Another minute wasted, the star slinger starts to cry.
A city washed with rain wakes from its drowsy sleep
We trail down dirty sidewalks finding what we'll keep
Pills are prescribed every day- no questions asked, like sheep.
A rain slicker drips
The star slinger cries
You will keep on taking pills
And so, my friend, will I.

Whispers

Always there
Filling the silence
Between the two
In the spaces
In the gaps between them
'Hold my hand'
She cries
But he can't hear her hidden words.
His hands stay in his pockets.
His mind whispers
'Kiss me
Like you mean it'
'I'm broken'
Is her reply
'I'm scared'
Is his.
'How can we continue?'
She wonders
'Hold me'
'Hold me.'
She turns,
faces him
and he's there in an instant
heading towards her.
His arms embrace
and she smiles,
because somehow
he heard.

Musical Chairs

I stand up
and you slide over
she walks away
and he comes hither
we walk like dancers
we talk like conmen
in this terrible game
of musical chairs.
So where's the love
in our lazy wanderings
what's the what
and who is this now
we smile for the camera
we pass by the pauper
in this horrible game
of musical chairs.
A new mask taken up
for the friend and the lover
the cracked crooked mirror
grins on its own
we laugh when we're hurting
we lie when we're loving
in this deplorable game
of musical chairs.
We're all actors on a stage
and then there were none
the chairs all gone
and we've missed our cue
in this terrible horrible deplorable game
musical chairs.

52nd Street

She walks down the street, smiling, oddly happy.  Her legs are long and her hair is short.  She's not thin, but she isn't fat- there's nothing particularly noticible about her, though she is impeccably dressed.  In wedge heels and black shorts, a striped shirt and a large brown leather purse, she looks young- but fashionably so.  She walks down the street, nodding at passers-by and smiling at mothers pushing wailing infants in cutesy prams.  Occasionally she stoops down in front of dog walkers, looking upwards and requesting to pet their dogs.  They always say yes.  She's charming and she's mysterious- aluring in every way.  She's the picture-perfect image of the enlightened twenty-first century woman.
We move through different districts, passing homeless men and mangy dogs.  She continues walking, her shoulders back and her gaze cast forward.  She fascinates the world.  We pass train stations and strip malls.  She smiles at commuters and children on their way to school.  A cellphone begins to ring, and she draws it from her purse, quickly settling into a discussion about two mutual friends of the caller and hers who happen to be 'seeing each other.'  As she talks I realize just how much I hate that phrase and the utter mundanity it conveys; the confusion presented by the notion that two people only begin to 'see each other' once they start dating.  As I turn away from this lady I will never meet, I sigh, realizing that I lost interest in this woman long before discovering that someone so mysterious could be so saddly stereotypical.  I realize as I return to the train station where I first saw her that I lost all interest when she failed to notice the man begging for coins on the corner of 52nd street.

All in Favour of a Gay French Moon

I'm not going to lie, my sense of humour is bad. I can tell jokes that will make people laugh for days, but I always seem to have the misfortune of telling them to the wrong people at the wrong point in time. I'm the one joking about zombies canines to the grieving owner. I'm the person who jokes about necrophilia at a morgue. I laugh at stories of mice in restaurants told by waiters, and inevitably rattle one off about falling from the top of the CN tower while in the presence of an acrophobian. My timing is infamously bad.
Don't get me wrong. I love a good joke. And I'm in favour of a gay french moon. It just turns out that the lady to whom I told the joke about french gender naming being ridiculous is a lesbian francophile.

Empty

A copy of the Bell Jar, unread, sits on her bedside table
and copies of old newspapers pile up in the hall
time ticks and water drips
she sits unmoving by the stairs
staring at the ceiling and the sky outside her box.
dust moves slowly
dancing out the window
and she stares at the clouds.
Drinking from an empty glass
and writing with an inkless pen
the world spins up to kiss the sky goodnight.
the moon looks down, solemn and lonesome
at a city barely living barely sleeping
and the woman in her box
sings a song until the morning
of emptiness and heartbreak after dusk.
There's a song for when you're going out
and another for when you come back in
the mocking bird preens before the mirror
standing on the rocking chair
sipping light tequila
flipping through For Esme With Love and Squalor.
An old man on the corner
looks up towards the window
and the songstress combs her hair with saddened eyes
the world will always wonder and she will ever laugh
and the song will go on singing for itself.

Midnight at Hustle Zoo

A hop and a skip and a stone's throw away
sits the table of the drinking men
their fat cigars glow red in the lamplight
another notch on their belts
another win for the pot
another night at the casino drinking beer.
Dancing girls in skimpy spangly dresses
in pinch-toe shoes and painted faces
they smile and wink and wave
another dollar for the bank
another penny for the pauper
another night at the casino feeling false.
Neon lights flash flagrant colours
declaring for the world
the money to be had if only they play
another game just the one
another gamble- just a chance
another night at the casino hunting coins.
Slot machines click and the singer bows again
sighing realizing her life is fake
wishing she was somewhere else
another wistful dream wasted
another wish tattered and torn
another night at the casino dying slow.
The man behind the bar
is swaying to the muzak
wondering at the way the people move
another clock chime strikes midnight
another night will soon be dawn
another night at the casino hustle zoo.

Everyone has their shit story

even if you don't think it's true.
Something bad happens in everyone's life
at least once.
maybe twice.
everyone has their shit story
and I promise that this is good news
because you're never alone, no matter how bad it gets
because someone else
has had it worse
than you.
everyone has their shit story
and you'd better not ever no never forget it
because their day could be as bad as yours
and you have
no right
to be rude.
everyone has their shit story
it doesn't matter where they live
or what colour their skin is
or if their rich or poor.
everybody has their own shit story
and that's not anything
to turn your nose up at
so listen
and watch
and learn some respect
because the world doesn't revolve around you.
even if you have a shit story that's all your very own.

A poem for Frank

I'm not sure if I fell in love with you because your name was Frank
or if I fell in love with the name Frank because it was your name.
Perhaps if I could ask you
just why it is you love yourself so much
I'd know.
I'm not sure why I fell in love with you. I don't think it was your name.
But I can't imagine what it was. Likely I was simply enamoured
with your confidence
I never considered that you might just
be prideful.
I'm not sure how I feel about you anymore. I used to be angry.
But I saw you today and I felt nothing but sad.
because I feel like we missed out
on something that could have been
incredible.
I'm not sure if I was even in love. Or if I just thought you were beautiful.
I'm hoping that it wasn't either, because both seemed far too fleeting.
Don't worry about me
I'll be fine, in fact
I worry
about you.




(you heartless cow)

Glistening in the sun

wet with beads of water
her legs dance back and forth
as she pedals the earth through another day
biking down the street
after a dip in the sea
big round lips
laughing to herself
laughing at herself
laughing at the world
a bird sits on her shoulder
her tanned and naked shoulder
she dances round the garden
all slanty eyes and tilty hips
and big round bouncing chest
sweat above her brows
laughing to herself
laughing at herself
laughing at the world
hoisting a child to her hips
cooing softly in the evening
light plays off the ocean
highlighting her features
soft brown hair
falling to her thighs
eyes twinkling in the twilight
laughing to herself
laughing at herself
laughing at the world
sleeping when the day is done
mother nature smiles
a fat and lovely woman
nested in a bed of leaves
on a tree top
at the crux of existence
on the brink of something real
laughing to herself
laughing at herself
laughing at the world

In the morning

I am sitting
at the cafe counter on
the end of my street
listening to people talk
strange bubbling skipping
elliptical poetry
drinking hot chocolate
wishing it was tea
wondering where the day will bring me next
Round about noon
I am biking
down a hill dotted with cherry trees
the wind moves fast behind me
and I'm sailing
yes I'm sailing
down the road to the creek
heading into the sunshine
wondering where the day will bring me next
In the afternoon
I am lounging
in a blanket on the couch
book in hand
I'm flipping through the pages
blurring past the events
of another persons life
smiling at the jests they pose
crying for their sorrow
hearing the lilt of their voices in my ear
and wondering where the day will bring me next
It's the evening
I am lying
on the carpet
by the fire
writing a song
all for myself
stumbling laughing tilty stories
jumbling together in my soul
drinking cold tea
wishing it was hot chocolate
wondering where my life will bring me next
perhaps I shall know
perhaps I will discover
my route, my path
in the morning
in the morning
perhaps I will find you
in the morning
wondering where your day will bring you next

Vanilla Twilight at the fair

Bubbles float in the air
vanilla twilight at the fair
seduced by the men who run the games
I stay and play one more
one more
one more
again
the ferris wheel
the blur of lights
go round and round
and up and down
a carousel
like a magic spell
and I'll stay on
for just one more
one more
one more
again
sugary doughnuts
buttery popcorn
children laughing begging
their parents sighing
one more
one more
one more
again
Bubbles float in the air
vanilla twilight at the fair
one more
one more
one more
again