The wind pushes around the patio chairs
Rocking and shaking them
And relentlessly howls against the windows
and through the cavernous hallways.
The sound pervades the emptiness
Making a mockery of my peace of mind
And reminding me of the one thing this
Apartment
Misses.
The postcard sits on my fridge,
that was our fridge,
Not as a sad reminder of
Better
Times
But as a reminder to miss you.
I don’t miss you anymore
And there’s something cold
And seemingly empty about that,
As if you had meant nothing.
Its from Switzerland’s Chateau De Chillon,
And you said you missed me
Although we had only hung out once
And you disguised your love by saying
‘Much love’
When you signed off,
But we both knew it was a quiet misdirection.
Happiness washes over me reading this
Postcard from a mystery woman in my past
Because that is not who you are now
That was another you
And another me.
I wouldn’t bet the farm that those will be
The happiest moments of our young lives
but anyone hedging bets would not
Handicap that bet too much,
it might be a favourite.
And the beautiful Irish had said
I reminded her of Hemingway because
I was handsome
Honest
And a hell of a writer.
Maybe it didn’t matter what anyone else said,
Besides a handful of lovers,
Because I was handsome and honest,
Worthy of hatred for my vileness,
And I could write.
More importantly,
I was worthy of great love
the deepest sadness
And was hellbent on passing away talent.
The corner of your lip is set in a
frown
that shakes the world.
How could the beautiful be so
sad
and left behind,
and what type of world is this?
There is no justice
and any talk of karma or
a justifying force is laughable
or downright idiotic.
Sadness and loneliness will
rape
and pillage the
dreams and ambitions of even the
most noble and purest
and it is up to us to respond.
It was more in your eyes than
your beautiful lips,
that sadness,
the pervasive,
indifferent
sadness.
Life had dealt you the same hand
as me
and we both felt the weight of it
bearing down like hard chains
tugging
at our soft flesh and bones.
There’s a grand difference between being awake
And getting out of bed.
There was some major fault line to cross
That occasionally could shake your reality apart.
Being awake did not mean you were fully out
Of the realm of dreaming
or fully conscious
it just meant you were perceiving some of
The ‘real world.’
By contrast,
Getting out of bed made you exist in the world,
Or you were being-in-the-world,
As opposed to the sort of unbeing of bed.
I could laze around in bed for hours
Firing off text messages to friends and lovers
Entertaining ridiculous thoughts
And occasionally letting myself slip into a dream,
It was the easiest way to exist
At least when the dreams were kind,
Which they weren’t always prone to be,
But they mostly behaved themselves lately.
We had a way of bringing smiles around
and we laughed
together
not unlike children.
A mostly-digital friendship that craved more
Like I ached for you
And there was no relief coming for months.
We took to each other like the two kids
From different primary schools
Who found themselves in the same homeroom
Bullied by the cold world around them.
This wasn’t life in a classroom but our bully was love
Or mostly a loss of it
And we had brought out own issues to the table
And had plenty food for thought.
The people who are not broken are boring
Or hiding something bigger than themselves.
I showed you canyons running through my heart
And the skies where my dreams soared
And still
Some words could not be said and
Some memories could not be shown.
A steel bucket with stagnant water,
Calcium collecting with soap residue,
the heat from the sauna burns it all until it
Is the bucket also.
And the water begs for something fresh,
A splash of multi-coloured dye to smack down
Altering the water forever and making it
New.
There have been splashes before
With two for one and also
Some of the brand new loves,
But it’s mostly worn-out and the same.
And now there you are,
A splash of colour in the grey-rainy world
Poised to set my world on fire,
If we let you.
Two young
Beautiful
20-some things are sitting
On the bus together.
Both listening to music
And not saying a word,
But if two friends won’t speak
To one another on the bus,
they are likely not the kind of girls
I spend my nights with.
It is the greatest disappointment,
the most botched assassination of our time,
there was poison and a gun
and you threw me in a lake,
but I rose despite the celebrations.
They say to play to the crowd,
but that’s difficult when you’re the villain
or more likely
an anti-hero.
There are hisses and boo’s
and maybe somebody throws a lamp
or a hamper full of your clothing at you,
but you move on.
I can imagine the shock while you
were smiling and thinking about how
you had defeated me,
the way you grinned as a boy pulls the wings
off a fly
or the legs and antennae
off an ant,
but suddenly the writhing insect became
something more.
I can’t imagine the shock of it,
and the attempt at refocusing the
magnifying glass until you realized
my body had burned itself already
and the ashes of me would no longer catch.
There’s one thing about the phoenix,
once I’ve feasted on my flesh in my own fire,
no pain can push me back or chain hold me down,
I soar.
Your strongest hate and spite could never touch me now
and certainly
should never again
and there is only death in you.
My sleep schedule isn’t fixed,
I have tests and deadlines coming up,
I’m flat broke and struggling through a depression,
and it doesn’t seem like there is much relief coming,
but today is a good day.
Life is all about perspective sometimes,
even when it’s kicking me in the throat,
because it could be kicking me in
the throat
and the balls.
Sometimes a puppet can be
Identified by the strings that
Reveal the puppet master.
You have seen nothing yet,
And are an amateur at best
But if you want to learn about manipulation
I can certainly show you some of what you
And certainly the others
Have taught me.
But that’s all nothing compared to things I know
And the dark places I’ve been
and maybe you’ll get a taste of it.
Its tempting and I feel the tug of demons
Who want me to break you for this
But its not the pawn’s fault a war has started,
Although there is personal responsibility,
But I’m gunning for the queen on the board
Who thinks she is a chess master but
Is just one more piece on the board.
Andy Veilleux 