A limit of steps;
Life as a marathon,
Maybe a sprint.
So many steps from innocence,
Or naivety,
Call it what you will
And I call it like it is.
Probably not so close to the
Finish
Line,
But the end is to be announced.
For now we are running free,
Limited only by a mortal frame
-Set to expire-
Which is the whole point of life.
Most people don’t see the finish line,
And are afraid to search,
Fearing this will be their last run.
And,
It will be.
Ethereal connection,
untouchable by the others,
and fuck the others.
Anyone would,
and us no less,
but we know fun,
passion,
yet sadness.
Sweet curves,
built to make grown men cry,
hold the weight of the world's
expectations of women to be thin.
Curved body,
a temple,
makes you want to get down
on both knees
and pray
or beg.
You are a ghost,
potential unrealized by others
But I look through and see you,
I see you
I see you through the drugs
love
sex
living
and you can come in from
the cold
that nips at heels so well travelled.
You've felt it,
haven't you?
The scars are there,
the healing is on the way,
drown it with fun
and people
who don't understand you
but I
I see you
I see you.
I see you,
ghost of now,
Standing out in a crowd,
only to vanish when the lights
come
out and the bar stools are put up.
You were never there for anybody
despite who you leave with
and you're always
coming
home to me.
These ironic bars
a plague on words
and both our spouses
a never-ending gore-y
the rock-upy movement.
Language,
useless.
Abyss is too defined a term to describe
the nothingness breathing on my hour glass,
the glass fogs from the moist nasal air,
blurring out the wasting grains of sand.
No,
too soon.
"When you're my age,
death doesn't seem so far,
and it occupies you,"
said the elder scholar,
but he lied,
or was ignorant.
Death does occupy me,
I see it in my fingers pounding
on plastic keys in a dark room
surrounded by melodies of sorrow;
good winter,
that crack the surface of mortality.,
if only fleetingly.
I have failed you,
and the sand doesn't go back up
the one-way paths in all our lives
and neither will the tears of loved ones,
weeping over something we used to be,
but can never regain again.
What was once moving,
loving,
thinking,
breathing,
is now undone,
and broken down.
No trancendence,
no light to follow,
no salvation sought,
and no mercy given.
Born into the godless abyss,
and returned to nothingness.
Love is broken,
Enter redemption,
Marching on mountains of skulls
Decayed bones powdering under the grinding wheels of time.
There is being and time,
But time destroys being cyclically,
Being as cancer exterminated by time’s radiation.
It’s enough to give you morning sickness,
At least a gut filled with bike hatred and profound boredom,
The nothingness slaps against walls of anger,
Maybe righteous,
But passionate for sure.
Life’s lemons are not free,
You pay in time,
But they are sour as fuck.
It was never a question of survival,
at least not for long,
but of progress.
Not the progress of condo development and urbanization,
or even a take-back-the-streets or reforestation,
but a human progress.
It is easy to survive in a bloated existence.
Life is lived out on silver platters
sometimes lined with gold paint
other times shit,
but the inside is all the same.
Complacency,
comfort,
but it's of a numb variety.
Democraticzed boredom,
CAN YOU HEAR ME?
Boredom has become democratized.
It's horrible,
even the working class feel boredom
– beat it out with gunshots to projections of humans –
the quasi-intellectuals in ivory towers
– known it out by the sound of dices rolling,
or kids screaming in ears,
middling worries, or egotistical chest-thumping, about rat populations-
whatever tries to tickle what can not be tickled.
Some say the train derailed after failed revolutions,
or from near-tyrannical governments
– although tyrants don't come like they used to,
in the 1900s or even 1200s –
but there is always choice.
Chirk it,
you know you want to,
come on man,
who wants responsibility anyways?
It's not your fault you are bored,
– or is your guilt rattling your conscience? –
but then again,
maybe it is.
You can blame the culture that force-feeds spectacle
– with their fists –
into every orifice in your body,
leaving you numb, gaping, confused,
but the blame doesn't belong there.
You take it all in,
you open your legs for the wrong pleasures,
you have become a spectacle whore like any other,
and that responsibility
– along with the guilt –
is yours to bear.
You can wake up and become a being worthy of greatness,
or lay back with your metaphysical legs wide open,
waiting for next flashy new toy to fill the void in your life.
The reported sex was never as good
or even as bad
as it was in the real world.
The sex could be broken,
never happen,
or earth-shattering,
but none of that conveys itself
easily into words poems videos pictures images graphics sentences paragraphs papers essays spoke words or anything really,
there was nothing,
nothing that could justify it.
Often it came across neutral.
An act, a thing, an object.
Sex is more of an emotion,
and it isnt performance-based always,
that's no game sheet,
sometimes bad sex is still good,
and good sex is bad and vacant, void, emotionless,
EMPTY,
that's the chaos of sex.
Sometimes sex drives all thoughts,
pushes all things,
is all thigs to everybody,
wants to be begged for and wants someone on their knees
gasping for SOMETHING to break the monotony;
life.
Sunrise and sunset have lost their meaning.
There is no metaphysical, quasi-poetic, deep explanation.
The sun rising or setting no longer dictates when I sleep or rise,
when I begin my day or end it,
or anything else of significance for me.
I have become unbound,
and there’s no reason for it.
Surely, it has just happened,
as a blocked sink overflows,
a burning log smolders,
as an old man dies,
a baby is born;
progression.
Rising sun batters through St. John’s fog,
and dense cloud cover,
as seagulls hover,
unconcerned.
A harbour city rocks awake,
machinery bangs and clunks,
predestined purpose drives,
the ideas became discussion became policy,
and a once-broken city for poor labourers,
is suddenly erecting condos from hillsides.
Progression.
Father,
I’ve become so much like you.
Up at 4:20 AM
making bologna sandwiches.
Where did all the time go?
Sitting around in my joggers and wool socks,
wondering where all my sleep goes,
when I am not partaking in it.
Just a few months ago we were together,
and now all I get is your voice
but I can still see your smile
on the other end,
when I hear
pride in your voice.
At the end of the day,
that’s one of the only things that matters to me.
I remember being young and saying
I would never be like you,
the thought of it was appalling.
Now It’s a badge of honour.
I love you dad,
and you always did right by me,
even when you were wrong.
You are not a loaded gun.
You are a wet bullet,
useless without some time
an external heat source,
and something to
hammer you from
behind.
And maybe you're a
blank.
Andy Veilleux 