White walls were
are
always ruined by dirty finger prints
and
the bleach scrubdowns never made
any difference.
There’s a filthiness to living that no one
ever talks about or
mentions
we all just watch the slow decay of the fragile
innocence.
Canadian poetry
Fatima
Dark on dark and
Eyes couldn’t find a hole to crawl into
But something stirred in you and I
Rooms apart
Never to be satisfied.
Forever is a long time,
The longest yet but we never gave up
As we crawled
Leaped
Swam and
Cried for more.
Believe in me,
Trust in these arms
Weak with failure and history.
Was there something more than this?
Is there now?
love and corpses
I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
I remained in the bed, sitting,
staring where love once was,
now some dark shape that could have been a corpse in the bed remained.
All that was special and magical in life
had suddenly become commonplace and tired;
there was no remedy or break from it.
It seemed as if the gold paint had flaked off
and now I was left staring at a mud statue.
Life was crawling by and all I wanted was to run,
and I waited so long to get out of the gates.
I wish I never looked back.
These eyes that drown
The ocean-blue of my eyes are a playground
or a death wish fulfilled.
My soul pours out as a waterfall,
splashing cold, sobering torrents of surface tension
into the warm, still air,
disrupting the peace of inanimate nature.
Come swim inside of me,
float around until the storm comes,
and then flail in the tidal waves of my consuming hatred
in an attempt to survive and maybe find your way home.
Nobody ever makes it home whole again,
my soul weakens those it does not kill,
and most with mortal wounds as my Spawn always hungers.
I always eat,
always consume,
always am.
You will feel the warm injection of my embrace,
the heat crawls down the back of your neck like the first hit of a
steaming hot shower
launching pain into your nerves that you tell your soul will soon be fine.
Your soul will stop squirming soon
and it is too late anyways,
as you will crawl home or we will die together,
rotting,
decaying,
returning to our choiceless, freedomless nature.
Behind the glass wall of my eyes is a killing field
many have fallen into it
and I feast on souls.
ugly poem for an ugly time
Your eyes were still
drowning
in your completely average face
with your pedestrian, modified, hair,
and only a paragraph this ugly could describe you.
Fleet of heart, passion and loyalty,
void of meaning,
and as rudderless as a lifeboat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,
you are.
These painful, broken, cumbersome sentences
strung together like memories from all your nights before,
could not accumulate any meaning or shared worth,
just like your life.
The last goodbye was as real as the two of us,
because it never happened.
Sometimes the universe winks at me.
drowning in the glow of a new dawn
A brand new dawn is always clouded,
almost by its own optimism
if not by the optimism of the others.
Every dawn brings a promise with it,
a promise it could never hope to keep,
and the weight of expectation bloods it.
Success is impossible in the red glow,
and we crush ourselves upon its cliffs
trying to cling to the first ground we can
before the waves of water end us.
We floated in barrels like Tolkien’s dwarves,
occasionally choking on the water,
but not quite drowning from the trip,
but something changed in us from it.
Boredom and sand castles
I can feel every second passing like chunks of sand
Falling away from my beach-side castle,
And rejoining the inanimate that we once breathed into being.
The clock slashes away one second at a time
Like it were counting filthy coins into paper rolls
And something in me takes each tick like the
Smiling end of a razor blade come home to play.
I remember feeling awake sometime before these
transmuted nightmares became dreams of someone else’s’ design.
Now only the numb minutes remain,
The hours we could never kill
And that drown us as we choked for more life
Only to taste more boredom.
Floating ideas
The thoughts pour our of my brain
And steam through the open air,
All on the tip of my tongue but never captured.
I reach out a searching, slender finger
An attempt to capture or excite them onto the paper
Or at worst, grab them around the neck and wrestle them onto the page.
Boredom burns in me like a smouldering pile of ashes,
Useless and existing but nothing else,
I have no use for it except that it disgusts me
And maybe that toxic reaction pushes me on.
A month of goodbyes
A month was no time at all
and all I had left here,
it was a month to cram two years of life
into a final month of saying temporary goodbyes.
Every goodbye should be temporary,
but there is no heaven
and I would even take a hell to say
one last goodbye to some.
We continue after death,
but are no longer human and we
no longer matter.
Live now,
live well.
On the beauty of a girl
Some angels never fly
even with the most
beautiful
and glorious of wings.
Something anchors them to the
boring and pedestrian ground
and usually they are attached to the undeserving.
Maybe she is afraid to fly,
afraid to spread her wings and be
vulnerable
or to be loved as she deserves to be.
There are cracks in the happy of your life
and I watched them between perfect smiles
as something in me was falling
deep into the well of experience.
Sadness splashed up as acid to lick
my always-healing heart and
I know I am not the lucky one
or the one at all
and neither are you
with those chains wrapped around your neck
in this big tragedy of loving and living.
Don’t close your heart for him,
don’t give your heart away for
half a heart,
half a brain;
half a man.
I ache to watch you fly
and be as only you could be,
but maybe the tired irony of life
will come along and make
a tragedy out of beauty and brilliance
as it is known to do.
Andy Veilleux 