Canadian poetry

A life of sand

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A person can become your life to

the point that they are

all you ever knew.

 

The ability to walk slides out from under you

a rug over marbles over ice,

and you find yourself as a fawn dangerously

trying to find your footing in a

frozen world.

 

the left foot plants and

the right foot inches forward with caution

landing near its mark.

 

One will keep crawling in and

out

of beds to learn

what the other already knows.

 

Someone always hurts 

and the world if filled with

idiots

who don't understand much

especially about

love.

 

The something special leaves you

unceremoniously

it sneaks out the front door while you sleep

the same way it snuck in,

and it doesn't leave a note

or forwarding address,

and

even if it would have,

it's dead.

 

We are all grasping at the

sands of time

– some watch themselves get old

others try and keep love alive,

but it's all

just

sand.

scythe, hammer, sickle

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Humans fashion tools

the same

as they fashion signs

words

that can till

pummel/build

or kill.

 

The symbolic march of

similar semiotics

row in row and in

almost-infinite waves of humans

behind a

symbol of

hope

despair

or indifference.

 

All arbitrary,

yet shot through with given

meanings,

intentional

or as unintentional as the piece of shit stuck to your

dog's ass.

 

The smell still exists,

intended

or unintended.

slapping determinism

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The nodding head that warm

over-sweetened

coffee

slapped into temporary stiffness

enough to force the gaze onto millions of tiny

sun-bright

lights held in a rectangular plastic box that throws

radiation into my face

and cause my fingers to smack the keys of plastic

loudly and with meaning

and create something not random or determined,

but novel

in the way any human action is new or different

and nothing can happen twice

the same,

or twice at all.

existence in a distal phalange

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nothing moves

sets

or stops for minutes

as the

first shrill tingles run

from my eyes

carving across my scalp and

warmly clawing deep into my spine.

 

 

There was no hatred centuries deep

or stares that slashed like a butcher's cleaver,

only laughter,

snotting,

and tears.

 

An end is a beginning,

which is an end

unceremoniously followed by a beginning

until the pattern is old,

but really only an end.

 

No end to love

but a prelude in life leading to more

disappointment

or perhaps

something better.

 

Hope is for the naive fairy-tale guzzlers,

those with depraved common sense, 

and anyone who can't tell

asshole-vampire/bondage-fiction/romance

from reality.

where dead love plays

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

The hand of friendship or hammer of love

indifference.

 

Sunlight

or maybe its artificial

bounces through cracks

filling up

the scary places that demons

uncaged

live.

 

And a party starts,

as noisy neighbours in the same mind

and something

brews.

 

a match strikes the leathery

face of the old loves

now withering

and ages

horribly,

decades beyond natural

and the skin has dried up falling off

the brittle bones

and 

the nothingness in between the 

human cavity has been vacuumed out

along with the

soul

whether its of a million neurons

or quintessence.

 

That's where I lay on the

cold nights that seemed to never 

end.

dead memory

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Remember me here

or some place where life 

tends to happen more frequently than not – 

the dance of playful sexual cues on your lips

flicking off your tongue and the

desire in your eyes.

 

Remember that room where

so many passionate moments passed into existence

and carved their way

-chisel full of grey brain and blood-

into our memory.

 

Do you remember when it happened?

Eyes stretched out over the small table

surrounded by so many horrible books

and Harris

Fucking Harris

and the rest of the clowns –

how they all faded when

eyes touched and there was a plunge

but to where?

 

Somewhere lost souls dwell – 

purgatory for philosophers and other

maniacs.

 

Bring me back.

Panic

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There are no whispered secrets

LZEMIAZWEZHAZCHZ

I can waste lines

and still hear it all

so clear

and it must be known

and I would like it known.

 

a dollar doesn’t buy a nickel’s worth anymore,

and a secret denied could never save up for love.

 

Panic,

it’s the only appropriate emotion.

miles beyond the one

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The one who stares does not believe in it

– it’s just not right –

what an expert,

with all the accolades and medals

and people lined up outside that door

wanting to bang it down

-oh, wait, that’s false –

there’s no banging

and no chances for the

one who stares

and acts so innocently.

 

It’s all a game

one of silly stakes and fun

but not the kind the one would get

if the one could have fun.

 

archaic, devoid of fun, seems likely…

 

coded messages,

but not so coded

and also not quite real

for what are words on a page

with given names not taken

but others given.

 

you know exactly what this is,

feel empowered

– that’s not how life works –

interpretation is a cruel mistress,

but not ignorant at least

Hell,

not ignorant.

 

That puts it leagues ahead,

miles beyond what does not matter.