Canadian poetry

hateful engine turning

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

The kid gloves come off like

clothing

and my god,

what a strange hotel room with strange people

– strangers – 

and maybe they weren’t all that strange 

but so ordinary

normal

boring

military.

 

No use for gloves

wraps

tape

or anything to soften blows

always did blow at softening my words

anyhow,

and now there is that pain again

-anger flushes the face and leaves righteousness

made holy by sheer emotion

and nothing could be more divine/exciting.

 

Was I ever loved as a poet,

did you love me for my poetry?

double-edged problem,

the love doesn’t quite turn the engine like hate

and you do hate me

because I know.

clear head of dawn

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there was always a chance to admit it,

and you were so annoyed,

so annoyed,

as it that qualified anything.

 

I didn't care then and I don't now,

and if anything a clear head of dawn

has increased the anger a few steps further.

How dare you

collides with

why would you

and the fog was too obvious a simile.

 

There is a cloudiness to intention

an excusable amount of distasteful action

and reality should also set in.

 

And what of intentions?

 

As if they mattered as anything more than a building block of furniture

in hell.

the taste of blood

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Blood grows on you,

figuratively,

it’s literal growth being so obviously internal.

It’s more the taste of it,

something external

but from the mouth the tongue the sensation the mind the craving

one tightly knit dance of destruction

One could leave it to the sharks

not as methodical as (wo)man

but honest

at least honest

a shark feeds and you know it feeds humans lie about it.

We swim with gills soaked in blood pretending it just happened to be in the water

Trying to save you tonight

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Salvation forgotten,
Meaningless in the abyss
Of existence we are thrown into.

As if it mattered anyways,
When the world was structured
On top of a man bleeding on wood,
Absurdity and a pinch of the obscure
For good measure.

There was never a more convenient time to measure,
But how many martyrs did we use?
Jesus man,
I’ve forgotten now,
I thought you had counted.

Well,
Let’s say one for good measure.

And pick him,
So easy writing prophecies when
Things have already happened
And we will fill the remainder with dreams.

Nobody reads the footnotes.

The Nothing People

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We are of nothing,

for nothing,

and going nowhere.

 

Tender, plastic kisses mask

a void we cram full of

Valentine's Day bargain love.

 

It's not the dollar's fault,

always searching for a way to move,

like the skin wrapped around your body,

always crawling,

path of least resistance,

going anywhere,

can't fight the monster you can't see or prove,

but can't stop feeling.

 

Our souls are tugged down,

by some inexplicable force,

spritiual gravity,

that never ceases to pull one towards the gutter,

as if anyone needed more convincing of where home was.

 

One could always look in the toilet and see which way life was going,

a man-made compass,

analogy for life in the most appropriate place:

where we fuck, release waste, and become clean,

in a rinse-repeat pattern of little value or specific order.

 

The Nothing People,

the only name fitting enough,

aside from maybe those-who-live-with-a-void-eating-their-guts/mind,

but that was already copyrighted by the cynical me.

 

As a kid I thought there was a way out,

always a next step for progress

-stupidity still reigns,

but the battle changed –

The meaning of life is the journey

and there is no achievement in that,

no victory,

but it's the hand we have been dealt

and have evidently chosen to play rather than fold.

 

The hand is destined to lose,

but like a gambling junkie fronted a few chips,

we can't put our hands down,

even when we are ahead a few,

addicted to the high of fake winning.

 

That's where we live,

with our nothing,

new pavement

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There are the heroes of passion,

thrown from failures or successes

with an indiscriminate valour

unaffected by the shallow hearts that plague us all.

Life,

for them,

is lived with the bullets of hate

grazing hearts on sleeves

no armour could defend.

Death,

for them,

an indifferent act suceeding

every other event that came before

without special cause for distinction.

The truly great come through bearing

no gift particularly

but in making no demands

brings gifts greater than any else offered.

A friend is not a friend solely because of geography

a connection made through similar hobbies

or one night of great intimacy or affection conversation.

Pause.

Examine your connections in the world

and then despair,

because only despair is applicable

when life is compared to this ideal of great friendship.

Who are you,

and when did you stop caring,

or calling?

The two-way street analogy is out-of-season,

not out-of-touch,

and while South-bound is a traffic jam,

the North,

a lane to nowhere,

fast,

appears as new pavement.

This song

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Of all the things you pushed on me,
I understood it the least.
I did not have the capability to learn it
Nor you to teach it,
And nothing more must be said of us.
A amethyst on our once-collective mantle
where the fireplace has long ceased to be alive
An oold apartment,
Musty
Sleazy
In the heart of the old world in Sudbury
Is now abandoned of the emotion that once exploded it to so many lives and demises that any sort of count is impossible.

Hollow ppl may reside there with our skeletons
They are puppets in comparison.

Pant hangs onto the walls,
Although for dear life,
From the wars we waged,
With each other, the outside world,
And inside.

There’s a love laid to rest in that casket that has halved my being,
And crippled you.

A puppet walks on,
Clunky and awkward as puppets do,
And the old ghosts stalking are left feeling pity in place of anger.

A discussion under angels

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A meeting of angels

turns quickly to sinful pleasures

when angels are sinful.

And they are.

We are all of the image of an angel,

with the minds and ambition of sinners.

Remarkable potential for beauty and morals,

all shot through with revolvers forged of our hatred,

and spat on with acid that burns the soul and leave skin untouched.

The concept of good

is one of potential,

and never one of reality.

Intentions can not stand up

and be counted as actions are

and must bide them time in the cellars

of every lost thought and forgotten word,

the place of misfits, drowning sorrow and death,

Nowhere.

An ideal is not lost,

hope always exists,

even in the sewers

and backwaters

of a broken

moral

landscape.

The sin-ridden angels fly the highest

operating above the hypocrites and pathetic moralizers

who beg for somebody to admit what they feel

but could never say.

Their courage died,

or is being tapped out by their sense of moral righteousness,

reminiscent of a church build of gold asking for a donation from beggars.

Bizarre that a group of people with chairs so high,

see so little.

A discussion happens below,

among those labelled

murderers

beggars

thieves

cheats

liars.

The meaning of life is discovered,

the pursuit of enjoyment,

and Millian liberty for all.

Progression

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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.