Canadian poets

Samurai of chaos and order

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

Half of me sleeps and

wakes up again,

The other half

laughs

all the time,

but hits like

a full punch,

a straight to the face

I was walking towards

that sits me down again.

 

On better nights I sit

and take it all in –

there must be somewhere that

feels like home –

the lights dazzle

and the crowd cheers,

the bed sheets hug me.

 

On worse nights I wake

still ordinary and plain

and corrupt from deep within –

every fibre of every inch of

bent, hammered steel of hatred

and destruction and cunning.

 

I am the two edges of excitement –

chaos and order –

dancing on one blade together.

 

I’ll cut you so you can feel alive,

and I’ll take every arrow fired at you,

to make my life feel less worthless.

Fear and you

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

Fear had its claws pushed through the skin

that coiled tightly around my veins and muscle,

a failed attempt to turn me away or bleed me out.

 

I was not dying anytime soon and the only thing

scarier than love was a lack of progress towards it.

 

The fear hung on like bats waiting for night to fall,

but I was the only falling piece on the board.

Adult bedtime

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Adults give themselves bed times,

as if they missed parents forcing them to go to sleep,

and it's always too early.

 

Pretend you are retiring to have sex

or read something enlightening

or because there's enough sleep to make you beautiful

-although there is an irony in someone dreaming of you prettier – 

but your life sucks.

 

It's getting late and that

means I should pack it in

hit the hay

or just punch in the dick any hope of leading a life

that is better than average and somehow exciting

because somehow not having a life became acceptable

and we are all guilty of it.

 

Pissing away our lives on television shows that

never leave us satisfied and never

write a 

proper 

ending

and video games that are endless pits of time-wasting

or maybe you read,

surely you don't write,

because only the depressed, the fags, the romantics

– and maybe all three at once –

would actually write.

 

Nothing has value

or is valuable but that's not a nice

social

or popular thing to say

unless you want to eat meds for the next fifty years

but only a few at a time,

wouldn't want to miss all this and the fantastic wonderful explosive amazing WAMAZING enlightening things to come.