The Reality of The Season

Summer legs that see more long grass and fence spokes than sun. More cool water stolen and sliding down shivering stomachs from dirty bleached out hair than warm sand sticking to the back of calves and shoulders. Skin coloured from bruises not UV rays. Never hydrated for all that is drank, every roof climbed helping you find your way to flying. The most the sun is seen is in pink and purple splashes on the east horizon on a 5AM walk home. That is also the most that is remembered. Husky voices, poisoned insides, untainted mouths and bodies that feel more air and rain than they do clothes. Leaving you more dried out than the remnants of autumn leaves, finished faster than drunk words falling out of mouths.

When Your Mouth Is Cold

You miss him. At 11PM when he’s laying beside you and you wait too long after eating ice cream to kiss him with a cold mouth, because somehow that means “I love you” without having to say it. You miss him when he’s lost in his thoughts or when you’re lost in yours and the only good thing is that you get the missing in now. You’re begging the universe that you won’t have to too much in the future. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you miss him the most right before he tells you he has to leave at 6:30AM to move the care because even though nothing changes your mouth is now warm, and wet, and lonely and you’re forgetting what it’s like to have his words melting on your tongue. Even though you swore everything he said was tattooed on the inside of your cheek. You miss him when the bed is empty and warm. 

These Are Not Artists

Inside out. Smeared on walls, canvas, journals. A bloody piece of “art”. Not red but black and blue. Inconsistent and non-blandiloquent. Falling apart how snow falls from the sky, hitting the ground like tears running away from eyes. This is what happens when you ask someone else to fix you – they get bored and you look fun and here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. The things is, these people aren’t engineers. They are gamblers and prostitutes and homeless and they will use you, not build you up. You will not be featured in a gallery, just a grave. And this is incipient. The only fixing to be had are the patches in their own lives, the plug in the hole in the dam and all the pressure is on you. You are not a corner, not a game, not a home. You are used, blue, and black. 

I Think My Soul Is Weary

I’m so tired. More than I just need a good nights sleep. More than I need to slow down, or life to slow down, or that I’m holding on to too many things; getting dragged down. I’m so tired and it’s more than just over-bearing responsibilities, not enough coffee, and too many late nights. It’s more than just a drowsiness in my eyes, in my muscles. It’s in my mind, in my life. I’m tired in a way that sleep can’t cure, that money can’t buy, that caffeine can’t infuse, that lust can’t ignite. I’m tired in a way I can’t reach, like the deep of the sea. I’m so tired and I can’t rid myself of it like a job I’m not satisfied with. I can’t ignore it like a friendship I’m no longer interested in. I’m so tired.


I’m not surprised there isn’t yet a word that embodies him. One must be venial to our language because it is missing a lot of them. Full of labyrinthine, mellifluous, effervescent words but none of them conflate to an equivalent of you. None feel quite right pounding themselves off my tongue, getting caught between my teeth, bubbling out of my mouth as I stumble over the assonance and cajole the vowels with what I’m praying is proper diction. They are amiable in my mind but hostile between my cheeks. I can’t figure out if you’re long or short, if you should rhyme or acquiesce to leave my lips. My mind dwales while I try to appease it, but I need to be candor.



  1. One who makes you feel like spring
  2. The physical embodiment of eunoia

My Grandfather Clock Tolls At The Wrong Time

You are aging. Even if you won’t admit it, you’re afraid. Like a young girl worried of loosing her beauty to acne scars and kisses from the wrong boy – but back aches and wrong wives. The drugs you do won’t amount to the adventures you used to have. It won’t bring them back and not eating will just make you decay faster; the skin falling off your muscles while you realize there is no back bone to be found. There is nothing here for you and I know your motives.  One last big move to bring everything back although the only thing the future holds for you is acceptance – but soon you’ll forget that. You’ll forget it all. Standing before me in too loose and too old fleece pyjamas, preaching to me about youth and art and beauty like I’m not the one representing it. Making desperate attempts in your speeches and rants to hide the terror that whittles away at you; life smoking you slowly like the joints you roll as we talk. But there is no high like the satisfaction that someone is looking through you because this old man before me knows better than anyone that we spend our whole lives perfecting our mask just to find someone who sees through it. I hope you were surprised when it was me. You used to be wild. Now you’re just crazy and the man I thought you were has burned down to show me the man you are. I don’t revere you. I don’t look up to you. Although I listen, it’s only because I’ve heard it before. Reckless and abandoned  as you have ever been, you were the first to sense I would leave. There is nothing here for me like I imagined, just the same as you. But I can escape and I won’t let you live vicariously. So I sit with my patience and my drugs and listen. We ride until there’s no more breath (or for you, no more battery), and I already miss you. You don’t know it. I already miss you because you know I won’t have the time for it after this is over. But when you are quiet I don’t miss you anymore, we’re both gone & we both know it. In your too loose pyjama set, your too loose morals are set free when you tell me secrets I don’t want to know. But they are mine now old man, mine to keep and breathe from because even though you are here, you are gone with the wind you try to shelter as you light another. There’s no going back and no one to take you there. The wrong intentions with the right person. But also the right intentions with the wrong person. You had so much more coming for you and reality came in like a harsh babysitter that life never fired – it just keeps paying its dues. Constantly controlling your actions. These people that you love only because you have to, and me – the only one you loved because you couldn’t help it. And I love you too, but it’s because I want to. I hate you the same and it’s something I can’t prevent. I don’t revere you. I am disappointed and I can’t be bought, but Jesus know’s you’ll try – so does God if you believe in that – and I won’t step in to stop you even though I’d be stepping back in line. Maybe that makes us the same. Or maybe it proves how different we are. It doesn’t matter. You are lost and I am gone, but the difference is only one of us can come back. I don’t think I will.

Where Thoughts Hide from Thinking

Creaky stairs to the basement of my brain. The workshop desolate, covered in cobweb thoughts spun thin; unclean, unused, unbrushed. The terrors if the basement of my brain too hard to face. The memories stored in mis-happen boxes; unlabelled, unorganized, unopened. And it will take days and years to purge myself of this space. It will days and years and broken dolls, black markers, old photographs, sun-bleached-fridge-posted-magnet-wrinkled-art, too small and too big clothing, notes from my grandfather and his wife – never received or never sent – because it will take days and years to make this space constructive. No one knows my possessions – the printed pages, stained and weathered by my fingers grasp and the salt of each time I held them and remembered and wept until I filed them from myself deep in the chambers of nothing where I keep secrets from myself. And in the attic are secrets of others. Not forgotten just buried under dust and boarded up windows that scream for light everytime I peek my head through the doorway to see that there are no ghosts. No ghosts that I clandestinely wish were there to seek their revenge or confess their sins, but all that’s left are the imprints of my imagination like disfigured footprints on the grey ground. The imagination that brings alive the things kept under ground of what now strangers never told me and I am lost, lost, lost. But I open old trunks filled with skins of who I used to be and try them if for size. I play pretend with feelings of the past; in broken mirrors that caused me more than seven year of bad luck because there is nothing that can act as an emollient for my need for things to be how I wish they were. And when I tire I lay down in blankets of old nightmares and pretend that their your arms holding me instead beause, really, it’s the same thing. It’s all the same thing. The unwritten books under the creaky stairs and the worn out skins in broken dressers; paper thin in the thighs, too tight in the soul, loose in my control. Torn up sheets covering the outline of some places I may have been, open from when I screamed your name, and called his with the conviction that the jealousy it could create would bring you back. But I know you are lost as I am lost, in your own attic reading the words you could have wrote, flipping through pictures of memories never made, but at least you have that. The would haves and should haves. I’m left with the could haves and if I maybes and the tears and pain and I will never unboard these windows because I don’t need to shed light on what I can’t see, I already see enough of what I dread, and although the shadows scare me the dream that you’re still hiding in them is enough for me to bear it.