Rain falls on the ground. Drizzling water.
Television turned on. Angry rhetoric.
New plans proposed. Armies marching.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Skies black with hate. Lazy yelling.
Fish swim back and forth. Danger unaware.
Tribes gather and they scold. Malicious vibes.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Watching children learn. Violence dominates.
Corporations preach and burn. Insipid parasites.
Grass grows in tones of brown. Dying atmosphere.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Water runs fast and slow. Strangers shouting.
Trees shade and have no leaves. Corporate hello.
Moon rises naked in the sky. Sun is empty zero.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Churches empty as stores open. Religious tolerance.
Dinosaurs gone but more to come. Media harmony.
Up is downwards and down is up. Confusing immoralities.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.


Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.
Let peace be on our lips.
Let peace be in our hearts.
Let peace be our only word.
Please, please, please,
                                  pray for peace.

Chris  G Vaillancourt
Chris G Vaillancourt
Aug 10, 2013      Aug 11, 2013

I was once alive!'
a dead man cries at the heavens;

all ghosts shift and sputter so jealously
at the living beings on earth

'if only we had been Angels'

then the heavens clench the redness of every bloodshed
from wars and illnesses alike
        into a stigmata presence of a fresh wound bleeding out
                                from Jesus Christ's Hands and Feet
                                           nailed through during a shivering winter
                                                           of crucifixions
                                           as alleluias and amens  
                                  from ever weeping cherubims and angels
                                                    mourn innocent unblemished suffering -

winds scour the sky for axioms
as weeping Mary floats her prayers
through vibrant winds
                         and songs of heavenly protection

saints and sinners start a brawl:

I wonder how that ends?
Never mind,
it is still going on

What have we become?
         We who used to sit in my bedroom
         listening to Beatles records on headphones.
We spoke of the future.
         We planned our advance.
How many cups of coffee have we consumed
         in the over 30 years we've known one another?
A private village buzzing with secret flies.
An isolated two merged in one thought.
Teenage boys. Teenage men.
Men. Yes, we became men.
     Grown up. Living in our own apartment.
Peanut butter and coffee in the cupboard.
Bread and margarine in the fridge.
Macaroni and Cheese for supper.
               Living the good life!
University. Late night studies.
Crammed in between the parties.
        Laundry day. Bags and bags of
                rumpled semen stained clothes,
                dumped like angry bitches
                                into industrial machines.
Video games and cigarettes.
             Philosophy and politics.
We and our gang of other anxious young men
    gathering in groups for comfort.
                     Planning on how we'd get laid.
Mostly going home alone and jacking off.
We grew older. Old.
Yes, I suppose we are now old men.
   Just a wee bit past middle-aged.
Infrequently connecting. Suggesting times
                          we could meet.
Dinner and a Movie perhaps? Have we become that old?
Life goes on and has gone on.
         Marriages begun. Marriages ended.
Husband. Father. Having Kids. Children. Teenagers. Young adults.
                      Grandfather now.
You've lost your hair. I didn't take it, but still it is lost.
           Mine remains, but rude strands of grey pop
                                        up like alabaster whores
                                                       on parade.
Keep it between ourselves, but I colour mine now.
             Oh yes. Like a vain woman rushing to her
                                        makeover session, I plop
                                                 The gunk on my head and
                                                         wait for it to pretend for me.
I'm crabby in the mornings. Irritated in the afternoons. Pissed off
                                           by the coming of the night. Adulthood.
                                                                  Isn't it grand?!
Do you still listen to the same music we used to love?
Pop on a Beatles song and sing along, planning on how
                                                       to change the planet?
Me. I don't give a fuck about the planet anymore. Let it rot
                                                    into stinking piles of dung.
I'm involved in my own existing now.
Are you?
We're in the final stages of living. Neither sad nor morbid.
                                                Simply a fact.
Good twenty, thirty years left.
                Let's promise each other to meet again
                       a few more times before our funerals.

Asleep, where the dreams
curved away, leaving
you behind.

Those instant pictures that
shape the false
impressions.
Do you remember
those shadows?

This is the only time
the dusty photo albums
become
reality shows.

Stranded on islands.
Strangers of different
races.

We were even strangers
when we met. We never did
get to
know one another.

This is what I realize.
Falling asleep
the best
defence to facing
the
mourning.

We can be what we want to be.

That is the promise
we gather to ourselves.

Flickering moments of
intensity that
crawl away
like wedding bands
thrown into the trash.

Asleep, where the dreams
curved away, leaving
you behind.

The flash of urban
machine demonstrates
             persistence.
Rubber slithering
           on absorbing iron.
Interlocking harmonized echoes
           scan in electromagnetic
                      trains.
Tracks dispersed across
               the spectrum

of nothing.

Spaces.

That is this country.

We who've been in residence here
know the
            detachment of our flag.

Walking shoes
of
walking men.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sonar devices clamped like cancer
                     to their ears.
Listening to private noises
          in the middle of a cluster.
We were thinking alike.
Hide in trains and
acclaim
          the vacuum
          of
          performing.

Nylon stockings over face.
The photographed sequence of
choreographed events
cascade over and over

into paths never spoken of.

Age one on the mounted
message is clear as drizzled wings

sneered by ornaments in drag.

A double tone of tolerance
is wanted but is not welcomed.

Were we still dancing when the
music did not mean anything to
us anymore?

Artificial roses on the table.
Plastic food in the fridge.

We sat for dinner in solemn
manifestation.
My plate was full.
My heart was void.

Null and void.
Void and null.

When I break out of
my chrysalis, will you
still remember
how to comb your hair?

Across the snowing intemperance
streamed colours named,
yet not used.

Null and void.
Void and null.

In the obscurity
of the humiliated
steeples


androids sob.


Neoprene murmurs
shriek out
cellophane fabrications.


Listen for prosthetics
dropping
to the surface
of heartbeats
and silence.


Promenade like
falling sleet


to chambers


of hurting.


Infra-red warmth
flashing
on and off
through the body.


In the shadows
of perspective


mud rots
in
tones of
triviality.

 
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