The floor is dr i i i pping black tar and the air is the bottom of a grease trap
the wind outside sounds... heavy.
it seems air has lost its weightlessness and now everything is being pulled
d
    o
       w
          n

and i look at that typed cliché and i think
"there's no other way"
because weight reigns and it's so heavy it pulls
and structure and pause mean more than what's been said before because   what hasn't?

Feels like i'm pacing back in forth in my mind but i can't help but stumbling
and every time i do, i end up sat on the ground of my consciousness hugging my knees thinking STOP.

because they told me only a belief in their God can get me into heaven but listen,      i don't even believe in myself

and I'm sorry but may your **** ******* you for being so irreverent to my irrelevance
and I whisper to myself, ******* him for being so ego-centrical    that even now when i can't believe in anything I'm waiting for a lightening bolt to strike me down because I question old teachings
and I get it

Listen, I see the good and the bad
the yin and the yang of the Christian dimensions

Listen, I get it

but do you think hell is dark?

because the light's been giving me these sickening migraines and I break every time
yes i  b r e a k  every time
so leave me in the dark
so i stay as whole as i can while i'm here

but listen, i know i could use your prayers
because if he's up there
he should know i don't fear the light
it just plays tricks on civilizations
and i never trust a magician

To Death and You, the terrible two:

Can you feel your grip loosening around my neck?
Can you feel me getting lighter, smarter, farther all the time?
Can you feel my heartbeat finding its own pace,
Not matching yours, as it did before?

Can you feel me slipping into
Happiness    for a change?

We were once a Sisyphean process
Low ups and lower downs
We once were endless
Or so we thought

Can you feel my lightness overcoming your dark?
No longer in the shadows of the consuming unlit?
Do you think it’s true, what they say?
Do we not know what we have    until it’s gone?
I think so, not so much for you as for me
I didn’t know how much you held me down
Until I sailed the skies of the blissful unknown

This is one last hoorah for the lowest of lows
One last note to those I leave behind in the dark
One last toast to Death and You, my all-consuming terrible two

Upon the pages of my poetry books,
you might circle your favourite phrase
or leave your bookmark in the page

Drawing one last puff of your final cigarette,
you might say "I swear this is my last"
and then you might do what you're hoping to,
and set off for another pack

And when you say "babe" or "baby",
I might reply with a smart retort
and then I'll walk away

And some days you'll make a dumb remark
we might fight and I'll curse your name
and other days, you'll smile and wink
and it'll be okay

I posted another ****** poem in haste
Because when everyone
                                           f
                                           a
                                           l
                                           l
                                           s
                                             asleep
I am left alone thinking of
                      THE GREAT SLEEP
And I needed someone to tell
And I needed someone to feel the hurt
Like I did

But it was a ****** poem
So it sat, unread as me
and I read Bukowski's work
Because I needed someone to feel the hurt
As the sheets itched and my eyes stung
So I leeched off his rotted heartache

Feed me your lines, about darkness and despair
And the tragedy you claim, that your heart still pumps and your chest still heaves and your eyes still flutter

Oh, give me dark, raw poetry and tell me that my blood is beautiful on bedsheets


Are you sure you want to do that?
The way you lace those black words together puppeteers my hands, tying nooses with the romance of it all

Keep going, tell your fellow crying souls that one dance with the Reaper is greater than what comes without the knife

Hear me just this once:
There are fine lines in life, like fine lines on our wrists, so dance along them carefully, thoughtfully
There is nothing tragically beautiful about my mother finding my cold, dead corpse
Will you romanticize my mother's tears in the moments after she finds me?
Tell me that it's all so beautiful, then?
Are you sure you want to do that?
Do you feel like a literary genius now?

Don't hold my deepest horrors in your hands and fold them into stories

It's not the painless choice
that I've coached myself to believe it is

But why not, you idiot cynic?

Because I only find happiness
in moments of ignorance

And?

And in those moments of ignorance
I find minutes of shame

And?

And in those minutes of shame
I find hours of sadness

And?!

And in those hours of sadness
I find  endless  defeat




...that's why I sleep life away

Why, you fool?

Because in a lifetime of slumber
one finds nothing at all

I am weary and old,
In an untraditional sense

Sweet sixteen has closed its doors on me
Yet adult eighteen is not ready to greet me

Either way, I am old
And have always been

Old does not mean wise,
But weary

I am just seventeen,
But the questions are ceaseless

Life scares me to death,
Time pulls me closer

It scares me to think,
"These questions wont leave me"

Year after year,
I'll be clueless and lonely

In an untraditional sense
It is lonely within me

Questions, which **** me softly,
A cancer of my mind

Needing no one,
Because lonely is greater
Than human interaction

And "lonely" is "seventeen"
That goes on forever.

Since I was a boy I have planted seeds, unknowingly
They fell from holes in my pockets,
Grew from the rich soil, into the most beautiful of trees,
Which I diligently cared for and wholly adored
But to this day, every tree I plant, dies
For the seeds I plant, are that of madness and despair
I am the man who plants seeds

They fall from holes in my pockets

He had memorized the shape of her *** roughly 6 months before he knew the colour of her eyes

Because you see, he likes her principally for her ***, naturally
And the logical thought process here would be that: this is because he likes himself so much
and he's such a perfect *** himself (the poster-boy for narcissism)
or maybe, he's just thinking with the wrong head
presumably, both

Because what are friends for?

I miss those days
The days you were so pure and divine
Not because no one had touched you
But because you'd only been touched by someone who loved you

You were so lighthearted and
You never said things like, "Its fine, I'm numb to it now"

You were so pure and divine
That's the kind of beautiful you were
Before those men broke your heart

And now they call you "tragically beautiful"
Because they don't want to break you any further
But they do
They do

Can you imagine that bottle of Canadian whiskey on its last few shots?
And my crouched body and their comfortable nostalgia?

And thoughts of these dark times,
And his dark grave,
And finally a drunk dial to an old friend
Consisting primarily of "I'm sorry" and bad, drunken Star Wars references
As if a few Chewbacca jokes can fix this mess

And there's that familiar feeling of almost breaking into tears
And the tough-girl response of "**** this, pass me the whiskey"

And this hammered mess thinks,
I wish I could forget
I wish I could leave the earth
I wish I were Mr. Malachi Constant
And *******, I wish death weren't so ****** final

But then again, I don't think I've ever been alive
No matter how fast my heart has beat
No matter how sentient these moments have made me feel
And no matter how many shots of Canadian whiskey I managed to tackle
I think, like Frankenstein's monster, maybe I was born to be half-alive
While my mind circles back to these dark times, and his dark grave,
and finally a drunk dial to an old friend,
consisting primarily of "I'm sorry" and Star Wars references
as if a few shots of Canadian whiskey will bring us all to life

Are you a real boy, now?

One day at dawn, Charlie packed his bag
Found a big city man with a big fancy car
And sang his song, a beautiful piece

It was song for the world to hear

Each strum so strong it left a callous
Bearing him down and pushing him on
A hardened piece of him, like the lyrics had been

But the big city man said,

"You're not quite what I'm looking for"

So Charlie shook his hand firmly,
And the big city man drove away in his big fancy car

When he was just around the corner,
Charlie screamed and he cried and drank ‘til he was numb
That was the last song he would write for the world to hear

He learned early on that no one would listen,
And so his most prized piece,
was the song he wrote for no one
he sang it and he wept

Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress

I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch

Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship

And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit

Poetry terrifies me
Oh god it scares me to death
Because when I read my own
I see how I never knew I saw myself

It was so good seeing you
Your hair is getting long

But your eyes,
they don't capture me like they did

And your tricks,
they don't fool me like they did

Oh your lips,
they don't meet mine like they did

Do they still taste of coffee?

It was so good seeing you
But I don't miss you like I thought
More fondly than passionately
Though I miss you just as much
And this is all about baby steps, I suppose

But your lips, do they still taste of coffee?

I remember the significance of scraped knees and ripped jeans
the feeling of running, running, running, falling and bleeding
Scrapes on my knees were a tomboy signature of mine
The pavement, the gravel, the untrimmed grass, my home

Each time a scabby joint was replaced with a healthy little girl's knee,
I would take off running, running, falling and bleeding

At the time, I didn't know the significance of all this running, falling and bleeding

Then, the other day, on a trip to the garage for some bottles of beer,
I slipped on a patch of ice that sent me reeling and left me face first on the pavement
Knee bleeding through my trousers, I collected my beers and left

I spent the rest of the night drinking beers and taking tequila shots through thick layers of smoke
All while my knee bled through my trousers, stinging, scratching

I woke up to a sensation of pain
My leg refused to straighten itself out without stretching a scab, scratching and stinging, struggling to keep itself together

As the week passes, I cannot stand or sit for too long without my knee struggling to repair lost skin, tightening scars around a bony joint

There is a sensation of pain
And suddenly, I remember the significance of all that running, running, falling and bleeding

Every time I open The Roominghouse Madrigals,
an estranged part of me comes back with blistered hands and a heart so heavy it's like Wile E. Coyote has it attached to a chain hanging off the edge of a cliff that's beginning to crumble

And every time I open The Roominghouse Madrigals,
a peculiar part of me leaves without warning to wander and turn over some things in its head like I've got multiple personalities and a few years from now it'll return and kick Jane out and insist I am Mary

And every time I open The Roominghouse Madrigals,
There is a deep sorrow within me that I think I mistake for love

But I'm getting ahead of myself-
The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poems by the drunken poet Charles Bukowski
The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poems about sadness, madness, genius and solitude
The Roominghouse Madrigals is                                       a young girl's first broken love

I first fell in love with it on the floor
I first fell in love with it on the floor of the balcony
I first fell in love with it on the floor of the balcony of the book shop
I first fell in love with it on the floor of the balcony of the book shop where I first fell in love

Simply you see, The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poems that washed like rebirth
The first time, the first poem, the Brave Bull, it was a sudden clarity with a taste of joyous drunkenness
That first time, that first poem, the Brave Bull, it was cured amnesia reminding me of all the things I forgot I ever was and a psychedelic mushroom, dressed as a fortune cookie, dressed as a book of poems, that told me what I would be, and so I became it

And if reincarnation is real maybe the world's so messed up because it's the same group of idiots being born over and over again to be raised by the idiots they raised

Because the first time I opened The Roominghouse Madrigals,
I tasted life and death simultaneously

And I keep it near to my heart but not near to my bed should anyone find it and think I'm a perverted and miserable girl who can't help but fall apart every time she mouths the words some dead drunk poet weeped into a keyboard with curses crashing into black keys like those tears, still warm & ever so salty
But I am and I do and I keep it near to my heart      like a first broken love

Darling, the way I see it,
what makes you worth my while
is what makes me worth yours:
at one point in time,
we will have both have had a pulse

My dear, I know you don't want to hear it,
but we're all merely specks of something
in the only everything that ever was
And eventually,
                  Nothing

Then, love, I must inquire:
Why do we fear time lost,
when time is only given?

Why do we cling to moments far behind us,
like sweat-dripping polyester,
enveloping ourselves entirely
in the absence of what once was?

Won't you tell me,
my darling, my dear, my love:
What's the difference, in dust and us?
Isn't it all just oh-so-inconsequential?

But what's so bad about eventual nothings?

We can’t hold a moment in our hands
a tangible something
But we can simply hold hands
a beautiful nothing

"Fight depression with chain smoking!" he says, half-joking
Fiddling with the lighter in his pocket
(He knows about her grandfather's lungs boxed up underground)

They will exchange the usual
Books, philosophical ambiguities and terrified uncertainties
Ideas of the unknown, which makes up more than the known

They will talk about how they would both rather die alone
Than surrounded by false pretense of love

Every night is an existential crisis, every other night one will feel strong
On the graveyard shift of saving the same life for the millionth time

You want me in your lustful way
You want me in my playful debate

But I wanted you to not just want me
     I wanted you to need me

You need me in the sense that I put up with the *******
You need me in the way that I can offer you retreat
You need me to calm your soul when it hurts to breathe

But you don't crave my soul so much

I wanted you to need me
But then I realized

     I never needed you

You are a tiger
You crouch and wait to pounce

Hungry for a moment
Hungry to taste it on your tongue
To let it fill your insides

But the moment sees an idea dancing behind your eyes
and breaks out in great, thundering strides
The moment breaks away from you
Crouching there

So pounce
Don't starve yourself

The moment is here to feast upon
So feast

Take off running and clamp your teeth in now

Don't let the moment bleed out
**** it quickly, with gratitude
Let its pure grace soak in to your skin

Taste it
Feast

My dear, just stop
will you breathe for a moment?
stop writing lists of what you have yet to do
turn down the radio, put your bills on hold
don't fret about these college degrees and potential promotions

will you just stop?
take some time, breathe the air that scares you
as if free time makes you high on some terrifying hallucinogenic drug
darling, take some time,
just think
look at the anthills, think of what's there
look up to the stars, imagine what's more

please, I beg you
just take a minute
to scare yourself to death
to appreciate life
to set aside all they tell you to believe, to be
if college and an office job is the life for you, live it
if not, don't let them tell you that's how it is to be
you are not a brick inlaid without potential for motion,
you are the Northern lights
you shine
you move
you dance, brighter than the darkness would allow

just take a moment
please just ask why
ask, why am i doing this?
why am i saying this?
why do i believe this?
why do i live like this?

and if the answers suit you, let it be
and if not, break out running like a deer who's escaped the trap

live. please do anything you can,
why not?

i hear you whisper my old tunes, like that dreaded broken record,
"what's the point of trying to be happy when we all end up dead anyways?"
dear, would you ever let a newborn pup in the fighting ring just because one day it will inevitably see its end?

darling you deserve the world,
it is yours
with the stars in the sky and the potential for life
with the ants and the termites, we are alive
we are but condensation waiting to make waves

my dear, just stop
just breathe for a minute
wondrous is the universe
let us be wondrous with it

I like the clumsy lovers
The boys who don't make every right move
Who don't have slick & tired lines borrowed from tacky romance novels

I like the ones whose clumsy words widen their eyes in disbelief that they could've said such a thing at a time like this

The ones who laugh nervously are heavenly
Making jokes to make up for whatever it is they think they lack
They don't know my laughs are cups of red adoration as they spill from my mouth and onto my pillowcase

I can't help but love you when you stammer as you tell me I'm beautiful, while your eyes trace me as if I'm a private discovery of yours

I love your vulnerability, your nervous hands, your silly jokes, that kind heart and those little smirks

I love how you look into my eyes and say what you mean, beautiful or not

I like the clumsy lovers
Because in the moments you think you're falling apart, I'm falling hopelessly for you
Believe me, clumsy lover, there's something right for me in the way you do things wrong

I'm in love with the way the world keeps turning,
and letting me fumble over and over again, back into your arms

I kind of like the way you stumble as you catch me
it's familiar, and it's you
and it's your trembling hands I love

I feel as if the gin is never really the culprit with you and I,
we're ocean waves, meant to crash into each other endlessly

and these four left feet stumble back to dance this silly dance
but I like this silly dance, and it's your trembling hands I love

"Inside she writes a side of herself
She won't let me see
Such a hateful little girl
Her little book is her whole world
It's all there in her little book
And I can't help but wonder"
-The Descendents

*I was finally going to show you a poem today

Hold your assumptions
Do not surmise or deduct
That because you are not
The keeper of her affection
That she is heartless
She has a heart that beats
In the hand of another
And she holds his
Shaking but without hesitation
And they have stood like this
For the span of one year
Waiting to see which one of them
Would rip the other's out first

There are only so many poems to write about heartbreak
only so many ways to say "I love you and I hate you"

Only so many ways to personify the Night and hold her accountable
for the thoughts she shoves down one's throat, fear-dripping and cold

There are only so many ways to reach out in metaphors
desperately grabbing at any emotions their words might stir

There are only so many poems to write about being a stupid kid
with a mixed-up head and a heaving heart
with a cynical mind and a disappointed shout
and only so many ways to cry it out

Only so many half-smoked cigarettes and sweet perfumes
Only so much room for oxygen tanks and desperate goodbyes
It's getting crowded here with heavy clothes and defeatist tones

But there are so many of these murky nights
and only so many ways to get by

That night, my eyes paraded along beige pages
Dripping with satire, self-loathing and daddy issues
And I felt the cynic in me dance like a madman
Who had just snapped the neck of a baby bird
Cruel and unsympathetic, but dancing all the same

And then my eyes met a string of printed black shapes
Which halted me, though lukewarm in comparison
To its sibling pushes of ink, jeering and suicidal

The shapes read,
“People don't want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.”

It was something I'd touched several times before
But denied myself to hold on to
I would catch it like a leaf in the wind
Then my eyes would cross its black spots
And I would let it go, brushing my hands of it

But that night, in my madman craze and my sneering laughter,
I felt the familiar bother of a leaf orbiting my skull
And my eyeball parade froze and my madman feet could dance no more
So I lay there until I felt the sun blush and heard the birds begin to sing
For it was not one of their own laying still, plagued by demise

Hold me close, I'm a walking cliché
Flitting around in Converse sneakers
And that stupid old army jacket
Bet me $5 I could go for an hour
Without my lips uttering
"Consumerism, capitalism,
Elitist *****" -the usual *******
And I'll lose

Hold me close, I'm a stupid teenaged kid
Stomping around my room saying
"Can't they just listen for a change?"
And slamming doors to prove a point
And when I go to house parties
I'll sport my trusty skull shirt
Just so they know without a doubt
I'm different from them

Hold me close, I'm running around
Like a chicken with its head cut off
Running my mouth like a politician
And spewing my thoughts like a hippie
I'm a ****** hypocrite and it kills me
But I'll just lay awake at night and think
"How are they content with living this way?
Like hamsters in a wheel? Dogs in a cage?"
Then tomorrow I'll sit down
And reread the same old poems
To make me feel okay

Hold me close, I'm an idiot kid
and I just want to be someone

I was an idiot last year
but I liked that idiot better
Just know I'm still clinging to the tablecloth
Where the wine spilt
I'll try to get it out but you know I'm useless
And sweetness
Is lost on me

I don't have the voice for spoken word
It shakes and it s-s-stammers
And I'm not too sure if it's too high or too low
But it's missing something

There's a power that wont pass these lips
And a commanding tone that can't quite rally its troops

This is no smooth, jazz inspired tongue
This tongue has been bitten
There's a metallic feeling of blood and it's pooling into deadweights
So, on this tongue lies a thousand pounds of blood stronger than feeling

And I can't quite get it out
When these words are weighed down,
These feelings sink back into my chest and the metallic taste passes these lips and forms a deadbolt

I don't have the voice for spoken word
It shakes and it s-s-stutters
And I'm not quite sure if it's just an extension of myself
Where the feeling stays inside and the blood collects
And there's always something missing

I'm a young kind of broken
I don't break easily, but I break consistently

I haven't devoted half my life to a love
Only to watch it flicker and dissolve

I haven't drowned in bills I can't pay
Handing my dinner off to my better bits of DNA

I'm a young kind of broken

I break at the sight of documentaries
Hosting hate, disease and inhumanities

I break at hurting Grandmothers
Euthanized dogs and dead Grandfathers

I break consistently, a young kind of broken
Holding in my arms love, hope and humanity
But I can't handle it all, so I may let a piece drop out
Every once in a while
And when I bend to pick it up
They all come crashing down

I'm a young kind of broken
Broken all the same

All my broken elders:
Would you let me break with you?
Will you be there to help collect what remains?

I hate it when I hear,
"Depression means you hate yourself"

I think,
"You shut your ******* mouth"

Let me tell you why:

I'm apathetic towards myself,
I think I'm alright, I'm quite okay
I'm not perfect

But the questions which haunt me
taunt me, tear at my insides,
bring me down

It's a daily dose of helplessness
A jolt of shakes, half an hour long
Can't concentrate to save my life,
and even then I couldn't give a ****

I'm not clueless to the things around me
I'm wrapped up in them
they consume me

I think about the deaths,
the murders, the rapes,
the wars, the addictions,
the illnesses, the schemes,
the scams, the
lack of compassion

And death

I think about death a lot

I'm not scared to die
or be insignificant

I'm scared to think of
my family's skin and bones
in a hole in the ground
Of my best friends' cries
and smiles
forgotten
and their dreams let down

I don't hate myself

I'm scared to be alive
because it means I know what will be lost
by the hand of inhumanity
and the Grim Reaper's bony grip

Go ahead
Chastise those who ask questions
Hang those who find answers
In time the chastised will tie the noose themselves

Go ahead
Leave us ignorant
**** us slowly, but surely

so that one day


I'll be inadequate in fourteen different languages

I remember when you were mine
Ha.

And I used to call you "sunshine"
Need I even explain why?
In clichés and metaphors?
Darling, you lit up my whole life

And now I take every chance
To call anyone I see
"sunshine, my only sunshine"
To cheapen out what it was you meant to me

Now I filter my own low light through anyone else
To disguise my ever present darkness
While you shine over anyone but me

And maybe I'll don dark glasses
To hide you from me and me from you
Baby, I'll dilute your natural shine
Or maybe I'll make you look into my eyes
And see just what it was your lightness did to me

I was born with blood stained hands,
They named me Roman, strong like an empire.

My mother loved me dearly,
Tucked in my shirt and held my hand.

My lover loved me gently,
With a light laugh and a heavy passion.

My child loved me naturally,
He would be my pride and joy.

My mother showered in gas and slept,
My love had dinner and a show,
My child is a mama’s boy, it’s all he’ll ever be

Death is the only life I have ever known,
My love will slit your throat.

They named me Roman, I was an empire born to fall.
When Death does finally come to take me,
I will gladly follow.

I*
And i guess,
that there is something more to this,
that we are all a cog in this machine,
and I am a good person with good intentions and good breath

And i guess,
that we all have some kind of purpose,
when I die, I will really, really become something,
and I'm a special little snowflake that'll never, ever melt


II
Forget about global warming, friends, 'cause that's just unpleasant!

Come on, tell me
How's the weather? How's your girlfriend? How many likes did you get?


III
Oh come on, life's not so bad!
Believe me, you're not alone!
OH! Jesus loves you! OH! Jesus loves you!

IV
I wish you'd stop smoking cigarettes
You know what they can do

V
Oh come on,
You know how the news upsets me!
Read: Let's just pretend like they aren't real people
Oh come on, that's not fair.

VI
Let's blame the government!
But then again, we are so blessed, we are so-o-o blessed!

VII
All these causes! All these diseases! All these horrible disasters!
Too much to keep track of! I can't be bothered, I simply can't be bothered!
I am a very busy person with a very stressful life, and I can't be bothered!

Did I tell you? My doctor put me on another set of pills last week, but they're making me gain weight. I've gotta change them again. ******* him. ******* idiot! Doesn't he know? I am a very important person with a very busy life! I can't be bothered!

And I'm a special little snowflake that'll never, ever melt


VIII
And i guess,
that I should listen to my mother
and I should stop smoking cigarettes
'cause Jesus loves me
and it makes him oh-so-sad

it is 2:23 am
the fan is set on high, despite the fact that the weather outside is -20°
fans are good for these sorts of things
white noise
drowning out the silence
the thoughts the beer brings

thoughts of fools in love in coffee shops
and cynics in tears in basement rooms
and once brave men in coffins

the dog chews on a rawhide bone

and I unbraid my hair
untangling each knot with trembling fingers

I undress slowly
removing each piece of clothing like a memory

I put on that shirt I bought for you

I crawl into bed
smearing plum lips and black eyes on an off-white pillowcase

and I think of once great loves of cynics
I think of coffins
I think of you in light blue

He is King,
of The ******* of the World,
Hermon

His palace
sits nobly on Klatt Road,
a trailer

He is a husband of one,
a father of two,
and a lover of three

One is a Tabby, fierce
Two is a bottle, undeniable
Three is a snort, a quick fix

God, you've got those eyes
I ******* hate those eyes
The way they hold mine
The way they know me
Trace me

You've got those eyes
That see more than I want them to
You've got eyes that know me
You've got eyes that scare me
Light up when they see me
I ******* hate those eyes

Ha ha ha
I laugh in the night, lonely and hollow
while the wind ******* at my back
"ugly, stupid little girl"
"simple, horrid little *****"

ha ha ha
please keep the ghosts away
they cackle behind my back,
but they won't laugh with me,
my horrid nighttime symphony

ha ha ha
darkness fills my bones

She sits on a piano bench,
in the basement of a church,
the church she once graduated in,
with the boy who has died,
died the day before,
much after going to school,
with the girl who now sits on a piano bench,
in the basement of a church,
the church she once graduated in.

Reality does not hit her at first,
but four days later it assails,
crushing her skull and collapsing her lungs.

She stands holding a candle,
holding a candle in a pew,
in the church she once graduated in,
at the funeral of a boy who she graduated with,
remembering him in a blue dress shirt,
and glasses, with a round face
and tears stream from her eyes
and she feels the weight,
of a life lost too soon.

Ain't no tragedy quite like seeing that blood really is thicker than water
dripping on these thin white bed covers

I've been so old, locked in line by expectations
I forgot that love is a $20 ticket to a punk rock show

Sweaty bodies pushing forward, slamming hard,
falling to fall in love with the words of some yelping, grown-out teenager

And we're all drinking ****** venue beer just because it's dirt cheap
and suddenly I remember that I'm only free with ***** feet
and I come alive in mosh pits and I die when I live for paycheques

We're all dripping beads of sweat, making necklaces from our youth
Tokens of everything we love and shedding everything we hate
We'll sweat it out onto the ***** bar floor
We'll keep going until our legs give out, I swear to it

I've never been more free than when I'm dancing to these songs
I've been so old, forgetting that I'm just a punk rock kid, with $20 in my pocket and ****** beer in my hand
Singing songs that mean something, demand change, ooze with emotion, celebrate divine & dingy moments, make me feel that transgender dysphoria blues

I forgot that this is euphoria
I'm not jaded quite yet
Not in this moment
How dare I be
How dare I?

Late tonight in this room's dark corner
a mosquito buzzes and hums desperately
frantically looking for light      for precious escape,
the buzzing noise slowly unhinging my own sanity,
and I contemplate standing on the tips of my toes,
balancing myself on cream coloured bedsheets,
and closing my fist around its last vital moments


and suddenly I realize    I couldn't bare to end it all
to do the one thing which could leave me to rest      so,
I'll leave it to fall to solitary madness in the corner

"You have fifteen minutes,"
he says,
"fifteen minutes to write a poem."

As if it's that easy

As if the rhythm and the cadence
are moments away

As if poetry is a sudoku puzzle,
logic and reason

When in reality,
there is nothing rational
about poetry

"Five minutes"

Immerse me in your misery,
let your scars become mine,
and make my soul decay

Quiet compliance to daylight, loud taunts of haunted night
Demons which crawl, scratches on walls
Darkness the swindler, light the betrayer

Heart knocking, knocking, knocking
Breaths heaving, heaving, heaving

CRACK

Mind, decaying floorboards, one step     collapse