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A L Davies Nov 2011
i guess there are
some people
who just don’t realize
how preposterous they sound when
using social media.
yeah, maybe you’re one. no one
is safe from suspicion:
-the comedians (their own biggest fan types)
the witty commentators
                    jumping in from the far corner.
(you wonder how
someone who learnt every word they know
     from about six Archie comics is allowed to
use social networking)
-oh and the girls
                   who post new selfies
every day. (in fact there’s one,
i swear, posts so often
                      so regular
                                      i barely need a watch.
“here’s the three-fifteen cleavage shot.”
—she’s long since been hidden!)
and wait here’s that
fella who speaks out about injustices;
firecrackers taped in a doberman’s mouth,
which is awful, sick, repulsive—and bravo
for making the universe aware, i applaud thee,
but it’s the rambling included about what you’d do
if you ever caught them
(curbstomping, mutilating, beatings)
that gives
me goosebumps.
i don’t wanna see this kid’s mug in
the paper next week/point & say
“christ i knew it!” maybe keep the ****** fantasy off the web, eh?

& then of course the weirdness
too weird to
properly recall
an acquaintance's call for attention “i need a hug :(“
and the random girl
probably th’sister of a friend
(which is bizarre in its own right,
adding a friend's younger sibling..
but i
won’t bother delving
there tonight)
who replies:
“hey you should come here instead
and see the skunk that just came
by my window
if you wanna?”

—what is this absurdity?
and hey here’s an answer
to your original call:
internet hugs don’t work.
    computers don’t hug in binary, man.
 ­                                        >—O—<

—i’ll never understand it.
absurdity everywhere i browse..

gonna put this up for a while & see what people think. i don't tend to write many rant-esque pieces so this is definitely a change-up.
A L Davies Oct 2012
noon grass, gin & my eyes.
heart attack
in back of a fancy/long/black/car.
fall skies & sun thru the trees.
(ashes in a bowl)
buenos dias
A L Davies Dec 2011
last night i dreamt
a tooth of mine (maxillary canine)
could simply slip in & out of
of­ten at times of
great personal inconvenience:
interviewing for a job...
making kitchen counter love to a gorgeous new woman (it fell out & down t'ween her *******/O horror!)
during a presentation in ancient architecture on Ghulguleh, Afg.
-- poor Ghulguleh destroyed by Genghis, wreathed in flame!
(truly i come undone/as did that ancient city!)

found myself thinking
"this is no blessing!
what purpose does creating a horrid gap
between incisor & canine serve but to repel?"

when awake it became clear
i shall never understand my own mind.
might add more to this (doesn't quite feel done) but for now up it goes.
A L Davies Sep 2011
advil & gatorade
bring a moment's ease
to my rending body.
soaked wet/head-splitting, after
long night in an awenda tent/colt 45 at 41 turtle.
off to the city in a packed car (rainy 401)
to cop a bass.
also decided to pawn the old red body
and grab a little classical gitr.
shred it in my basement room.
singin' folksongs.

badger & i wanted to die.
A L Davies May 2011
yeah yeah yeah
ya yah
yeye yeahh
yes. (of course)
playin' w/positives (& word arrangement)
A L Davies Jun 2011
i recall seeing you in september, you were drinking a coffee and your lengthy unkempt hair spilt down over what was probably an old sweater of your mother's. i thought maybe aphrodite had come down from olympus for a cup of hot water & cream & ground columbian beans. you were kind of lost in something on your phone, (kept looking at it there on the table) shifting your legs. there was a grocery bag beside you---not very full. maybe there were just a few things you’d needed? some orange juice and semolina pasta. but i was most impressed by a little mesh bag holding a dozen babybels, small and red like sliced apples thru the plastic. (christ, those are good.) after you left i went and bought a few, back home just sorta held them in my open palm eating them at leisure, committing your face
to memory.
this girl i know asked me (as a challenge) from across the couch to write spontaneously about babybels.. i'd seen another really gorgeous girl whilst havin' coffee that morning so i just stuck both together & trimmed 'til this sat on the page amidst a buncha scribbled out lines.
A L Davies Mar 2011
woke up a little headachey bhikku
on a thin mat, covered
with small white wool blanket
like a slip of frost.
woken by coffee, a rip (3) & a sinus pill
before rainily walking to
a belly-filling breakfast,
with the names of spadina st. shops
flying by in silent verse.
A L Davies Nov 2011
a few weeks back i
   opened my big
                              fat mouth
& agreed to bartend
this art auction fundraiser for
street children in
which my parents organize
to which a lotta local artists
big & small all
donate pieces to.

anyway my pops wouldn't
let me serve gin with tonic (this being a front so
i could drink it all of course, if y'know me at all..)

and bought bud light (horsepiss)
and for wine used several
bottles of the stuff my
mother makes
                          in town
                          at the Penetang Wine Cellar
which, though rich & darkly red
is over-dry and smacks of vinegar,
be assured.

so despite see-sawing between
indignant "No's"
commiserative "Yes'ses"
(i mean who else are they gonna get??)
(---and due in part to
my lack of success in
making other plans)
i end up doing it &
having an alright time
in the process ...

(hey i had a big sink fulla icy beers &
'probly drank more than anyone
else save my father's friend Ted!!)
---i even threw down
a bit o cash on a pretty neat little
abstract called "view to the bay"
but got outbid,
---as if i needed to drop $100 +
on some painting
when i should be saving ev'ry dime
for old España
in the new year.
so i crack another beer and
live vicariously thru my mother
when she picks up a oil of this island
with big storm & clouds comin' in
---and then outta nowhere it actually is me
that closes out the show by outbidding
a neighbour for a
photograph of some dingy toronto night
(buildings under construction)
and then go back to pouring more wine
& smiling & shaking (wringing) a few hands.
seven beers deep poetry
A L Davies Aug 2011
the beach here is nicest
on the weekends
by sunday, after supper.
the crowds are not crowds,
nor are the remnants of them
so awful, so loud, sweaty
--and you can hear the waves properly!
there are just a few last cottagers
clinging to the sand
and a coupla locals feet in the surf
sippin' beers in the days'
last dying sunbeams.
wrote under the sunset on wahnekewaning beach, ON, on a sunday night, of course.
A L Davies Dec 2011
3 nights
New Mexican college girls &
          from Sweden ...
-- beats couchsitting i guess! tho
end up doing
enough of
  come 4 AM
, playing battlefield 3.

next night
                        ­                 to sportcheck
for new skates, 1.5 hr
sessions in McCafe
piledriving value menu ($1.49 ea)
bacon cheeseburgers
trying to avoid the bar.
(those same conversations:
"how've you been since
  last i saw you here?"

-- cutting off match heads in tyler's room,
tossing them
kleenex box,      2000
of 'em --
propellant for some
two blasting caps/
                                       in each                 end,
courtesy Snow Lake Lodge.
drive around looking for
detonation site (field, preferably,  nice & open/but remote...)
tyler & jeremy arguing
up front,
have coat over my head
in th'backseat reading
Mexico City Blues...
O Kerouac ! / better man / than i !
(this my liver
                     would dispute,
                  "YOU treat me right!!")
-- guess i never have been
of drinking alone ...
. .
(that often)

tell me   :    how is this great?
a bang & some
                                                            ­                         shrapnel,
                zinging thru the woods?

-- i'm bored to tears;
take me home to my good chair
where i can read these blues
in peace.
A L Davies Oct 2011
-- about th'only way
to describe the noisy human highway
of rue saint catherine.
today (march 15th -- 9:22 AM) it is
full of hurried to'ing & fro'ing of general populace.
myriad hums of conversation. honking. shouts. ringing --
mixed w/belching of big trucks (freights) rollin' along
rises up 5 floors
and washes over me like a wave
while out on the balcony christening
the new season with a fresh pack
hacking a little (ah that crisp smoky air of dying winter!) for all
the ants to hear while the mists rise & ride & rise.
springtime in quebec (emptied the balcony of ice & snow onto st.cats @ 4 AM, "illegal"..)
A L Davies Mar 2012
"the ways of God are
       strange,"* said a bishop once  ,
                                                              i read some
                  where,               in large
compiled             scholar-
ly    tome of e. language — thick,
like long, dark legs of
                                                   exotic dancers two
                                                   nights past,
spinning ,
                     while i drank &
drank   ( & drank) .

  . .
       all morning i
have stared at Maclise's 'Madeline after Prayer'
i think sadly i
                                          may be in love ..
woop new

gracias sigfried sassoon
A L Davies Sep 2011
on my basement cellar shelves i keep
a buncha cans:
soups, water chestnuts.. tomato paste
some firewood & old glass.
i go there in the evenings with a drink,
heft the big axe/chop wood, kindlings.
a friend even slept down there one time
my house was full up of sleepers (drunks)
he said the sand was cold/but comforting.
i told him:
*"that's why i go down barefoot.
that dusty sand on my feet/takes me someplace else."
the sand keeps all the food nice 'n cold. can store fresh vegetables down there even.
A L Davies Sep 2011
the cement mixer
kicks up spiral
of milky dust to heaven
mixin' cement in the great big manitoba forest/chinkin' up some pine boardss
A L Davies Jul 2011
down the lane the summer homes all yawn,
open & airing out,
depositing mothballs, musty deck chairs/on the lawn

strolling i see all last year's forgotten furniture
on the roadside, dust covered.
here a couch groans out to me:
"such a life!
reeking of mildew,
springs worn from children jumping on the weekends
--and the old man couldn't stop them.
too busy slamming drinks on the porch!"

i very nearly weep,
"poor tired old thing!"
for it is a hard ride to be a couch.
not entirely sure about this one, kinda resurrected it out of an older piece, we'll see what happens.
A L Davies Apr 2013
spin—for a moment even some yarn
in which we both give a ****
and we spend long, quiet evenings quoting
out of biographies of JFK or Bryan Ferry
and forget for a while all the things
we hate about each other, the things that
make us spit on the ground when they
come to mind;
forget them and maybe make love like
normal people. not against the counter before work
lifting your pinstripe skirt—rolling it up, really,
over your *** to gird the top of your hips.
(chaffing crown of ****** thorns)
maybe instead give me more than
5 minutes
and let me bury my face down in you and
you can wrap your legs around my head
to keep me there as long as you please.

and maybe later i'll laugh, sitting against the headboard, long-hand writing,
at something one of my characters has said and looking up
from an account you're working on you won't
understand my laughter but you will be
glad of it.
something AWFULLY EXPLICIT i wrote in the dark after the bar 1 night, belly full o gin. you THINK it's going to be sappy and ****** judging from the beginning (re: whininess) but  it turns out quite okay if i may say so.
A L Davies Jun 2011
soft sound of shoes on new pavement
hot & clinging.
sentences strung together/hinging on subjects of a wide variety,
petroglyphs, ivory, & māori history.

touching lamposts with the wicked curiosity
of an only child.
cutting the hair of strangers in an alleyway off of downtown,
burning the strands in a bowl w/some potpourri
interpreting the smoke.
A L Davies Mar 2011
ears still ringin'.
cut across from saint lau with a coupla burgers,
walk down peel, misty and damp, to a bus stop.
once home find hair smells like mcdonald’s & clouds & remember
that conversation i just had about the increasing
amount of wayward young adults..
with the driver of the 360 westbound.
---too cold for the balcony so i'll
probably just couch it & sizzle a nice bowl & wish
i had a little bit more to write tonight.
post- concert poetry on being uninspired to write poetry. (january 17th)
A L Davies Jul 2012
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
                        1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)

75 drunk nights ( reading ,   smoking ,   swilling gin )
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.

(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
more RAW than R.A.W.
A L Davies Apr 2013
creek in th'dark
w/brightest stone baubles, dappled riverbottom pebbles under moon-water,
a thousand faces glinting, smiling upwards.
school of carp in the reeds, the stalks rasping in the warm air
as the tails swish them back and forth.
the unheard steady **** of flapping, feeding mouths --
drawing in of algae, snails, waterbeetles;
soft crunch of shell and exoskeleton.

two legs on the dune by the stream wishing
there was two more legs on the dune, angling
down toward the stream.
a tender accompanying voice singing maybe Piaf
avec un accent provincial (de châtillon?)
hair wet, tangled;
sporting powder-white two-piece,
fresh from having swam with strong, slow kicks of slender pale legs,
long in that green water.
legs that look good in black heels.
their clicking imagined in the head.
midnight beach pome. je rêve souvent de femmes françaises.
A L Davies Apr 2013
FEB 8 2013 -- i swear there is a good 6 feet
                        fresh powder outside.

mountain of blankets in my bed & i don't know why i even got out of them. one more
bad decision.
half-*** coffee and club songs to try and get into some kind of (productive) zone but
feel like any semblance of true rhythm is practically impossible,
given current situation (i.e. general vida) , won't really get into it.

feeling also great need to desist with all this
introspective poetry
and move into non-diaristic phase. successful phase. difficult when so preoccupied
with issues (doubts, too, i suppose. though these could easily be done away with, if i could get
a steady pattern going once more. regular output.
creativity buried by oppressive, continuous snowfalls.     //     excuses.

                                                       ­                                          think often on verses written
                                                         ­                                        in Spain.

-- verses written on THE BALCONY or THE OPEN WINDOW COUCH,
(surrounded by a beauty complex in its simplicity. by beer and cigarettes and
people who truly know what it is to be unsure in almost all things,
yet are satisfied and grateful.)
-- verses now sitting on a shelf unread by anyone.
my "best work", to-date.

i wonder sometimes if i am losing my party face ..
simultaneously want to hang out with Crystal Castles or Justice but
drink bourbonne (hah) or OE and listen to Ray Price.
putting on something like the Steve Miller Band or Sam Cooke often helps. lifts.
just need to stop moping round like a sad old dog. in all honesty i have probably been
mildly depressed on & off for about two years. months in Spain excepted.
having said that i can't really think of anything else worth saying at the moment.

anyway, i wrote something today, i guess.
couple month old, occasionally depressive poetry, period of deep winter blues. revisited and exorcised now with the coming of spring and better writing; burden feels lifted.
A L Davies Dec 2012
i became the jumpin' jack flash in november '77.
there was slush in new york city and the bums at the piers
still burned trash in metal barrels you could see from over on coney island even.
just like kerouac said.

in the daytime foolish kids picked weeds in central park
and called them flowers. they got laid by stringing charming words together as they gave them
to the thousand daughters of manhattan's old monied men,
the wall street hacks hanging from the teats of the
great & frenzied cash cow of capitalist interest. the milk
came slow that winter.

one week, early december when the slush gave way to furtive snowfalls
i took a bus to patterson, NJ
for a few days, drank a lot of awful coffee writing obscenities in my journal but speaking
them aloud in the restaurants and bars and so
was deemed just like everybody else in patterson, NJ.
drunk & high, helicopter tours, stuffed with bread and half-truths.
and when shortly my irish luck ran out i raced back to the big smoke
in a drop-top mercedes driven by a man whose thick accent i couldn't quite place.
whose only serious question was whether i knew anyone
who had good coke.

in the city it rained for three weeks straight and
david byrne, in some bowery apartment wrote a song called 'flood'
which was never released on any talking head's album
but lingered in his brain as a reminder of the three weeks
he spent cooped up, eating saltines and dancing to the rhythms of the thunder and rain outside.
totally alone with his mind & a bass guitar. tina weymouth, naturally, was furious.
the bass was the last thing she had left in a band she half-started. and david had stolen even that.

but that was tina weymouth, that was new york.
feels good to be back with my typewriter, spinning roxy music records in the basement.
A L Davies Sep 2012
yr whisky-flavoured voice of
what seems 20 years your senior makes
infinitely better th'
first coffee , smoke after long hot shower;
it being slow, rainy thursday morning, solo
in Granada (clicking of
stilettos on wet pavement coming thru
thrown-wide windows.)

all the hounds
of old Spain
can't find me ...
haven't thrown anything up here in time so here's an old bit from spain. it will eventually be re-worked and added to something larger.
A L Davies Feb 2012
GERONIMO wherefore
are thou now?
what scaffold have you fallen
                                                       from & stared
w/milk-pale eyes
                                 at Reverend Cacey
(who stands murmuring   ,  
pound golden crucifix in out
stretched hands ? )

(the world is very scared

(why else would
                               ol' blood   hound
Joe Horn
                  be  put  on  yr  trail  ? )
                                                               raise thy sharps rifle 'bove yr head & eat out
                                                                                                                    th'sun !!

                 (i declare you are a mountain poet.)
gonna add this (after small revisions) to a larger work in progress but i wanted to toss it up for now regardless.
A L Davies Sep 2012
i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.

there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me.                                                 and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
            —but it feels ******
                       g  o  o  d  .

my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...

REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling *******, held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***:

“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”
rough/first sketch of a dream and then some thoughts and then some truth.
(dear upstanding: sorry about that last bit.)
A L Davies Sep 2011
get up early & open the windows to get that
fresh balcony air from the slow-waking city
whisky claws still in my scalp;
smell of last night's stale smoke inside from the girl sleepin' upstairs
and her after-glow cigarettes down on the couch.

nothin' quite like cooking up
some eggs in a greasy skillet,
-- big hot mug of stiff coffee.
(the way it sits like oil in the stomach)
slouched at the table by the window
in longjohns and
an old familiar shirt (no sleeves/girl playin' baseball)
might go smoke in the rain, talk to the neighbour who
feeds the pigeons ...
then pad upstairs and wake up miss new *****
for a little *joviality.
1280 rue st. marc, apt. 501
A L Davies Jan 2012
***** alleys weeping garbage (fish                         heads)
            40s (alhambra) for 1 euro & a new leather

football games in parks
carpeted broken glass/kids laughing.
sun like a strange shimmer 'yond th'mountains rearing
         jagger's wild horses   ,

liquid spanish smiles in little bars all w/th'same signs.. words
words like birds ...

                                   (birds that take off
                                   in th'park in raucous flights
                                   if yer talkin' too loud.)

eat minute fried fish outside over 6 glasses strong beer.
almost fall off stool twice's'many times scrutinizing passing girls.

go home & write pomes 'bout cig'rettes & running,
call it "oxymoron" 'cause doing both in same day
is bad ******* news for the guts.

                                  go to the university campus
                                  for cheap coffee
                                  &        conversation
                                  w/a girl from the bar (the bartender)
            write a poem while she talks & call it
                                 "terra nova"

                                                         ­                      that one's about nothing.
south a spain
A L Davies Oct 2011
writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
                            . . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
                     travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)

and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
                                          ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.

. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &

                                  ... poetry

is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...
free greyhound internet travel verses, brought to you by iPod Touch (R.I.P. Steve Jobs)
A L Davies Oct 2011
**TPS 5% #122235922
TVQ 8.5
ARGENT 20.00
Vous auriez pu accumuler 110 points PC

2011/04/10 13:32 8341 02
found poem outta last groceries of 2nd year uni, MTL 2011.
A L Davies Jun 2011
leaving the parking lot
i see a little hare
making his misty-eyed way into
the undergrowth framing the concrete,
where near the highway, morning greenery is exhaling.
it is small,
--intoxicating to see such
wild innocence
in the midst of
home depots, city buses, roughriders fans.
--makes my [aniruddha] heart soar.
"aniruddha"; n, sanskrit for wild, ungovernable
A L Davies Jun 2011
take an F250 down a dusty bush road
& it will create
a new universe of dust.

let a bald eagle lead you
as you island hop
in an aluminum outboard.

bushwhack out to a lake in cougar country
& teach all the pike you catch about
the 4 noble truths.
written in snow lake, manitoba
A L Davies Jan 2013
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...

there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia     g rls ,
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
'some girls' (insp.) / kanye west taught me a lot about supermodels.
A L Davies Jun 2011
you are [in total]
six syllables.
in order:
long ā
short ă
long ē
short ĭ
short ē
short ă
of course that is not all
you are.
you are
rainy runner
darkroom pining from schooldays bygone.
paint-splattered psych major.
without disdain of stiff gin & tonics.
not one to shy away
from my david byrne dancing.
****/sleek/sweaty saunamate.
someone to:
call me sweetie like a
grandmother would.
drink a beer in bed with--
glad as the darkness pushes us warmly together.
this is a poem that is, apparently, as much about a really neat girl as it is about phonics.
it also looks like a candlestick.
A L Davies Sep 2011
out sweating under the
august sun
i realize the days/are getting colder,
shadows of the geese flyin' south
get longer every day.

but the apples are reddening!
and the water's not yet
too cold,
(still a few girls/down for late-night dips)
nor are the leaves the orange brown of trampled autumn,
and patty d & i still go for tours in the civic
blowin' smokes out in LA park.
---so things aren't really so terrible.
everyone's back at school. 3 amigos take on the penetang indian summer/try to stay sane.
A L Davies Nov 2011
"let's do it."* says i one night
"no no i daren't." (pronounced "durn't") says she "m'father would be
so angry.."

the next tuesday i say:
"hey we should get together go wild and get into some ****--you might really like it!"
she says "noo.. well, maybe sometime. b-but you can't let on to my sister! oh would she be jealous of it all."
"mum's th'word" i says.
"and you can't get her to do it instead!" she cautions.
"s'alright. i like those mirrored freckles on your lip. she doesn't have those."
"okay well i daren't do it now tho."

a month later i say "well do
you wanna, donna?"

a sly smile then "how about a drink first?"
so i buy us hennessy and we drink
**** near the whole bottle
and she, real drunk now says only
"noo noo i daren't do it!!" (here bad timing chortles leerily at me with that
"oh ohh ha ha ha ... ooops!!" ****-eating grin)
while the bottle rolls round under the table.
so i pass the year away
with a few casual encounters
then she turns up some tuesday night on my porch with a moan sayin'
"oh i wanna!"
so of course i
did it, twice,
and she, while rubbing my belly after said:
"ohh. that really is nice!"
& so i did it once more for kicks ...
holdin' her down on that big king bed.

th'next week she comes in wearing
new leather boots/hair curled/******* overspilling
she asks
"have you ever seen la dolce vita?"
while we're sweating away
so she gushed "oh but doesn't it show
how beautiful it really is?
the joining of two people so hot
& sacred?"

"geez." says i, "so become a catholic already."
she giggled ("you comedian!") and wanted to keep doing it again
a few times
but you know, i was quite serious.
odd daydream hashed into a meter which just flew into my head a couple days back. wouldn't leave til i put proper words to it.
A L Davies Sep 2011
there's a pair of
chopsticks i'd wanted to
order/for a while,
(made from old recycled
baseball bats y'know.
japanese little league teams)

so i drive in to the library
[they have free/fast wireless]
& connect.
shop around a coupla sites to
find the cheapest price.
& amidst the crying of infants..
the beeps of **** being checked out...
i'm all done & thinking
of rice.
i read somewhere that talk doesn't cook rice. that's a nice little sayin' hmm?
A L Davies Mar 2011
too much class, and winter,
when all i’d like to do is post up
on a sunny balcony & blast out dre, or the
\/\/uutang, all 36 chambers.
*(..get me out of this lecture!)
quickly written in late november 2010 (in class)
A L Davies Jul 2011
for some two-hundred-something
arcing feet/provides
a girder for the lake;
grey bank with roots that leap from earth
to water
and under them myriad fish
bob in the current & snap up
those smaller than themselves.
more snow lake, manitoba poetry.
A L Davies Oct 2011
old soybean crop dry & brown
---empty rustcap 12 shot bottle canadian club premium
---broken ("good quality")
wooden blinds

muddy packs of darts:
ménage (4)
peter jackson (2)
next (1)
number seven blacks (3)
john player (2)

shreds---plastic . . . bags of earth
all manner cardboard thinlike
drinkcups (tim horton's mostly)
                                  child's wristwatch (..plastic)
frog in a cardboard box
dozen pair new (white) socks? still bagged---
a man walking in the ditch collecting bottles sold me some art magazines.
A L Davies Dec 2011
jesus i hate
          christmas readings --

low intonings,
bursts of song,
prayers -- so many
       ******* prayers ...

all in name of th'
                          "wonder & mystery"
of christmas,
                         the birth of
                               holy babe.
                                                  nativity story spoken
true   granite   fact
heads all nodding..

Caesar Augustus, yes,
the census -- oh good!
                   ... some lady doing a
Mary monologue ...
                                   my own father playing Joseph!
(lumbering Boris Karloff father of Christ)

-- grandmother!!
quit jabbing my shoulder
                 as i        
put pen
to page!
              these hands
              are not
              the hands
of a devotion blinded
(blasphemous thoughts do i write!) (poems on *******)

here is
a woman in white!
very performance art
with that lighting
i'm not convinced ...

advent candles on
the altar ......
when the last is lit will a
heavn'ly chorus
                            ring out?,
blue flame batonning round
the sanctuary? orderly little halos.

-- grandmother get your
uplifted hands out of my face!

am i doing my part by
                                        holding this candle
        & singing hymns? ...

       (my arm is being twisted) (i call this penance/comes once a year)

                                                            where is my eggnog & ***??
a friend / hiding behind some poinsettias (****** good idea)
supplies a fitting finish. garnish for my thoughts:

           "man ...
i want
christmas h
    panky. "


*"****.                            that
fit under a
confessions/of a 21st century grinchola
A L Davies Sep 2011
layover in toronto:
******* rain &
emptiness out the window

hushed crowds:
the sound of/
rainy footsteps.

waiting for the greyhound:
dismal spectres
ask about my change.
sittin' in the big smoke/getting all soaked after a great guelph weekend/on a monday. terminal haikus.
A L Davies Nov 2012
(in the dream it is late March)
there's a light rain in Montréal & the sky
is a gorgeous, early-morning variety of slate grey. imagine the lid
of an old metal garbage-can.
everything is dismal, perfect. and quiet; even the people leaving the bars are silent.
dismally, perfectly, silent.

ghosts of old cats—belonging maybe to ghosts of old ladies who lived, say, just off St. Lau, back
in the eighties—ramble downhill, in the direction of rue St. Catherine (Saint Cat! O patron of felinity!) ,
between the legs of those spilling out from the trendy & ****** clubs.
some of the ghosts wander out into the street, flash thru car tires that would've (& have) (at one time)
smashed them to pulpy carpet on the asphalt.
(who goes to pick them up then? when the tires have had their way with them over & over?
when they are just hair & porridge by a sewage grate?)

after a greasy smoked-meat-on-rye or a nightcap at somebody's place, just off the drag,
i'm in a sodden, but warm overcoat, hands curled in the bottoms of it's pockets; mis-shapen mass
of hair plastered to my scalp; walking en bas de la montagne just past the McGill Medical Centre.
—this late, the busses back downtown are never on time.
(driver's probably having a few smokes before he starts that long tour down. full up of drunk kids,
taking one another back to their dorms, etc.)
(and what does he have, to look forward to at shift's end?
        i. a cranky wife—past her prime?
        ii. a buncha dogs—yapping for attention?
        iii. some ******* kid—who's disrespectful & won't shut up or turn his stupid ******* punk-rock down?

—it's enough to make me patiently wait.  i'll wait forever, as long as that isn't me.)

...'spose I'LL have a cigarette too. waiting
in the bus shelter on Ave. Des Pins looking down over the
football fields of the McGill Athletics Dept.
still lit up. no sun yet but
now at 4 AM a dull inch or two of lightened grey out there on the horizon.. dawn will come,

though i'd rather not face the day. all the mornings are so hard after nights like this.
bound to be hungover &
spend the day hiccuping in bed texting some girl; maybe get up
in the late afternoon t'fix coffee, toast & eggs.
sit on the balcony,
make my little guitar sigh,
and try to feel normal until i [have to] puke.

"—and who was that girl i spoke to for so long at St. Sulpice last night? how many gin-tonics did she let me buy myself, nattering on?.. probably too drunk to even get her number."
"—maybe Sean or Dylan will know if she came thru with anyone we knew.."

the bus is finally here. twenty-and-three minutes late. the back of it probably smells of
stale smoke, dim sun, and sweaty, rain-soaked cloth, absorbed from jackets into the seats—the eau du jour.
it's always a bump 'n **** ride down the hill; bound to,
with the other handful of dumb & silent riders, drunkenly sway,
(or is it a natural compensation of the body, to groove along with the curves and stops?)
back & forth like carcasses of half-dozen slaughtered pigs
swinging on their hooks in back of a meat wagon..
(i'll end up getting on, but only for three blocks. i'll ******* walk the rest of the way home,
after that comparison. to hell with the rain.)

(Avenue Des Pins still—4 blocks closer to downtown)

directly in line now with McGill campus via McTavish; this way i can
cruise down thru the silence of the main drag having a couple smokes drinking beer
(copped a 40 at a Dep before i left St. Lau—frosty under my arm enshrouded by brown paper.)
& be left to my own thoughts for fifteen minutes 'til i get to Sherbrooke
—i adore that fifteen-minute stretch down thru the jumble of
student associations, clubs, faculty offices, administration buildings, resources centres & the like;
all contained in the same red bricked, white trimmed victorian monster, multiplied threescore
on either side of the lane; all built in the early nineteen-hundreds, all acquired by the university in one of several expansion initiatives in a decade i won't bother to guess at, it doesn't matter. you don't care..

midway down the hill i stop and go sit on the verandah of one of the buildings,
the graduate studies in math offices —
cccrack that forty.
sit there with the sun JUST barely splitting the seam of the horizon feelin'
like the lyrics from a Sun Kil Moon song. nothing more or less.  
"off to a good start," says i.
MORE TO COME.. tired as **** right now but wanted to get this up here. get off my back. love A L .
A L Davies Nov 2011
first woke up 8:23
went back to bed
                              (oh so hungover)
woke again 9:30, rubbed my eyes then
drank 2 ½ glasses water/puked. felt slightly better
but not perfect so
sat down on the couch in the dark
                                                            ­blinds closed
and read a book
                            (desolation angels - kerouac)
until my headache [sorta] cleared.
drank ¾ cup orange juice to take w/medication, antibiotics
(just got my wisdom teeth pulled)
and one tab oxycodone.
stopped reading (couldn't say why ... )
then sat lotus on the table by the window
writing/picked up jon's banjo n thought up
a neat (simple) roll, played classical guitar too
                                                             ­                     ---watching girls.
did that til i got bored, or the girls stopped
walkin' by (1 of the 2)
so i washed dishes for the fellas
grabbed a longboard from by the door
rode over to the LCBO for some beers,
passed the ShortStop on the way back and got an Arizona
to have w/my Romeo y Giulietta on the tour home.

when i got back jon was up
(wearing a blanket)
making scrambled eggs --- heavy on the onions,
using all the dishes i just washed..
A L Davies Dec 2011
moving a couch:
our labour pained
by darkened skies.

smoky room and the long long couch
-- freshly moved,
a multi-hued curvy affair of fabrics, orange & salmon
my old man, the artist & i all sit, cigarettes between fingers
gives us two paintings, his, for the help.
sitting in the livingroom now while they
talk &
looking out onto the street
clicking a lamp on & off.
two girls see the light blinking,
look up,
wave for me.
so i go down the steps and they ask
if i *know
the artist. if i paint??
"i play with words."
--won't i please read them something??
having moved the couch just then, i read them "couch"
-- poem of the summer previous
(furniture on the brain?)
wringing their hands they use words like
great !
enveloping !
eclectic pittr-patt'ring of your words !
-- at this turn away, quoting b. dylan:
"it's very tiring having other people tell you how much they dig you."
instead of standing in the doorway offer
to buy them
(they greedily accept sans even a blink -- the leeches!)
make 'em wait while i light another cigarette.
& once in cafe
they don't have much of interest to say so
i take my cup and go
sit on the artist's roof.
      dig that
          sunset ! ...
two for de price of 1
A L Davies May 2011
after many months of sleeping
i awake in the mountains of navarra:
dusty & feeling like a grain sack:
limp & weary of travel.

sometimes a girl comes & gives me a little water
--as much as her family can spare.
i thank her each time but note the distrust in her eyes.
perhaps it is the length of my hair,
or the folksongs i sing in my sleep.
her father sits in a corner, smoking, cursing me in spanish.
(things like "**** americano")
i contemplate telling him i came from canada
--but i don't think it would matter much.
they've already burned my clothes,
or sold them, maybe. (novelty items.)
i think the girl brought me a robe of some kind
while i was sleeping (it's loose & very comfortable)
i wanna go to spain/rucksack along thru the hills,mountains,verges de civilization.
A L Davies Oct 2011
“aquashield+ .. what is this?”
“no wonder you get burnt all the time it expired in two-thousand-eight ya mad cat.”
“good that i use a different one i 'spose hmm?”
“oh come on.”
. . .
—“awshit look at all those dried soap carcasses in the back there. little beached whales”
“exfoliating, irish spring...”
—“hey what's with the two-in-one shampoos anyway?”
—“seems to me like they're just tryna make showering faster.”
“yah. what's your issue?”
"well, what's the point of that? enjoy the ****** thing.
I dare you to find any two things better than being under a hot shower
& the heat of the blowdryer in the hair after...gaw-damnn.”
. . .
“man, and all the dust...”
A L Davies May 2011
back home there is a garden ,
it is small & unimpressive & sits in front of my house.
i grow simple things
and send all the tenderness i can to their roots
(with a thumb that is steadily turning green)

sometimes insects come & gather round me
like a strange ritual, worship circles of ants & beetles
--antennae waving.
chanting in silent language.

there are some roses growing on the verge,
which lend rich reds & whites
to the arrangement of my plantings.
each morning as the dew rises fresh & hot
i pick the aphids from each flower
and they bloom in peace.
garden love
A L Davies Oct 2011
night falls w/liverspot clouds
               stars . . . deep blueness . . . fat-full moon.
nights are that autumncool again
(week of +20° unseasonality)

basement stone wall coolness
cigarette *****---
                                a smokestack!
peepings &
oo-ings &
                  in the woods.
the ceiling creaks . . . creek runs
             bedroom lights a-burnin'
             & m'tired dart is down to the filter.
12 AM/ GTA san andreas smokebreak
A L Davies Oct 2011
the girl (buena‼) slicing my 300g of lunchmeat ham behind
the IGA meat counter & the ham itself,
now limp lying dismal in the frontseat with the runs of fat
ghostly thru the deliwrap.
cup of cold coffee,
intersection to-ings & fro-ings in the street
and the traffic lights blinking
now green floodlamp colour spilling across pavement.
the crooning on the radio,
the moth hurling itself 'gainst the windshield
rap-tap-tapping to get in
(to grasp that blinding bugfire warmth of the cablight)
. . .the open book & its scrawlingsprawling pages
on the dash.

the church meeting keeping my pops &
[me waiting]
also my wanting to go home/(****)/sleep
. . .
ahh it's all inconsequential tho---
nothing really matters in old zen-ness kiddo.
car poems 2 -- some truth in nighttime musing
A L Davies May 2011
montréal, je t’aime.*
—but sometimes, you can be so loud,
so noisy,
that i wish i could cut you into eighths;
devour you, piece-by-piece,
eat away the hustle and bustle until
silence is all that beckons to me from the dark.
you shouldn't keep me up so late montréal.
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