Connor

Connor Sep 2015

There's a degeneration of Society
occurring in front of the yacht clubs
here West Island
commute home again (again)
Straight men crave the
wedding dress seduction mechanism (Lingerie will do as well)
Funny we buy these expensive clothes just to take them off
on the nights we're not loveless.
Expense is all commodity anyways...
Charity bins full of grief in a loading truck for those who've been
consistently smiling.

I step off the 4 and into the immediate glorified adult night entity.
Sinister middle-aged animals scatter beneath a common moonlight
and to tenements, motels, upward skinny crackwood staircases
to some unknown neon-advertised Leviathan of
skin and sorrow.
ELECTRICITY burns in those bones.
The bones of the Brittle
The Bottled
The Erratic
The Bearded
and Retreated.

I'm here hands tight on a suitcase of whatever you'd like for ANYONE
who will do some good instead of
lightning another fire!
So many now keep to debt on a clothes hanger or
a bedside cabinet.
We're experiencing a surplus of it!
Deficit Surplus,
what a cruel contrary contagion
(Where's the pesticide for THAT insect??)

Don't take this all as universal truth,
rather, it's my own universal truth...

The best way to keep an enemy close is by continuing to think about them.
I'm rambling on and on
and living in a pendulum
of old things and new.
Goodnight.

Connor Sep 2015

Thoughts Before I Try to Sleep (September 23rd) ....also not the first time people have felt sad in their lives

The prettiest butterflies
                                          tend to be those who wash their
                                          c o l o r f u l    wings to   p a p e r
(ANGELS  PAINTING  TRAIN  CARTS)

I
find
everything
every
day
to
be
so
tired, tired, tired.
                              Children are decaying faster than those who raised
                                                                                                             them.

Love
        in
            a
              dark
                      room
                                set to
                                         ambiance and
                                                                  laughing
is an overture to some future fascist

(Or a whole generation of fascists)

Connor Sep 2015

A Poem for You.

I wait in the sunset garden as planet grows
it's auburn scarf.
s
u
d
d
e
n
l
y
                      I hear
heart monitors slowing

down.
Everything                        receding.
People come home from universities tapping their feet
to tenor conclaves, palms
rubbed together for a spark
because clouds have become

air condition systems.

Layers are now a necessity.

Soft sheets glow to those enlisting
in another year of the continental war.

We ENTER A TIME OF WAITING
the moon is murkier and light thickens like
EPHEMERAL AUTUMN VAPOR.

Masayoshi Fujita makes Victoria
seem more methodical at night.
(the  one  man  xylophone  orchestra)

There's non conventional furniture everywhere!
(Candle      in a          fishbowl)
But isn't that us all?
especially this time of year?
wax
to
water.

Comfort is rooftops under
HEAVYRAIN.

Spurs of ((isolation)) can be therapeutic.

On another note,
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND CHILDREN OF ALL AGES"
Think ******* that, just think is all I ask.

As a poet, I am blind in the same way you are not.

Accordions are the instrument of the universe.

I'm personally a fan of elevator
m
           u
                     s
                                 i
                                              c

TOKYO seems an appealing place to visit
as any.

I crave a certain spontaneity, an abruptness
S      L    O   W   L  Y.....................
soaking
thru those leaves
who's moment has come
                                         to pass.

Alarm clocks fizzle
where the weary lay,
letting their hair go it's own way
(to enter a new era where sunglasses serve no purpose)

......I'll wait for that time, like a true Buddhist that holds his
patience in front of him.

A daisy wilting into gold.

Connor Sep 2015

Last Days of The Modern Death.

I follow poppy flowers down avenues gray and pestilent.
I pass the radiant windows of Avalon while crows perch the ticket stands.
Sidewalk lifeless as frowning clowns droop on their way to another wake.
Fluorescent signs hang from concord wires.
I tire of the tired,
I drain from the drained.
I am the modern death.

School children are made from the same cosmic juice blend as me.
They are the modern death.
Politicians wear my infamous black garb.
The modern death is them, just as well.
Senegal actresses patter on their patchwork paste texture makeup and rose circles, hiding tears illuminated with the truth of tragedy.
There is no doubt they are the modern death.
Faerie potpourri in desolate East Hastings and clairvoyant row enticed by false visions of hallucinated men crouched beneath rotten cement canopies while locusts click and clatter midst their sorrow.
They are buzzing incantations of the modern death.
Tibet is falling hold to corruption while the boyish monks calm in their meditations, are interrupted by agony wept Bhikkus bent in ****** transgressions, even Buddha is the modern death!
China is a communist factory housing too many chimneys clogged with silent sufferings.
Communities hiding in thin dust masks bearing the insignia of the modern death, only seen underneath ultraviolet light.
My role has been diminished in recent generations, I'm growing old and flogged with decay,
same as you, modern death.

We're here for a final round of drinks
cool on our chasm lungs breathing big bang radiation for many years
while the batteries in our clocks begin to fail us and the Hospital calls occur in succession once we get too sick to see the harsh planet we'll all have the privilege of dying in.
I'm the modern death watching pale static reruns of the nature channel in a finely decorated room in some death camp retirement home
waiting on the last day, inevitable.
There's no place here for the modern death,
not anymore.

This is what the poets were talking about!
all the bodies are already skeletons.

#life #death #old #age

Connor Sep 2015

But For Now, I'm Content...

On a throne of spraypaint driftwood
                   I watch the sailboats glide,
A painted aluminum ocean
                                               With Sunsnow reflections dashing
                                                                               across the waves.
Lovers in their old age cause friction
                                         in the pebbles
                                       as they walk,
unlike many things, I refuse to believe
                                                                                romance is dying.
People like them help solidify my hopes.
Gulls                           approach the tide wavering in the wind.
                              Another September has come.
                            What should come with it?

Old friends have found their place
in Vancouver.
                                                                Some shall return here,
In attempt to                                                 escape desperate situations.
                      (The recurring waves are calming)
               Smoke and vapor
                     cloak the mountains softly still.
I'm unsure of where things are going,
what a change of pace!

Nine months
                     since that night in a hillside cabin
                                         where dreams foretold
wound up in chaos.
                  (More to change is on it's way)
                                              But for now, I'm content with seeing the cities
                    continue g r o w i n g.

.........The seasons sway with the breeze.

Connor Sep 2015

Holy Melancholy (Everything Seems Renewed)

Day debt
night wept
sleep crept
Attachment.
                       Where is my attachment?
                                evening out of balance
                                        The line of my life has broken
                                                  off into separate identities
Flower feather
Hollow weather
Moonlight Canyon
                                      Skylight childhood nostalgia
                                      Stolen star
Battered cheekbones
Of weary workers keeping to
The hornet's nest
                      Reality a constant terror
                     Of city structures                         swallowing
                                                                                   them whole.
Blackbird rests
on an Autumn branch of
hidden meadow
checking its wristwatch obsessively for the
             Hydrogen Volcano
                INEVITABLE.
                                         Termite Corporations
                                          Cavernous Hilltops
                                        All that green is gold
(A straw man in Byzantine robes approaches
            the frosty Manhattan
    to become a relic in it's Libraries)
                         People fall in Love with coincidence,
                 (The illusion of order beyond our field or reach)
        All that love is kept in a
                    Conservatory somewhere...
                          Glossy stems connected to palpitating blossoms.

Our tired eyes are focused to the asphalt confluence
whether fever or handhold.

               Hymns ring throughout the forests of
                                                   Vancouver Island
               Dreamers hang from the Niagara Trestle caught in
                                                   overwhelming sunlight
                                                         Doused in spirit.

Holy Melancholic September
Sweeps away the dusty Summer,
                                                        everything seems renewed
                                                        In the rain..

#love #fall #melancholy #autumn #september #bc #vancouver #niagara #2015 #trestle

Connor Aug 2015

Thoughtflow

Islands formed thru
Sea-
Children run to
Parliament laughing/
Cheerful for their own
Crucifixion.
Airplane tendril exhaust chokeholds my
Bluesky-
IT'S GETTING HOT, HUH?
Pollution pill form
Pharmacy extract deathglue
Coats up our public parks.
Concave eyes are sputtering visions
Of smog clocks-a-tickin tomorrows.
Nobody ventures to the river anymore.
The TV antannae blasphemy signal prayer to
White House Christs
and "reality" transmitted poison
is too DISTRACTING!
Cacophony vibrating in the trees
Where somebody spray paints
"**** THIS ONE TOO"
Drunk on the Marina by midday
Oh, that one was funny.
Police cars butterfly the nest with siren wings..
THE COLORS OF AMERICA MIND YOU.
Arresting the Accordion player by Robinson's outdoor shop?
NOWwhowouldwannadothat!
They're just swaying the jagged noise imitations of Sinatra!
Decadence infected that instrument and its vessel a long time ago now.
Keep on playing there Francis its okay nobody is listening.
Budded beam of light serenades
Chinatown Upper Floor Apartment
Delirium/three women shouting from their balcony high off ***** from next door neighbor.
questions
For the next time
"Why do I feel so unhappy now?" addiction therapeutic
Temporarily, easing headache and that depression, lady is screaming now in her sleep.
Gargoyle security cameras haunt the street corners.
Electric generators perfume the musical thinman who plays saxophone on lower Pandora,
Two in the morning imagination
Boundless between industry and
Needle prodded Lepers wailing on the adjacent sidewalk, muttering to past childhood friends who took form of rapid voices
Praying for suicide in that HEAD OF THEIRS/I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU ASK!
Men searing their skin with
Carnival narcotics
Tableau upon the bleeding
Walls of modern Hades.
Hopeless romantics
Tread benches facing the
Amber sheathed City blocks
contemplating their emotional vacancies
& labyrinthine desires
(How to achieve the unconquerables of love??)
Can hardly walk in that there
Brilliant light of Luna
Candle for the lonely planetarium
(Childlike galaxy!)
Undeniably complex/
Mademoiselle waving her soft hand alltheway out to
Intercosmic space!
Lipstick stainless
Alpha Centauri
Don't know what DAZZLE romances are,
man o man o woman o mano e mano
Voltage surge thru veins and brain-
Institutionalize me!
I'm in love!
Power of Napoleon in here!
(Tap to my ribs implying the heart is beating poems again)
ecstasy isn't no sanity at all,
Happiness in times like ours is
Delusional half-consious *******
Fed by the state.
Listened in on a podcast once
At work, theys men prophesied
Discombobulation of our economy!
Nostradamus-Moderne waving his phallus of necropolis political
Myth finishing on everyone
From Taiwan to Manhattan
(Tho the myth may be truth yet)
Sunshine bedroom
The Shadows of knight play Darkside recording
(1968)
New American and Canadian Poetry
Rests under faraway currencies
That once rested in my pocket during
Late walk out of Furama,
Mosquitoes illuminated from
Restaurant lanterns and enormous Asiatic hotels.
Tropical sweat beaded from my head,
Hair was shorter back then..
Bike & Blue Cabcar race past,
Tide of the Indian ocean feline
Elegance as Southern Hemisphere
Heats up my ankles,
Balinese acoustic band covering Crosby Stills & Nash (Suite Ruby Blue Eyes) distantly midst oriental carpets and beaded umbrellas where Australians smoke the cigarettes which smell of cigars.
Guitar string clatter,
Fireflies (flying lightbulbs)
Catching words from accent
Frenzy wordscramble.
This place calls itself Oasis,
Yet here they are the Kuta Bums!
Palm pattern shirts unbuttoned halfway revealing russet hairy chests/ sunbunrt necks/ tanned cheeks/
Pimply backs.
One keeps returning to my table,
The answers always the same
"No thank you" till I feels like being
Impolite.
Oh! The bothering efforts these Bums put in.
It's against the law to pay them jack-
but their brains have turnt to wack-
From hallucinatory perils-
Making muck of their thoughts and dreams reality a-tattered skin
Simply easing by they don't know one February vs the next
Or the laws
Or this that and the other!
Belt buckles light&wind; up toys
Glowsticks hat tricks body ticks
Lighter flicks nausea aura
Body odor
Depression
Anxiety
Illness variety
Candy capped with dots
an' golden cyanide
Bruised nails, infected eyes glazed,
Minds dazed, gods prayed to, Buddhas praised.
Sutras practiced on the southern axis
"GOOD PRICE, JUST FOR YOU MY WHITE FRIEND"
Preach their evening discount discourse holding riven boxes
Tainted with wax chalk.
Who worries of them now?
I'm across the Pacific sea!
Thousands a Miles away
From memory.

My love is hungry
My bank means nothing
The moon shines
Impressions of Autumn
Upon the consciousness of
A spark surviving a typhoon.
Where was I?
The thought has ended.