debussy softly playing in a dimly-lit room
i am watching the vinyl as it spins
and i can feel my head doing the same
only faster
my hair smells like peach and smoke
and you look like a hazy dream in your white shirt
mumbling about how we should've went
to that play instead of drinking
because we'd be sick in the morning
but you pour more alcohol into your glass and into mine
now all i taste is honey
as i get drunker and my giggles get louder,
smiles wider and hands braver
and maybe you're right
we should've just dressed nicely and went to watch
******* beowulf instead of playing russian roulette
because the bullet is supposed to bury into my head
so why does it feel like a cannon ball into my heart
every time you touch me and smile

Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.

And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless *******, in this airtight cabin of past fantasy’s design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.
It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew
but did not recognise,
gasping under the grip
of yellowing wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
two paragraphs- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.

I feel a winter morning breeze,                                                       
se­nding the smell of percolating coffee and the buttery toast 
from the street vendors.

The cold wind hit my face

One.

Two..

Three…

I can no longer see,

I can no longer smell,

I can no longer hear,

But I feel tears in my eyes,

Then I fasten my steps,

Then I stop.

I stop in the middle of the street,
to look at this car that had a lonely look to it.

Are you lonely,
standing still alone at the empty parking lot
on a brutally cold day

Are you lonely
waiting for your man,
taking you to the road,

And you,
On a excursion to the world.


Why are you still here standing still,
like I am still standing still here,
far from my home,
alone,
living in this lonely, lonely world,
where everything is crammed by the influx of people
from all over the world,
hit, squeeze and hurt someone to survive,
in this congested island.

Why are you here standing still
And why am I here standing still

Yet,
gusty wind hits and hits and hits
hard, hardER and HARDER,
                                                         ­      
But I no more feel the cold,
I no more feel my body paralyzed,
and I,
no more,
I no more feel my eyes pouring the water out.

But I feel my heart lurching.
And my heart aches,                                                           ­           
whole day,
till the sun finally goes down.

The light wraps you in its mortal flame.
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way
against the old propellers of the twighlight
that revolves around you.

Speechless, my friend,
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the ruined day.

A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment.
The great roots of night
grow suddenly from your soul,
and the things that hide in you come out again
so that a blue and palled people
your newly born, takes nourishment.

Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave
of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold:
rise, lead and possess a creation
so rich in life that its flowers perish
and it is full of sadness.

of all the lives i could have lived,
i am glad i happen
to be in the same lifetime as yours.

but again here comes the world,
with all its silly ironies—
its vastness that sets people apart
miles and miles;
our paths crossing
is quite out of the picture.

i know this.
you don't.
i think of you.
you don't.

but why do i keep waiting for you
as if i'd suddenly find you outside,
standing by my door
and waiting for me too?