sometimes I wonder
if your lack of
communication
is because I blind
you with the light
of my vision like I
blind myself.

The way you, you
is a lasting record of
what the world is made
of, according to the
part of me that really
can't see past the
love you afford my
essence.

The old world
died

with the rise
of

McDonalds.

countries huge, bro.

Everything here
glows with
meaning, history,
allegory, antiquity,
and
worldliness.

Jet lag keeps
me windows
95. a sleep,
upgrade to
XP or higher
so the world
won't have to
pause & buffer.

Lost to the in-mind,
Eyes almost teary with exhaustion as city exhaust expends my already weary body, (... mind... soul!...)
I walked into the washroom at Tilley's travel emporium (you know those hats you see on Steve Irwin? The stereotypically Australian saucers with a tilt like a collision? Tilley hats. They were invented by the creator of this store.)

and it smells like you.

all my weary head can imagine

is your

midnight mouse

of a snore

and
       your

soft

       lava-stone skin

the solar system of freckles on your shoulders

the stars of

birthmarks

on your

      arm.

I say good night

as

    Canada

     tucks the 2 of us in

   for the last time


     until

    April.

we're all made out of

would.

slasher films always had me wondering
if I was capable
for no reason.

play with the
head-rush thought
of distrust in myself
over ******.

could I ******?

could I could I could I could I
cold cold cold cold cold

it was a
dark
and
stormy
night.

slow and steady
wins the

wait.

slow and steady
wins the

I

slow and steady
wins the

for godsakes I went slow and steady because I had no

desire

for victory.

air smells what skin tastes like,
it depends on the 'why' you're tasting.

swept roads
as if, the clouds.

monday mourning
as if, the clouds.

tight muscled, barrel chested, gattling gun
as if, the clouds.

the tassles from the corner of
your journal complete a round of chess
on my chest. I've waited water.
the fold out map of surrounding eras
confirms my suspicion that
all doomsday prophecies are false. all ****-
day prophecies, not so much. the
tragedy resides in this: that it doesn't
have to be ****. we just refuse to clean up
after ourselves and start from
square one. adults tell
children not to fight. adults tell children to share.
adults tell children to look after one another. society is
an orphan with no
orphanage. you can't blame it
for not knowing any better. however, society
was pregnant in the 1960's. we
gave it an abortion. society may be pregnant
once again. it's up to
us if we're ready for the responsibility of

children.

bring me sunken ships. bring me the
daniel that called your name through
can't and nevers. he waited like a
switchback earring for the roller coaster
to simply answer a simple question in
regards to salt flats in Utah. the all-ages
cross-dress was broken in two and
expected to dance for the window washers
incorporated slogans, in what sense did the
teacher employ simile in the following sentence?
I like to like, it's like love but it's like. whistles and
bears make a combination as deadly as nitrogen
and nuclear fusion. any relation would have it's
way in Greek sandals marking Tumblr asks and
wondering where the littler of the 7 was born.

she's one of those Scandinavian girls all your friends at the barbecue would say,
"dude, how the **** did you manage to get with THAT?"
because they're all entranced in her painted and unintentional glow, she's a diamond,
and it's not the diamonds fault it's a diamond.

it's a mix of luck, probability, and perspectives on beauty derived from
thousands of years of embedded consciousness on what defines the aesthetics of a souls harmonic glances

I'm luckiest because she's not just a diamond on the outside.
the rest of her diamonds still reside underneath. speaking through her body yet still deep to discover
and I'll keep looking.

I'll keep looking and I'll discover how rich she is.

But she doesn't know it yet.
she may never know it.

diamonds are easy to see,
but hard to find.

occasionally, a flash of white page blankets her face like a pale Swedish summer
the video stream clunks along on solipsist angles, falling, waking, back, here here
pen on her tongue and I wonder where it's been, disease travels funny highways but the constant revelation of
one germ after another makes the body a well-protected warzone, immunity flaunts its immunity,
the pen picker probably protects the person a bit more aptly than the hand-sanitized middle-man afraid of the swine flu

blue blanket holds her shoulders like she's swimming in a lake of silly putty and her white teeth glisten because
she's lucky and no one ever notices their fortune when it's so close you can't see it.

turn around,
have you found it yet?

like the gold at the bottom of a Yukon stream
I need to stop underestimating myself.

5 dollar bill curled like a tunnel
a ****** kicks a toonie kicks a dime
the tunnel is built into the mountain
of my Lonely Planet guidebook to
Barcelona.

the laptop cord slithers above like
a stiffly frozen waterfall. The world
is an okay place.

the wicked dance of expectation
and one vs. the other is a lost
cause that loses itself in itself
as it's still within and without
through the same ******* highway;
the desert and the tundra aren't
separate worlds, they fade into
one another like the slow dance
you refused in 8th grade.

some days walk past me like shoes in a lost costco
wake up late, it's 9 AM somewhere so it's not like you slept in.

beauty in the backwards dance of corrugated cardboard contact lenses
seeing what I see like I see see see, for Godsakes all I need to do is see.

once.

hangover anxieties where the world melds
waiting for insanity all I need to do is sleep
cuddle my lover, be with the angel of my soul
and stop working off prior expectation as to what and where and why and who.

I'm gonna be completely fine.

next combination won't include MDMA, beer, and coffee in the morning.

If it is sunny in Europe
The Dutch caws of misunderstood will hallow my pestle and mortar skull to round tinnitus into song;
The French Fries will come with mayonnaise in a Bruges cafe,
Light lines tracing dust in cycled prose.

Light lines tracing medieval footsteps on a Roman road.

Bonjour, old world.

Mon nom est Kyran.

pros
cons
progress
congress.

I always get terribly nervous
Running into people I sort of knew
But didn't know
And now I just stay quiet on my phone reading morning articles past the afternoon migration
And laugh at a witty fathers joke.

The way I ate my Lays was weird
She knows it and now conversation is out of any equation
I was about to punch into an iPhone calculator
Circulation ended in my hands down.

Children are creation, lovely doves.

Semper Fidelis
Semper Fidel
Semper Fiddle
Sumper Fiddle
Sum Fiddle Plays
Sum Fiddle Plays Jazz
Sum Fiddle Plays Jazz

looouuud

man.

Care to listen?

it was exactly a week ago but it feels like
Waters have paused to ask directions from air and lava
And lava, in it's lost hots, slinking its way down Mount St. Helens
Couldn't hear water

yellin'.

It's still as if
there were no Mexico
and as if
you ceased to swallow the clanks
of arachnid 'where'd-ya-go's'
in favour of
where the wild river flows

This oval prose is not a rose
It's cheaper
and I'm tellin ya
Count the rocks connected on the second front of sidewalk and that's how you might forget
how much
it costs
to miss you.

Winnie the Pooh told me Barcelona smells like raspberry soap.

Half asleep on my walk to the bus stop,
The Texada clear-cut smiles like the gap-tooth of the Georgia Strait
and the 3 pops of melatonin ingested 11 hours ago still have me waning on the down-low like a somewhat solid ghost in a Labrador windstorm.

I send you paragraphs
And all of my heartbreaks make me worried I've finally scared you off
But logic trusts itself to you and says, 'Cabo San Lucas, tantrastic,'
I'm no stoic. Otherwise this poem would still be sleeping in alphabet.

It's only the middle of the week but it feels like it's been a month,
At least
At little
The weather is Hyde again,
But as of right now I don't really mind
I just wish you had sunk into my chest last night as we slept together,
Finding our mind within its memory foam,
I dreamed of you and wondered
If Mexico really existed.

Insecurities range from mild to severe
deal with it, land-rover. deal with it finity, in finity
it's not a meaningful solution
to worry like a bathroom mat.

but honesty is a better policy
isn't it?

Patterns in the leaf jacket,
Nature plays Jackyl and Hyde with the weather.
I wouldn't mind if light didn't light me like a sun-candle, distant star to others, and dark didn't mean I didn't mind death.
Preferred it, even.
Somewhere in the Dubai of the modern mind, the good still dwells,
And so does an earthy spirit.

I fell in love with a girl who holds me when I'm  crumble-glass and when I'm rock,
No image institutes the angel in her coronary thump,
Poised to be the psychic reading cards inside my nuerons,
The UVic hoodie she's draped in is what I'd like to see her wear nothing but
On a warm Northwest beach,
And more than anyone she is a dream come true
I just hope I have the strength to believe
That dreams really do come true.

As of late I've been dead, but she woke me with a start
Translated into poems
I would usually never read,
Let alone write with the confidence of an overdose gone fixed.

in love with you, in love with you,
I really am in love with you. you've
been gone for a day and a half and
already it's
everything
about
you

that I miss.
you are a soul made from stars
and water
and trees
and people.

I have all of these things
but not the combination of
their atoms at present that

form

your

presence.

this is a love-struck poem.
in love with you, in love with you,

I really am in love with you.

follow childhood dreams into capital city's of the world
you will find them on paper.

Impossible.

follow childhood dreams into valleys of the world
you will find them.


Impossible
on paper.

anytime the widow sits
up upon the window sill
morbid sees a happy face
finds it's happy in this place.

undress the frets and peel the strings, pulled as oxymoron through chord progressions
hermetic code and the 8-fold path swim indefinitely within concept of illusion
concept
of
illusion

trick question.

emoticon smiles, crunch! leaves under boots are a shattered glass,
believe in the underline, yorkshire smiles at new york, you grew up and I accept that, son.
never over the beginning of the orange bullet casing. in Sandy Hook the deepest opposition faced mankind
that of the speed in which the modern world finds itself chasing chinese dragons in the bacteria floaters
of the eye, watching as they dip into ocean as if that were insane, but what's insane is to consider the
lost mind to be a mind that was lost in the beginning, you can't lose the mind, you can only find it within
its memory foam.

Timid as a leaf, crackling under foot as if broken spines didn't believe you.
didn't believe you? didn't believe me, but I believe myself when I state love is question
breath is answer, cornered in a universe so full the ego can't speak Latin, it doesn't matter
it never mattered, you mattered as much as matter, lost in words, lost in lungs giving expression to eternity
kings don't last, kings don't last, you last but king's don't last, I loved it, if you believe in me
It belonged to the corner that manifested as mist.

universal ****!
**** me so I can give birth to your beautiful slumdog millionare
you know what I mean?
the man wearing pants so tattered it doesn't matter why he's dancing?
I meant that when I said it and I said it when it meant so much to the
king of all castles running in circles around melancholy as if it were
a dog to be chased so catch your own tail, too big to fail, too big to
fail, ah, cleanliness has its way of speech and I will never be rid of
it's cancellation fees, but does that matter oh so much if clouds
understand me better than sand sees chord progressions in winter hymnals
sung by early risen bird from dust and snow?
I didn't think so either.

that secret that you know
but you don't know how to tell
makes you believe in eyes tossed
upwards, towards, inwards, sentient
applause from the back of my mind,
watching through binoculars the opera
of your heart and the angel of your
person, I suppose if I were going to
admit it I'd say

Peter's gates

open for me

everytime

you part your lips

to kiss me.

art
is life

digested.

if I fail my road test again, there will be
flames in the road and sobs in the ear of
the self that demands a piece of plastic,
demands legitimacy from social rule, demands
a head lain to pillow smiling with success.
if I fail my road test again, there will be
a clamour of bike chains and huffs met with
a very un-Zen slapshot clamp cramp stamp me
atom bomb salad. but if I pass, there will
be satisfaction, there will be gladness. there
will be love. and in reality, if failure besets
my tire marks, I will try, and try, and try again.
the old Chinese proverb states... fall down 7 times,
get up 8.

good luck, Kyran Paterson-King. you've got this, you
snarky-*** *******.

you make my legs

                             fill with lust

                                                         and some sundance

                                     chemical I cannot

                                                               ­           explain. you make

                                                   me feel like your

        pupils are the sun

                               and the sun has

                                                               ­                       little in respect

                                          to you aside from

                    attribution to the

                                                               ­  very existence of

                                                               ­                                         the girl I love.

                                                          you make me feel

                                like free chai tea

                                                   lattes, even if this

                                                               ­        analogy was used by

                                                               ­                           an ex of mine to

                                                               ­                                           describe how she

                                                               ­                                                           felt about me I

                                                               ­                                                                 ­        feel it's still

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                     valid in context.

                                   you make me dance

                        like thunder in a

                                          snowstorm and link

                          arms with my lack

                                                      of a bedside table

                and ring as true as

                                           my ears to the ashen

                                                               ­        corner-lounge love-drug-all-this-please.

                                      

                       ­             I love you,
                                    I love you,
                                    
                           ­         I love you,


                                    I love you.



                                                         ­          holy sweet good *******,


                                                   you sweet,

                                                   sweet soul,
                                                    

          ­                                         not even

                                                          novel­s
                                                  
                                                                ­  could properly explain

                                                       how my universe swells into serotonin heartbeats
                                                      ­                    whenever
                                    ­                                       you're
                                                          ­                wherever
                                        ­                                    with

                                                               ­              me.

Like a viser I advise that you finally find your eyes
Peaked and bordered by a toque the  sun cant stop to shine
Yet light obliviates eyeballs well adjusted to the rain
Can make the same eyeballs rise to re-perceive again
In this corporate quest investment is on par with love
Always carrying cash like a box of rubber gloves
Defend against the right to starve and strangle on the street
Gain the right to put a diamond right above my seat

Altercations alter authors read atop the altar
The Council of Nicaea building progress not to falter
Piling future thought like a towered Jenga game
Is funny *** it's true to say the atheists are the same.

Preachy ******* carrying Richard Dawkins in one hand
Sapping all that's holy from a gold block into sand
Crying because life is now a fight or flight response
A nihilist is just another  ****** fanatic ****

A nihilist is the strangest
A suicide bomber using words
Making sure you understand it's worthless and it burns
Bombing every holy site stacked deep inside your brain
Proving that within this life you've got nothing to gain
He pretends you come from blank and end up there again
Forgetting that's impossible,
Hypothetically insane.

If we came from nothing, return to nothing
Where's all this from, then?
Nothing can't exist by implication, but we can?
When I say that everything is nothing
What I mean:
Is nothing is the everything that we all can clearly see.

Society is a case of forward smiles and back logged tears. Most of us are crying most of the time. Look at that middle aged grimace, the Starbucks smile of I'm-here-because-I-have-to-be.

I'm sorry you were born a human being.

Our greatest tragedy is the fact that it could be better. Life could be a breeze. But we won't let it be, we must keep on pushing gravity back into space.

We demand the air march into our lungs; we order the water to our bellies. We do all this as if it wouldn't happen of itself.

That is our greatest tragedy.
Life as beyond is a miracle. Life in the circle is death in constant progress.

The end.

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

'Fish door,' chants Cochrane. 'Fish door, fish door, yea.'
Most jobs don't come with a box of surreal. Or allow you a bowl of cereal.
This job is different.

Language speaks. Sandwich eats. Mandrake roots.

Castles find solace in lords. Mansions find solace in money. Money finds solace in money. Money finds solace in money.

Kid behind me on the bus keeps punching something incessantly. I can hear society in his accent. Appeasement. He's an apple seed budding.