love, life and everything

Artists (and their blindness)

That morning I went

to the university

with all those people

who think too much of themselves.


I walked on the streets

and avenues,

all dressed up in worn out shoes

and faded denim because it’s cool.


There’s this thing in the air of campuses,

like breathing pretension,

and I like it,

I’m part of it.


The students sit outside

with coffees and smoke,

Double cream and double sugar,

they’re drinking their hypocrisy.


They sip and they talk

about Pollock and their muse,

they think they know Warhol

because they eat Campbell’s.


But when they paint

they’re just pissing on canvases

and they tell you all about it

because it’s poetry for the eye.


They move their hands in their hair

and tell you you should care

because theirs just means so much more

than that painting with your guts all over it.


They think their C’s and D’s

are from being misunderstood,

they’re all struggling with their troubles

and then go home to their parents and silk toilet paper.


They tell you money doesn’t matter

when you’ve got art,

while staring at you

through their million dollar glasses they don’t need.


But they’re just blinding themselves

with their visions of Bohemia

and their bullshit complaints

about capitalism and politicians they see on TV.


And it makes me feel so sorry

because me too I sit and drink my coffee,

and I disagree

for the sake of being an artist.

- Notes

Hemoglobin Heat

It’s like a fire that’s gotten into my blood,

Like a mute, howling wolf.


I hopped on that bus to get away,

But it’s burning and burning like a pain in my gut.


In the melting sky there’s this sun,

That just won’t fucking set on himself.


Feels like watching a clock (tik tok tik tok)

Going crazy crazy crazy, it’s passed midnight goddamn it.


There’s the sleep like a buzz in-out,

And alcohol in my heart angers my hemoglobin suffocating.


My eyes blinking and flooding blue on themselves,

Looking for a horizon in the sky.


There’s a few clouds (phew phew phew)

White so white they cool my flame.


One, two, three days to sober my muscles,

drunk with anger like whiskey in the heat.


Then the wind blows and I’m blind,

A light bright like a bare bulb in my sad retina.


Damn damn damn I’m sweating red

And I’m breathing carbon in my violent lungs.


I need the night to wake and shine black,

A night to rest and let my chest soften.

- Notes

Crisscrossin’ NYC

The architecture of my mind is shaking like an earthquake;

Trembling and trembling like anxious thrills.


I’m singing to the melody of the open road like car-sick children

"Maman, are we there yet?"


I’ve got my head light as a balloon when I hit the streets;

Streets like dreams (crisscross crisscross)


Dear Jack, and dear Allen, are those your shadows under my feet,

looking of memories like whiskey and nicotine?


Oh dear Neil are you here, and you too Billy,

in those taxis like shooting stars over me?


The ducks are long gone from the park

and the rain is pouring on me like a Dylan blues.


That troubadour inside my heart is playing loudly,

shooting power chords along the ruptured veins of my arms.


Can you hear me out there Jerome David,

in your rye field with your unpublished prose?


I hear the echoes of harmonicas bleeding in the Village

and the strum of guitars spitting poetry.


I can see you across that cold water Bruce,

Dancing in the dark like a hungry night owl.


I can feel all of you in my muscles tighter than sailor knots,

You with your devil may care smiles so loud.



- Notes

Hayfield girl

With her windy hair

    like a bird in the big blue,

And her needle head pupils

    like two flakes

On the burnt ground of her eyes,

   shaking to the drum of her heart,

She stands in Canadian hayfields

    like a lone mountain top tree.


With her wolf-like shadow

    she dances a waltz like an angel,

And with her trembling throat

    she screams red like the devil.

In that burning air of the West

    She fights a war of love and shame. 

- Notes

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Acadian love

Acadian love

- Notes

Les grandes personnes

From fluo thoughts of swings 

         to cold cerebral mechanics.

There’s a storm, flood flood flooding;

         A murder up in there. 

Draw me a sheep, he says

        and so there was a birth in his mind. 

And with that fetal electricity

        playing god on Asteroid-B 612.  

With all flaming sex games

       and with bruised lips,

You can write all the words you want

       but just with the ashes of the heavy stares. 

Then there’s the dreams like mathematics

      but where 2+2 always equals 4

And where you can’t ask things like,

      “Why do roses have thorns?” 

From hand in hand laughter romance

       to machinery staccato love

There’s a rain, pour pour pouring;

       An eternal washing. 

- Notes

I’d rather be stuck up in a tree than be tied to it.

- Notes

Pine kill

The trees breathe to the sound
       of Acadian heartbeats.
The smell of salty waves in the wind
       illuminate blue.
The trembling of air freezing
       in vein roots so deep.
The snow soft sweet and cold
       on fire blooded lips.
The hard touch of wood iced
       speaks whispers of winter madness.
The shiny hits on wrinkled bark
       reflect silver in forests of green.
The circle flesh light as sand grains
       sparks with spills of life.
The warm muscles in dancing forearms
       tense like lions.
The long fall of the giant so tall
       breaks with a sizzling crack.
The silence and the sprinkle
       land together on the ground.
The heavy walk back smells
       of joy in the air.  

- Notes

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