We
agree on one thing:
love can live when nothing can
life is too cold for colours
so I warmed it for you
my hues mixing with yours
indulging in indigo
there are no shadows in
the brightest shades
the sexy sapphires
sheened cyans
until the last drops
had us marooned
in a dark blue world
we were a splash
of distilled spillings
yellow below
a dove up above
colours of our pixels
fallen to a drizzle
but I guess
we’re still alive for a while
seeing red
bleeding blue
peaceful is a colour
fuchsia is you
Friday, September 6, 2013
Reverend (2012)
Sons and daughters - would-be fathers, mothers funnel into
cannon fodder. Artillery shells blow arteries to hell, like fiery raindrops on
ants.
On the shore, the war is colder; derelict destroyers weep
bubbles from their bows. Beveled bulls choke on flak and flames. Sunken hulls
and bunkered hearts.
War is whelming, realms are burning. Times are turning for
the worst.
So tell us reverend. Can it end?
Grow (2012)
The hum of the sun
A colossal cosmic
fossil
Screams of a solar solitude
A serum of the immediate system
Bright blood falls to the dirt
“Grow” said the sun
Cancer of soil
Answer the call
Of that infernal ball
Collab Piece (Me and Margaret Barker - 2012)
The hurt in my body tries to spread to my head
Vascular veins pump viscous fluid.
Every breath hurts
A study of the heart shows
Love is the root cause
An independent clause
My sides burn
Started by stardust, finished in fire
Pain, sorrow, they are my ire
Genesis of a new genus
I gave all of myself to him he did not care
Twenty times in our point in time
He held my heart in his hands, fingers straining, crushing it to dust
Erosion at its finest
My heart is gone; my head is still thinking why can there be so much pain?
Drifting, rifting, uplifting
The pain in my mind is what started the whole thing
A sense of being in a brain untamed
Vascular veins pump viscous fluid.
Every breath hurts
A study of the heart shows
Love is the root cause
An independent clause
My sides burn
Started by stardust, finished in fire
Pain, sorrow, they are my ire
Genesis of a new genus
I gave all of myself to him he did not care
Twenty times in our point in time
He held my heart in his hands, fingers straining, crushing it to dust
Erosion at its finest
My heart is gone; my head is still thinking why can there be so much pain?
Drifting, rifting, uplifting
The pain in my mind is what started the whole thing
A sense of being in a brain untamed
The Farthest Land (2012)
The boy climbed down to the
farthest land, with a girl living, not breathing. Nothing there died long as
gardens grew. He lamented to a lonely god in the temple of bones, and called
for the prohibited art.
“Dormin” spoke – of her life anew, of
black-blooded beasts.
“Life
comes with a price.”
He scoped the dirge of slippery
sands, the knight of dead earth, the hammer of keeled beginnings, the ox of
dark footings, the crackle of underwater thunderings:
They all fell to the boy of the
farthest land.
They all fell to the ground.
Dormin was appeased - long lost
sanity on a forked tongue.
The boy hit the floor, erupting
in corruption.
Faltered gardens halt, his heart
stops.
The girl lived, but life comes
with a price.
Dormin moved to a smaller home of
bones.
A Message Through Martyrdom (2012)
I was the man who pressed a button. If the order came through, I authorized the firing of one nuclear warhead. I authorized the death of millions. I had only 1 allegiance – to my country, because: for just a few seconds I would write the book that I’d read my whole life, and hope to damn I do the right thing.
There were 3 more stations, but I was in control of silo 1 – the first line of the last defense;
first horseman of the apocalypse.
The others prayed to their gods every night, forgetting that god got demoted to assistant for absence, and was useless ever since we split the atom. Me? If gods were real, people like myself wouldn't exist.
The clock was just about to reset. The day was over. “Say hi to the wife and kids for me!” said Jer, my Communications Officer as he printed out his activity log. “Fuck you too, Tweety.” I casually utter back. He knew I had no family. Jeremy wasn't his real name, yet we had nicknames and inside jokes. Any name is as good as another when you live in a job. Tweety suited him best, in all his crude outspoken glory.
The clock reached the 1 minute mark, queuing my headache. Countdowns were countdowns – to launch, to the beep on a microwave, it didn't matter. They all brewed an uneasy sweat. I looked up the isle at Adrian (our ‘Commanding Agent Whatever’.) He always dressed like some sort of jungle commando to instill a sense of “seen-shit superiority”. Tweety's words. Adrian talked ruthlessly fast, pummeling the evening report to some faceless name, “Lucifer” through a transceiver. The one thing Adrian was really good at, among all his brash bumbling, was pulling the trigger. 20 seconds and a lot of madcap communication was all it took for the end to look us in the eyes.
I was not lawfully privileged to veto launch orders, even though an order like that is titanium turmoil to the human condition. If I had a grenade, I would stop this and put shrapnel in the launch panel, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself either way. Dooming my nation to save the world, or dooming my world to save the nation. It planted an idea in my head, so fiery, would-be-subordinate, yet so capable that it might be remembered forever:
I put in the codes, whipped out my pistol and pressed arm.
There were 3 more stations, but I was in control of silo 1 – the first line of the last defense;
first horseman of the apocalypse.
The others prayed to their gods every night, forgetting that god got demoted to assistant for absence, and was useless ever since we split the atom. Me? If gods were real, people like myself wouldn't exist.
The clock was just about to reset. The day was over. “Say hi to the wife and kids for me!” said Jer, my Communications Officer as he printed out his activity log. “Fuck you too, Tweety.” I casually utter back. He knew I had no family. Jeremy wasn't his real name, yet we had nicknames and inside jokes. Any name is as good as another when you live in a job. Tweety suited him best, in all his crude outspoken glory.
The clock reached the 1 minute mark, queuing my headache. Countdowns were countdowns – to launch, to the beep on a microwave, it didn't matter. They all brewed an uneasy sweat. I looked up the isle at Adrian (our ‘Commanding Agent Whatever’.) He always dressed like some sort of jungle commando to instill a sense of “seen-shit superiority”. Tweety's words. Adrian talked ruthlessly fast, pummeling the evening report to some faceless name, “Lucifer” through a transceiver. The one thing Adrian was really good at, among all his brash bumbling, was pulling the trigger. 20 seconds and a lot of madcap communication was all it took for the end to look us in the eyes.
I was not lawfully privileged to veto launch orders, even though an order like that is titanium turmoil to the human condition. If I had a grenade, I would stop this and put shrapnel in the launch panel, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself either way. Dooming my nation to save the world, or dooming my world to save the nation. It planted an idea in my head, so fiery, would-be-subordinate, yet so capable that it might be remembered forever:
“I do have a grenade.”
I put in the codes, whipped out my pistol and pressed arm.
20 seconds. 12 shouting gods. 7 rounds in my abort panel, 5 in my superiors. 3 panicked horsemen. 2 more seconds, 1 nuke in the silo, and no more chances.
Tomorrow would be the start of a new age: Through martyrdom.
Tomorrow would be the start of a new age: Through martyrdom.
The Grey Man (2012)
I met the Grey Man; The ambassador with a suitcase full of ashes.
He took notice of my monotonous revolt.
A trail of bodies to show.
“Just one more anomalous man in the way,
just a man in a suit.” I think.
I pull the pin with a grimace, but nothing happens.
The Grey Man looks at the grenade, smirking at the very notion.
Cascading black-blue eyes; he crawls into my cortex with a proposition:
Work for him, or join the scorched dust in his suitcase.
Bewildered, I step through his door into unforeseen consequences.
I wake up years later on a train to a city I do not know, with nothing but a frag and a name.
Who am I working for?
Bonsai (2012)
We want you to go. Your regime of machines alienate our land. like crop circles made of concrete.
You took the terrestrial, but wanted something extra.
And as we protest this ban-saw to a bonsai tree called industry,
you lock us out.
You took the terrestrial, but wanted something extra.
And as we protest this ban-saw to a bonsai tree called industry,
you lock us out.
We knock at your toenails hoping it’s not over; disgusted how you refuse to discuss this, because ten million arms, and ten million legs hold the throne that we know you don’t own.
Abacus Three TV (2012)
By a grainy old TV screen on a couch filled with piano keys, her coiled curls – like barely-brushed steel wool pull her in, wide-eyed, crying.
It doesn't look pretty, but that’s a life in the city: busy people hissing in all the wrong directions
She lives in an empty establishment on a greasy grid of streets.
And those eyes spin like revolver cylinders, spit tears like a runaway waterwheel.
She devolves to aluminum, shreds at the scalp, stares at the devil’s tele.
I tell her to stop, but I am already dead. Skeletal metal flat down in the corner.
Nothing does that, but nothing is quite like
Abacus Three TV: The end of being.
It doesn't look pretty, but that’s a life in the city: busy people hissing in all the wrong directions
She lives in an empty establishment on a greasy grid of streets.
And those eyes spin like revolver cylinders, spit tears like a runaway waterwheel.
She devolves to aluminum, shreds at the scalp, stares at the devil’s tele.
I tell her to stop, but I am already dead. Skeletal metal flat down in the corner.
Nothing does that, but nothing is quite like
Abacus Three TV: The end of being.
Gargoyle (2012)
I am saved for days later,
blind-eyed like whiteout on black paper.
I am drenched in never-ending nausea,
salivating rain in a steady stream.
Flowing thought, feeling fueled.
I am stoic stone in garrison; a static stalactic bat.
Seeing streets, backing alleys behind me.
blind-eyed like whiteout on black paper.
I am drenched in never-ending nausea,
salivating rain in a steady stream.
Flowing thought, feeling fueled.
I am stoic stone in garrison; a static stalactic bat.
Seeing streets, backing alleys behind me.
Voodoo Doll (2012)
I don’t really want to understand why we took each other’s hands. Your change of heart, for better or for worse was a lesson, lessened only by your pride to which I gave you.
I fixed you in my image, but you tore me apart for being you. This irony you cover up in steel still keeps you anchored to whatever rock bottom you thought was the surface.
I’m on my last breath down here with you, and I want you to know: the only reason I haven’t hurt you is because you are my voodoo doll.
I Remember Canada (2012)
I remember Canada:
Soft, bold, keen.
Warm in the heart,
living in the cold.
I was Canadian -
Free in the peaks, ice and plains.
Peace west to east,
tree after tree.
I was a blind canary in a coalmine
no walls, no binds,
pioneer of the pines.
A new kind of people
in an old people’s land.
Harpoons to Harper
in a few hundred years.
Canada is no longer my domain.
Soft, bold, keen.
Warm in the heart,
living in the cold.
I was Canadian -
Free in the peaks, ice and plains.
Peace west to east,
tree after tree.
I was a blind canary in a coalmine
no walls, no binds,
pioneer of the pines.
A new kind of people
in an old people’s land.
Harpoons to Harper
in a few hundred years.
Canada is no longer my domain.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
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