Infliction

At the time, I was nervous

for living,

when no one else

 

wanted to talk with my mind.

You have no free time

to sacrifice, nor do I.

 

All our time is filled up

with taking others for granted.

Yet we talk on the phone

every couple of years,

and become friends

 

over preferred lovers.

When  we were lovers,

we loved each other,

we lamented our skin

 

As old lovers do.

It never gets old. Your skin is my map

home.

Time makes clouds

of us all.

 

I have no hard feelings

over deleting you

It is merely a word. Define it.

Gone, evaporated. Hack me!

 

The moments are in hearts

reliving the kisses

and the touching

 

every spare day

I spent it all. Poor again

loveless;

Childless.

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real life

it takes a toll on you

to wake up

and make breakfast

carry on like nothing

has changed you.

you’re supposed to be the same

person you were yesterday.

but so much can change in a day

and altar your world

into a new dimension.

the one you never imagined

you would be on.

real life can be an illusion

and a denial up until

it weaves its way into

your world and captures

you in its net. you’re caught

now. you can’t shake your legs

or arms. you’re stuck

to swim on earth

or drown in hell. or both.

poets think they know

everything with all the

chips on their shoulders

wearing them down. they

know absolutely nothing.

they live in dreams. real

life is just another

way of killing you slowly

without knives.

In the Middle

Once I was at the end of the love song

crying for years because it was over

before it even began. We were caught

loving the wrong person. I immersed

from my drowning and swam to the

beginning of the line. I sailed across

your poems and floated on your words.

You sent them to me by mail, on out-

dated postcards, you wrote them on

the back of my hand with your

fingertips. I sent you magic and

illusions with one needle on your

arm. We lived in a movie and

recited Shakespeare naked in bed.

You were not even close to being

who I thought you were. I was

too much for you to handle back

then, wanting to do everything

and doing absolutely nothing

about it. I climbed Mont-Royal

in heels and you laughed at

my absurdities. I was spontaneous

and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.

I bent backwards on words

and the power of your hands.

Now I’m in the middle of something

that will change me forever.

I will never bet that girl again.

I have to be someone I thought

I would never be. Life throws you

these wicked curveballs

and I am catching them,

ready to be stuck here

hoping that it will not get

worse. All this hope

for songwriters and poets

but for a regular woman like me

it’s a waste of my time.

Misunderstanding

I have to take off my bracelets to love you

but I keep my ring

to remind me of all the misunderstandings

in modern love and romance. First

one is the texting,

then the replies

then the emojis

the silence.

Then the waiting around

to be misunderstood while

waiting in grocery lines

and examining faces

lines, reactions.

Smiling at strangers

in real life, on the internet,

in the cafe line.

I am sick of it all.

I would rather lie

down and masturbate.

I want to be sad

over all the times

you never made love to me.

This hole in my heart

is what keeps me going.

I need it

to write.

I love my randomness

and your demands.

I live for the music

the dream

the petals.

No one can control me either,

trust me,

but I always come back

I never leave

I’m not the type

to leave the walls up for long

and what I love about you

is that you

are exactly like me

and yet

not like me at all.

Dichotomy of love

of sex,

it’s eros.

I love you for never giving up

on all the misunderstandings

just driving on and on

and even when you are angry

you tell me

and again I fall in love

with you.

 

 

Reasons

Some people love you

for all the right reasons

but you still go searching

for the wrong ones. The ones

that keep you up or

make you want to smoke up

all day. I never hide behind

a persona or a brand,

I am what I am

sometimes ditzy

sometimes brilliant

but always me. I woke up

in a Woody Allen movie

you can guess the title

but you know it’s dysfunctional

and petty yet narcissistic. I

liked talking to you

because you never interrupt

and this is such a quality

that I adore. I don’t have

scorn, I just love you

so I put up these walls

to protect myself

from how much I care.

I will never tell you,

of course, or maybe

if I’m drunk and Purple

Rain’s solo is on and you

turn to me and with your

eyes you tell me

how you never meant

to cause me any sorrow.

I know. I am smarter

than you think. I carry

you like e.e cummings poem

nowadays it’s modern:

in my phone, in my pocket,

but in another era

it was in my heart

and you,

you are invisible to everyone

but me. You are like

a magician

popping into my life

like the pills

I swallow.

I loved you and lost

you like

a true poet

and you can’t get

any closer to

art than a few hours

alone in a locked room.

Favim.com-florian-nicolle-art-beautiful-soul-emotion-573684

Metropolis

I mostly watched the singer

shake away his age

as it caught up with him

and nothing seemed to impress us

anymore besides one hundred dollar bills

and vodka shots. The youth left us

with our past. Our ten percent shot

at another night of bringing back the

days. All the drunken sailors

tried to get their hands on us

but we have to try so much more

now and drink so much less.

We’re getting sick of the city

and the dirt and the envy.

We’re getting tired of the puddles

and the hurt and the  five dollar coffee cups.

We’re getting upset with the fake news

the killing sprees, the hiding

of ugly humanity. I swear I want

to leave this place and never

look back. Never think about

what language I should speak

first, second guess someone’s

authenticity. I like the vast sky

the view from my window

on my quiet street, for years

I wanted to run from it

and chase the night. Now

I want to sit, enjoy my moments

and never look back to who

I used to be before I met you.

 

 

Calls

Make a house call, pay the bills

catch my love with jeans and pills

spread me across your bed

light the candles, you’re so well-read.

i’ll be hoping for fate

to kill all my hate

to stop this torment of life

leave me on a swing with no sharp knife.

I could kiss you to death

take all the day’s breath

with one touch of my hand

on your skin in my land.

I can make up rhymes for you

twist in any position you want me to

I can break my soul for you

pack up my day and bend it true.

It matters not what others can’t do

it matters most that you pull through

and make it all collide

so all day i could be in your arms and hide.

Justify the tears

People keep lies in their pockets

like bubble gum

I tell a lie

my heart aches

my nose should grow

live in a fairytale for a while.

I should get spanked

I can lie like a jazz singer full of trouble

in the twenties,

cheating on myself

but I prefer to tell my lover

I feel him

when he leaves

love him

when I cannot see him

and child of mine

things do not get easier

or brighter.

He brings me gifts I cannot open

kisses of tomorrow

yet nothing can wrap me up as perfectly

as staring

into each other’s flaws

naked on a Sunday morning

with nothing to do

but loving every moment

and existing

merely for each other.

If only

the music and words in our veins

could walk together

in the bright sun.

I suppose being a vampire

has its privileges

like some royalty.

Still, I see the sky

has opened up for me again

and is opening its arms.

 

Spilt Wine


Start the night with wine

in my hair, on my dress,

in my stockings

brand new shoes

bare shoulder

and a few broken

apologies. I saw it

coming too,

and just watched it.

Kind of like life

that was yesterday.

Tonight,

now another bar

another jazz singer

singing the blues

under copper tiled ceilings

and feathers in her hair

you’d think it was suddenly

1920 art deco Paris.

But no,

it’s the house of Jazz

in Laval, Quebec.

Hanging with the girls

who sold my life away.

Cosmos and red chandeliers

blue bottine in the vitrine

and it’s a wonderful world

in here.

The only thing missing is you

with me.

It makes me cry

you’ll never see

what I see.

Not even pictures

do it justice.

Rita called me

she’ll be 20

minutes late,

god damn Montreal traffic.

It’s fine.

I’ll order another Cosmo

write a poem.

Listen to the jazz singer

and lament

you.