Tear me

Tear me apart

rip me into pieces

throw me to the wind

and bury me with poems

no earth

no flowers

just words

in death

cover me with notes.

And this on the eve of your birthday

the time when you

left me for dead

at the steps of Aphrodite

swimming in a pool of ache.

C’mere and pull the covers off

stand tall next to my hips

and pour the earth

all over us.

I can take it all

deep

light

slow

fast.

in rhythms you’ve described

and found in dictionary meanings

it’s all been felt

before

from eras we once lived in

a thousand years ago.

remember my hues then?

they were just as devastating

for you.

Zeus

it seems we have this neglected approach

to African dresses and lost stitching. (she’s

so confused with her choice of coffee

that love is not even on the menu )

she cried in my car because she

saw those girls having fun,

loving each other, neglecting her.

so fuck the social media, fuck

the “in your face play by play

action of petty lives”. she gets it

and is only fourteen, but i sell

it to lovers, dreamers,

i write it mostly for you

but you’re gone

into the

mist.

It gets foggy, and rainy,

i wake up to see the sunsets,

nothing changes but my

storage on my phone.

you like my new poem?

you don’t even read me. you

prefer to touch me

in my sleep. wake me in my

death. i’m still a vampire, i joke.

you bite my neck and

slap my ass.

you kiss my wounds

and patch up my scars

with silence.

you know i’m giving

everything up soon.

it’s written in the palm

of my hand.

the final act.

i take a bow

for the new play.

it’s going to be

so dirty

and raw.

this is nothing.

it’s tragic how

Greek mythology

was a million years ago,

i’d rather live then

and believe in Zeus

and wait for you

to become a part of me.

voices

i woke up to the voices again

after all that drinking and St-Henri parking

in front of the usual side streets

with bearded hipsters

open door lofts

stolen dreams. Coming out

of Cayenne and Pepper

sexy shoes and leather.

i don’t know what i was

thinking when we had those

shots, those drinks,

wine, and i didn’t smash

into you at the street

corner, looking like

quite the classy whore,

there was some white lace too

enough of it to want to see

underneath. no more questions

about my ass

my poems

just listen to my voices,

or ignore me.

it’s what you do best.

i ran out of cream

have to always catch myself

as I fall. my arms

are comforting

my words free me,

it’s the only way

to breathe from the place

you make it hard to breathe from.

what distance? you’re here,

what time? you’re on it,

what sky? you’re staring at it,

what sex? we did it.

did you have enough of me?

trust me, i know,

i have had just about enough

of myself too. i can’t blame you

for leaving me, i wanted it,

it’s my island

i want to be alone

on it.

I was asked

I do not read minds

but have paid others

to tell me where my jacket is,

the size of the sword

above my shoulder,

the scent of the candle

you lit in my absence. When I die

I will come back, I know I am

one of those that linger, watch,

observe the present

for signs of the past,

think of the future

for split seconds.

I can be such a tart, a well-balanced

meal,

a sour drink

your favorite slice of cheesecake-

you be the warm apples

and I will be the pie.

Top us off with the universe’s ice

cream and dabble in bizarre

metaphors

while I am drunk off caffeine.

Yes, too much of it

and hence the trivia questions,

the sleeves of tattoos

with no meanings.

Angels have no wings

even if you call me one

I know you poke fun

with your poker face. Lies

are convincing,

deceit a shaded charcoal

of my first art class. Yes,

I rode a motorcycle

and was that girl, with a sketchpad

and a journal.

I was asked to write

a poem

about myself

where

nothing is true

I do that already,

I replied.

I lectured on Canadian Literature

I have done more

than you googled

or is written

so much goes unwritten

unsaid

announced

so much is detached

from this microscopic world

of fine hairs.

I leave mine messy

and forget my brush

on purpose.

What happened

to all those questions

you never asked?

Weeds

It must have been three or four in the morning

jumping from one naked bed to the next

imagining weeds growing out of my broken wing

and how some people leave them in the cracks

while others pull and trim.

Every soul needs a rim

every love a first and a last hymn

I don’t want to rhyme today

but the other half is in your sunny ray.

Someone pulled me out of my dream

he was tall

and spoke eloquently

with words of a poet

was it you?

Did you feel my naked skin?

The weeds are under the snow now

still -10 in the wind

as well as my heart.

Lying down in examining rooms

being spread out and memorizing

centimeters and numbers

cyst sizes and wild frontiers.

I imagine I would be pretty as a blonde

but I’m okay.

He looked so worried

talking to my old high school teacher

in a waiting room of women

with pretty robes and panoramic views of the city

from the tenth floor.

I’m okay.

I feel like a weed though

I feel stuck between the cracks

and I’m not so sure

if I’m okay at all.

Your language

Language is wine upon the lips. – Virginia Woolf

You made me reckless

and I loved that about you

for

you are like the star in the sky

I can never reach. There is always

that one

that catches your eye

my grasp can only reach

the forest. The sky is

another space I will one day

fall from as I do in my dreams.

Drink wine from my glass

head out into the party with me

St-Laurent is still trendy

you just have to know

where to go

my friends are waiting with

their high heels and Facebook quotes

ready to take my picture and tag me

as I so abhor

as they ask “Do you mind?”

Yes, I fucking do. 

Jack White once told me

“the heart never ages”

and we spoke for a while

but he hates to be famous

and he hates to conform

as most artists do.

I storm through my messages

ignoring most

reading yours over

until I delete

forget over this wine

giggle like school girls

wait for our husbands at night

to wake us up

from our drunken stupor

late night cab rides.

When the fuck are you going to grow up?

Never

That’s what I fucking love about you.

Your lips still taste like wine. 

Take

I want to give you what you ask for. I truly do

but all my shopping bags are full. Nothing for me

to buy here. No romance, no hope, no futile essence

sold in jars. I want to write you the most beautiful

love poem ever written, but that’s already been done

before.

Instead take my heart, I kept it wrapped up for you,

untouched, warm, full of soft beats, effects, sky dives

just for you. Yes, you wanted it and I say, take it.

I might write otherwise, but believe no poet’s words

until you kiss them off their lips. Believe nothing

until you read it in my eyes. Romance lives inside us

before the coffee, the sunrise, the putting on of the bra,

the makeup, the razor

it’s lying there

waiting for the lover’s alarm

to wake up

and pour some love

some hard sex

into its depths.

It’s so vast, you see, so structured

so enigmatically built that no one can

know the truth. I want you to love me

for all I am, but all you see is what I let you,

and all you give me are fragments.

Take it all or nothing at all. I live differently

think inside my head too much, love

without a thought, dream into a river

and float above the clouds.

This is the only way I can survive

before you wake up and tell me

how beautiful you are and special

before you pound your love at me

I am thinking that this rapture this title

of a poetry book

is just that.

Poems for hopeless fools like us.

Sitting in my car

If you want to know what I thought
all you have to do is ask
and when I said
well nobody walked out of the theatre/
most of the audience don’t know why
they laughed on cue/
rolled their eyes when needed/
and romanticized all/
because what can you do
in denial of your life
bring out the ties and sex acts
one by one
you can butt plug your existence
or pretend you know why he doesn’t want to be touched
like most men do
or why she likes her ass slapped
like most women do.
I can offend but a prompt is just that
and fan fiction is still fiction
and New York movie critics
need a sundown on this topic
and Madonna needs an opinion
all wait for the review
just have your own fucking nonsense bottle of wine with their logo
plaster it all over the sites
like someone wants to be you.
How is that
no one cares about what the waiter said last night
arguing with me while he knows he is wrong
didn’t high school end?
Never
it goes on
with every new Leader
or heartbreaking news story.
Watch the news in pain
as literature drowns
and best sellers float
but my book will not bring out all the kings and queens
and if you read or not
nothing changes
it’s still Friday and tomorrow is Saturday
drinking and waiting for The Hip to feed the soul.
Another -33 day in love with the guitar and sounds
of refusal
to sell out.
Sorry, to disappoint
but it has to be done
every once in a while
to see how
there is nothing closer to fiction
than reviews.
Every reader
wants to escape,
I hope my rope
is long enough
to touch the ground.

Hoodie

keep your hoodie on
stare into my extreme distance
yet with a touch of a button
I could be right in your trance
I like the rhythm of your hands
as they soothe my ruffled words
my constant negative off shore lands
at your doorstep along with my birds
cannot go far without them
you in my head
lay me sweetly on your turned hem
adore the French, Italian, Spanish food
as you feed me their pots of stories
each lover unique Yet obscure
ready to lure
you in
intrigue you with secret recipes
aren’t we too old for that game so untrue
to our claimed values
of pop culture phenomena, the blues.
Enter my booth made of church wood pew
tell me everything and all that I knew
without a glance
three times I heard your voice in my fated chance
to see how your breath tastes in mine
to let the suds dissolve in their own time.
Nothing is certain
draw the red velvet curtain
just kiss me
under the sycamore tree
.
You have all the beauty inside you

if only you could open your heart

and see how
.
Sunday is meant to be with your lover

and if you can make any other day

a Sunday you have the magic

in you.