Friday, October 2, 2009
Canadian Thanksgiving
Its dirty outside and this bed clings like wet grass clippings. The floor is covered in trash and a hand me down ash tray lays face down under the table. The clock is flashing near the window. There's two fingers left in the bottle and we fucked in the alley under Miami. I can't get her out of my head. It was brief. She was screaming and fully clothed, her back pressed against an old brick wall and my teeth sunk deep in her neck. No one came. Neither of us. Her new one, bearing my strange resemblance, was waiting at the bottom of the bar's crooked steps and she calmly readjusted her dress. I gave her five minutes, maybe three, then sauntered upstairs smelling like pussy. My father's leather jacket fit like a glove. I held back a grin and ordered myself a new drink. Here I am.
Monday, June 22, 2009
For My Lovely, Lovely Hilary
My darling friend Hilary actually likes something I wrote, something which I sent her out of pure desperation. Skimming my emails I came across a poem that she'd written, and I felt a strange compulsion, some sort of weird competitive urge to rebut her brilliance. So, here it is, perhaps she will let me post hers? I have yet to ask...
...Whoops! I just realized that, even if she doesn't want it posted, I'm going to post it, because it is lovely. Sorry Hil.
Le Mien
The city rooftops pass
along the el train tracks
like afterthoughts,
Denote wealth or
not and sometimes a
man or seagull works
just inches from the passing cars.
The city is still expanding
in the summertime heat
and after
three straight days of rain
the bricks are dry.
Clumsy black fire escapes
cling somehow to exteriors
and the porches will all
someday fall to bits.
Its lovely here in June.
(Note: Chicago truly is lovely in June, despite the oppressive humidity which I can only relate to what I imagine walking through a sponge cake, while baking, is like.)
Ta ta for now!
...Whoops! I just realized that, even if she doesn't want it posted, I'm going to post it, because it is lovely. Sorry Hil.
Ode to the Plaid Womb
I'm not getting up. Try to be supportive.
I will waft up like Doris Day
When I'm so inclined.
Well so what,
I lay down too flat
Too flat too fat
Heavy like cream.
Give me chocolate,
Full mouth sickness,
Body of old milk.
Pour Poor-between-the-sheets.
Great milk lake
Flowing under blankets
Even the cats won't kiss.
Sink down in oil pits
Curdle up.
Try to be supportive.
I will waft up like Doris Day
When I'm so inclined.
Le Mien
The city rooftops pass
along the el train tracks
like afterthoughts,
Denote wealth or
not and sometimes a
man or seagull works
just inches from the passing cars.
The city is still expanding
in the summertime heat
and after
three straight days of rain
the bricks are dry.
Clumsy black fire escapes
cling somehow to exteriors
and the porches will all
someday fall to bits.
Its lovely here in June.
(Note: Chicago truly is lovely in June, despite the oppressive humidity which I can only relate to what I imagine walking through a sponge cake, while baking, is like.)
Ta ta for now!
Friday, June 5, 2009
New tattoos...
So, I have become set on a new idea that I have for tattoos to go on my triceps. On the back of my right arm, an architectural illustration of the Eiffel Tower. On the back of my left arm, an architectural illustration of the Chicago Water Tower. So far, I have this. It seems that no one has done a black and white simple sketch of the Water Tower from the right angle, it's pissing me off, so hence my blog. But, check out the Eiffel Tower sketch. Hurrumph.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Lawrence Durrell
"Causality is the dividing floor which falls away each morning when I am back on the warm rocks, lying with my face less than a foot above the dark Ionian. All morning we lie under the red brick shrine to Saint Arsenius, dropping cherries into the pool--clear down two fathoms to the sandy floor where they loom like drops of blood. N. has been going in for them like an otter and bringing them up in her lips. The Shrine is our private bathing-pool; four puffs of cypress, deep clean-cut diving ledges above two fathoms of blue water, and a floor of clean pebbles. Once after a storm an ikon of the good Saint Arsenius was found here by a fisherman called Manoli, and he built the shrine out of red plaster as a house for it. The little lamp is always full of sweet oil now, for St. Arsenius guards our bathing."
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Venedikt Erofeev
Moscow to the End of the Line
"throwing back my head like a pianist" used to describe drinking straight from the bottle, twice so far--wonderful.
"There, every Friday, exactly at eleven o'clock, I'm met on the platform by that girl of the white eyes, white to off-white, that most beloved of trollops, that red-haired she-devil. And today is Friday. In less than two hours from now--exactly at eleven o'clock--she'll be there, with that whitish gaze in which there is no conscience and no shame. Come with me, oh, what things you will see..."
"Why are the angels troubled? Why have they fallen silent? My tomorrow is bright. Our tomorrow is brighter than our yesterday and our today. But who'll see to it that our day after tomorrow won't be worse than our day before yesterday?"
"And I look, and I see, and for that reason, I'm sorrowful"
"Gracious God, make it so that nothing has happened to him and so that nothing ever will"
"What was I to do next? Be tender in an insinuating way or crude in a captivating way? The devil knows, I never really understood how or when to approach a drunken girl. Up to this point--should I tell you?--up to this point I knew little about them, drunken or sober. Of course, I rushed after them in my thoughts, but the moment I would catch up, my heart would stop in fright. I had designs but not intentions. Whenever any intentions appeared my designs disappeared and, though I rushed after them in my heart, my thought stopped in fright. I was contradictory. On the one hand, I liked it that they had waists, while we haven't any waists at all. This awoke in me--how should I put it?--"bliss." Yes, it awoke a feeling of bliss in me. But, on the other hand, they stabbed Marat with a penknife, though Marat was incorruptible abd shouldn't have been stabbed. This thought killed all feelings of bliss. On the other hand, like Karl Marx I liked the weakness in them, that is, for example, how they are compelled to squat down when urinating. This pleased me, this filled me with, well, with what? A feeling of bliss, really? Well, yes, this filled me with a feeling of bliss. But on the other hand, didn't one of them shoot at Lenin? This killed the bliss again--squat away, but why shoot at Ilich? ... She herself made the choice for me, leaning back and stroking my cheek with her ankle. There was something like encouragement in this, something like the blowing of a kiss. And, then, that turbid, bitchy whiteness of her pupils, whiter than delirium, whiter than seventh heaven. And her stomach that was like the sky and the earth. As soon as I saw it I all but started to weep from inspiration, to tremble and steam all over. And everything got mixed together--roses and lilies and, in little tangles, the whole damp shuddering entrance to Eden and oblivion. Oh, the moist sobbing of those depths. Oh, the shamelessness of those eyes. Oh, harlot with eyes like clouds. Oh, sweet navel."
"throwing back my head like a pianist" used to describe drinking straight from the bottle, twice so far--wonderful.
"There, every Friday, exactly at eleven o'clock, I'm met on the platform by that girl of the white eyes, white to off-white, that most beloved of trollops, that red-haired she-devil. And today is Friday. In less than two hours from now--exactly at eleven o'clock--she'll be there, with that whitish gaze in which there is no conscience and no shame. Come with me, oh, what things you will see..."
"Why are the angels troubled? Why have they fallen silent? My tomorrow is bright. Our tomorrow is brighter than our yesterday and our today. But who'll see to it that our day after tomorrow won't be worse than our day before yesterday?"
"And I look, and I see, and for that reason, I'm sorrowful"
"Gracious God, make it so that nothing has happened to him and so that nothing ever will"
"What was I to do next? Be tender in an insinuating way or crude in a captivating way? The devil knows, I never really understood how or when to approach a drunken girl. Up to this point--should I tell you?--up to this point I knew little about them, drunken or sober. Of course, I rushed after them in my thoughts, but the moment I would catch up, my heart would stop in fright. I had designs but not intentions. Whenever any intentions appeared my designs disappeared and, though I rushed after them in my heart, my thought stopped in fright. I was contradictory. On the one hand, I liked it that they had waists, while we haven't any waists at all. This awoke in me--how should I put it?--"bliss." Yes, it awoke a feeling of bliss in me. But, on the other hand, they stabbed Marat with a penknife, though Marat was incorruptible abd shouldn't have been stabbed. This thought killed all feelings of bliss. On the other hand, like Karl Marx I liked the weakness in them, that is, for example, how they are compelled to squat down when urinating. This pleased me, this filled me with, well, with what? A feeling of bliss, really? Well, yes, this filled me with a feeling of bliss. But on the other hand, didn't one of them shoot at Lenin? This killed the bliss again--squat away, but why shoot at Ilich? ... She herself made the choice for me, leaning back and stroking my cheek with her ankle. There was something like encouragement in this, something like the blowing of a kiss. And, then, that turbid, bitchy whiteness of her pupils, whiter than delirium, whiter than seventh heaven. And her stomach that was like the sky and the earth. As soon as I saw it I all but started to weep from inspiration, to tremble and steam all over. And everything got mixed together--roses and lilies and, in little tangles, the whole damp shuddering entrance to Eden and oblivion. Oh, the moist sobbing of those depths. Oh, the shamelessness of those eyes. Oh, harlot with eyes like clouds. Oh, sweet navel."
Wooh
"The Midway Bar" or "Le Bar Midway". "BAR" to me.
1.
Sitting at the bar, drunk, I realize I'm kissing her. Sad wino natives hunch over dirty tables across from us and a man dances a lonely erotic dance with a gussied up would be whore. A Tuesday night at Midway and a man wearing a silver shirt sings fast French love songs in sloppy Quebecois.
Tall bottles of beer and plain glasses make the place look full. Men sleeping in corners filthy and the two men working wear starched white shirts, This place is a hallway and the drinks still cost too much. The tiled floor peels sickly off shoe soles and the import hookers all have empty mouths.
2.
They
them
both
drink
slow
fall
towards
him
her
brush
thighs
then
press
him
leans
and inhales and
tucks
into
her
neck
lips
brush
her neck
lip
drags up
ear breath
twitch press
tongue curled
hand perched
slides
nails
thigh
knees
spread
Next
A stone when struck resists,
Such a life.
Sweet and in melodic
Chirp
On a windy white
Afternoon
Both Heart,
And soul.
A drink
Since ten Am.
Two lines
Little sense.
Sunday
Nothing.
Also, from first year of university...
Wandering around this city looking for
someone who looks like her,
Clenching something in his hand
which he keeps buried in a deep pocket.
She visited,
there was that exchange of glances,
they grabbed drinks with
slippery fingers and played
games no one could see.
A man is weak when a woman touches his face.
They fucked and were angry,
Pulling each other’s hair and
Biting with the intention of breaking skin.
When it was all over,
she cried,
She still had a man waiting.
This isn’t what she had planned,
Though she’d suggested the drinks.
Candid infatuation,
They’d worn rings since before
They even knew each others names.
She looked like she could spit
Fire in a man’s face.
Intrigue can be misleading,
And sometimes they look
Like they’d be interesting.
Most times they can’t even spell.
Falling in love with every thing you fuck
Because you’re lonely,
And necessarily detached,
In the morning there's dread and
Most times her smell is poison.
Holding hands while having sex
Is some people’s idea of passion.
There needs to be anger
Before the city can burn.
Such a life.
Sweet and in melodic
Chirp
On a windy white
Afternoon
Both Heart,
And soul.
A drink
Since ten Am.
Two lines
Little sense.
Sunday
Nothing.
Also, from first year of university...
Wandering around this city looking for
someone who looks like her,
Clenching something in his hand
which he keeps buried in a deep pocket.
She visited,
there was that exchange of glances,
they grabbed drinks with
slippery fingers and played
games no one could see.
A man is weak when a woman touches his face.
They fucked and were angry,
Pulling each other’s hair and
Biting with the intention of breaking skin.
When it was all over,
she cried,
She still had a man waiting.
This isn’t what she had planned,
Though she’d suggested the drinks.
Candid infatuation,
They’d worn rings since before
They even knew each others names.
She looked like she could spit
Fire in a man’s face.
Intrigue can be misleading,
And sometimes they look
Like they’d be interesting.
Most times they can’t even spell.
Falling in love with every thing you fuck
Because you’re lonely,
And necessarily detached,
In the morning there's dread and
Most times her smell is poison.
Holding hands while having sex
Is some people’s idea of passion.
There needs to be anger
Before the city can burn.
scratch that
Christmas Wish List
I’d like to share my name,
Drink,
And struggle with words.
I want my morphine addict,
And I want my tragic beauty.
I want our words to
Linger like wet snow,
Force people to slip and
Grab elbows.
I’d like a good couch,
Someone to settle with,
If only for a brief exchange of glances.
I want it like,
Bums who preface begging
With mantras.
In a freight train yard,
Or on an El train platform,
Or on the face of a smothered penny
That’s seen both.
No good haibun whispering lightly like white socks on wooden floors,
No good pen tip slipping briskly over wrong words,
No good hardcover story with a bum name.
I want five cent beers and
Penny porcelain cups of black
Coffee.
I want a cafeteria tray
A bleak one,
With a half slice of
Grapefruit
On a little white
Saucer.
I want to eat my meals alone,
I want to break the spines
Of all my paperbacks
So they’ll lay down quietly
When I make them.
Most of all,
I want someone to come up to me,
Lying on the sidewalk,
And ask me what I’m reading.
I’d like to share my name,
Drink,
And struggle with words.
I want my morphine addict,
And I want my tragic beauty.
I want our words to
Linger like wet snow,
Force people to slip and
Grab elbows.
I’d like a good couch,
Someone to settle with,
If only for a brief exchange of glances.
I want it like,
Bums who preface begging
With mantras.
In a freight train yard,
Or on an El train platform,
Or on the face of a smothered penny
That’s seen both.
No good haibun whispering lightly like white socks on wooden floors,
No good pen tip slipping briskly over wrong words,
No good hardcover story with a bum name.
I want five cent beers and
Penny porcelain cups of black
Coffee.
I want a cafeteria tray
A bleak one,
With a half slice of
Grapefruit
On a little white
Saucer.
I want to eat my meals alone,
I want to break the spines
Of all my paperbacks
So they’ll lay down quietly
When I make them.
Most of all,
I want someone to come up to me,
Lying on the sidewalk,
And ask me what I’m reading.
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