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January 8, 2015 by Wayne.
Many thanks to everyone involved for making this happen, couldn’t have done this without you.
Toe to toe.
Looking for: empty conversations to fill the space
Disclaimer: I’ll always claim I didn’t see you
coming, though you were the setting sun
sliding off my carpet while i
Point: I will never regret meeting you, the
single truth in my life of lies (haha)
Counter-point: I want to discover loss
and make plans, safe from the ravages of reality
and find the perfect songs to remember you by
you, more scorn than love, more
insecurity than sensuality
but now and then you burned with the promise of love
the promise of more, though you were more than enough
for me then.
I was a poem once
I was furious neo-lib screams through spittle
Bashing, bashing, bashing
There were lulls between the verses, where I spent
most of my time, but
I tried not to think of it too much.
I know you didn’t like me very much
When you were angry enough to speak the truth, you would call me cold and distant, the kind of bitch who smears on the deepest scarlet and smirks about how little you mean to her
and i was like, fuck,
that’s kind of true lol
I guess I drunk texted you once but that was actually a mistake,
this isn’t about you
And I go for gloss now.
I kept bumping into these strange, strange people
in that past life
and I soon grew weary of them
They would talk angrily, at length, of disorder and emancipation
and sometimes they would ask me what I thought
and I would smile through progressively blacker
shades of lipstick, and say It doesn’t matter
what I think
it was all very dull
It was a relief to leave, really
After the shifts and dis-
continuities, after the congregations of orders,
black masses floating through
mind’s boreal clarity, icebergs in fog,
flotillas of wintering ducks weathering the night,
I was slightly off the campsite at Red Deer,
fresh from touring the badlands
when I first realized I missed home
It’s all very well to talk of self-discovery
But I longed for the comfort of my own protracted pauses
The caress of words, precise and so,
so far away from the metaphors of these foreign lands
where I no longer understood
Here, the trails grew slick in the rain and I moved
I’m meeting all sorts of strange boys now. They read Deleuze and other French pricks and smoke too much and they want to tear me up and sometimes I’m too tired to say no. And some leave behind half-drained Cragganmores with the cedar and peach smoke long dissipated, leaving only the darkest of textures, the blackberry molasses and peppered finish, and I drink hungrily and readily once they’re out the door, and some leave behind books by Ammons that I ignore and return to dreaming of what once was. “She never lies about her influences though,” he says and I say yeah
It’s never been the same, you know?
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t
27: I am nothing.
We are the peeling expiry labels on
attractiveness and relationships
You are words, cards, ingratitude,
squared shots and turquoise strands
The stream of life that
flows within you
will cough against loose rocks,
spin and spill in ropey lashes,
and channel to wheat and meat.
You can’t live for ever
on the cult of self
But you can try.
Fine, I’ll be nicer.
I’ll draw clothes on projected beliefs.
I’ll swim deep with you, your bee-stung chest
and hips dissolving into branches
Make plans to last and not to blame
Talk of developments, zones of resistance
How to please the boss of your boss
and purge ennui from fresh-faces
We can buy books about it too
go for talks in the bar a floor above, tables
parted and stacked,
ties and easy-iron shirts sweating, talking,
swapping slices of embossed paper,
flick through photos of reclaimed furniture
sold by final year students who are
beginning to think
about being nicer too.
Smells like teen cum
I know it’s a little late to know you,
a little late to say I’ve always known you,
in a little more, you’ll be gone
the nights are quiet in their eternal summer,
the people peel away at closer glances,
someday, I’ll go on right to you.
I bumped into her way through life
and unashamedly lodged in,
feeding and needing
In return, I sat with her the house before she left, her eyes then were the same as ever – full and fiery – but while they once darted about with a restless intensity, they simmered now to a languid rhythm, steady and certain:
I am floating
through the words of history,
past the lives in memories,
and capsuled stories.
After, I headed back to Grace’s and didn’t say a word about it, though I thought often – and still do – about those last words.