dazed, exhausted, jittery
I tremble just becase
lose me lose me, nausea, overcome
physically breakind down
the mental barriers to how i feel
uncertainty made physical so it can be real
break out of the mind block let thoughts flow incomplete untill i fell at your feet


finally, proof.

summer, i miss you
let's start over?

building cardboard walls, nestled in newpsprint
feathers fall and turn to slush
weathered and ground back to pulp.

hand in pocket to seek out truth
from crumpled napkins with notes to you
from lovers- we're liars and lost ones,
and lonely for that. forget me forget me forget me
come back.

What do you want.

To keep me guessing, my insides churning. Indifference burning as I defer to you. Want me never but always and I wanted you then and now- when you tear up for another. Want . Go. Love. Please forget. Ever and never and please give up now. Speaker: identity unknown.

I'm a distraction, a diversion, likE a flickering streetlamp outside a bedroom window, only I'm in my bed with the lights off.
Same difference

I wish I could say this, instead I just feel it.

"I want the good, I want the bad, and in the end I want nothing.
I toss in bed, uncomfortable on my right side, on my left side"

I lie in my bed, not caring enough to seek out a more comfortable position. I want nothing because I've had the good and I've had the bad and neither one appeals to me any more.

19-20/07/09
it's all beeen said but we make these sounds and signals over and over again, communicating as much through the way you collapse (against a street post) and i stand (immobile, arms crossed, stern gaze) as through the familiar lexicon of grievances we've been accumulating from the zero hour. my own interests conflict amognst themselves andwith you i feel flickers of compassion that i coldly and cruelly aspire to keep from all but those who will give me the comfort i crave.

red and white your skin turning brown
up and down, in the grass, spinning around,
falling down. i'm looking for my youth
because i'd like to waste it on you.

Do I get points for cool or am I just frrigid I swear I feel I swear I feel I'm just trying to deal

I can't make you sing but let me show you

"The establishment of the fine arts and their division into categories go back to a time that differed radically from ours and to people whose power over things and circumstances was minute in comparison with our own..."

Paul Valéry, Pièces sur l'art

i am unable to run from my problems but have tried to hide from them with 70 hour work weeks and forget about them over drinks. Time to get the fuck over it and make something.

it's just that the only thing that i can feel for him is a memory, the shadow in flickering light of love or the polaroid of my heart all torn up... and as much as i may try to ignore these things i seem to have learnt nostalgia from one of it's masters and have turned it into waking nightmares, 7 am anger, and the punctuation of an afternoon in which everything-is-okay-as-long-as-i'm-me-and-you're-not-you with some uncalled-for moment of genuine tenderness. I regret it all immediately.

it's under my skin can i wash it off can i dig it out can i taste just like me because i want to just be.

101

does this all seem too private to be commented upon? should i include more socio-political discourse?

I have a sliver of metal in mypinke finger and i can't get it out. Lost potential for metaphor.

I am simplifying.

I want to be monochromatic.

I want to sleep more and want less, and have more nights spent sleepless in anticipation.

I craved novelty and the old spun me around until my sense of direction failed me...

I am drawing a map.

understanding things

18-02-2009

incapable, imparfait.

je m'excuse, it's all your fault.

nihilism to fill your bed

happiness will break your heart

so don't let it go to your head, this sinking high, a fleeting rush

do you not yearn, at all?

i'm bleeding from the head, or i was. and it's now a dull pain but it's still more real, more physical than anything else i've ever felt. and his voice is in the background, still there no matter how many times i say "go". I've said it before, a fact he denies, i've never meant it before, something i just realised. i've wanted to. somehow the bloodied bathtube made it real. I miss you so, I hate myself for the hurt. 

I want out of this city, because he is physically everywhere no matter what i do. I can't get out of this city because of him and you. 

first loves never fade... their endings just seem more and more ideal. 

wishing for a bottle of vodka from your freezer. 

I think maybe that I don't know how to feel and so I just get really nauseous. 

in your presence i breathe a silent sigh of relief. 

the sound of footsteps, made more obnoxious by the sharp slap of flimsy plastic sandals on the sidewalk. voice is hoarse and sometimes words don't come out, all the better when the thoughts should be kept silent. walled in, sealed off without air, or water, or food. left to die, but fed by the adrenaline rush courtesy of the images that your own shadow casts on the walls. you can't kill it, maybe you need it there. 

I want to feel from you the surge of more-than-blood pumped through my veins, and I suppose I want a taste with more subtlety, where the nuance has not been burnt out. 

conversations i particpate in. 

-you're both wearing jean jackets.

-yeah, but at least i don't have a case of shiny-gay-face. 

-true.

so much to say but it all slips away. 

please look away, I'm trying to recapture a moment that didn't quite go my way and turn it into something else

a dream about someplace else. 

14 avril 2009

le soleil se couche. je ne le voit pas, regardant de mon banc par la fenêtre du cagibi, un allongé à la fois amer et sous-infusé à ma gauche, ma gorge sèche, des sédiments fins sur ma langue.

devant moi la rue, que des voitures immobiles et un trottoir sur lequel se paradent tout les plus beaux jeunes du Mile-End. plus haut un ciel gris-bleu qui devient tranquillement plus sombre à mesure que les minutes passent, mon regard allant de mon cahier à la rue, au ciel pour revenir à la page, ensuite à la fille assise de l'autre bord de la fenêtre, me faisant dos, cigarette en main. 

as-t-elle déjà été amoureuse?

ce sentiment qui commence tout... les jeunes, naïfs qui disent "je t'aimerais encore dans cing ans"

j'ai toujours été trop cynique pour le dire, pas pour le penser, mais je n'ai jamais voulu laissé échapper ses mots de ma bouche. 

ayant trahi ce règlement, je me demande maintenant si je m'approche du contraire- est ce que je le dit sans encore y croire?

je me déteste si c'est vrai. je me déteste si ça ne l'est pas pour avoir même pensé une telle chose.

quand il fera noir ce mardi soir d'avril je quitterai ce banc pour le trottoir que j'observe depuis une heure. quand il fera noir et trop froid pour marcher jusqu'à lui en pensant à autre chose que le froid. comme ça je sui certain de sourire en le retrouvant, dans la chaleur réconfortante de mon lit. 

J'ai peur. je ne peu dormir sans son corps, mais je ne peu pas être en sa présence sans en douter. 

un texto... j'oublie mes doutes. tu me manques déjà.

had one beer, realised i hadn't eaten. two cigarettes made me nauseous. wrote some prose, read some prose. had some avocado and sprouts on bread, smoked again, walked around some read some prose.  came home.

Maybe your aim is off. Though it’s my cue that seems to strike off centre each time, the other end of yours just nudged my pint backwards  on the table  and a passerby barely dodged it last time. But the stripes keep sinking and my solid position is clearly shaky and my mock indignation at  your imminent victory  keeps me from feeling anything more real . Focusing on other things, always other things. His handwriting  looked charming, small and curved as it recounted dark encounters and I saw  something I wanted and couldn’t have. Orange brick and stainless steel and tinted glass are the objects of my attention and if I hate them this much I can only imagine what I might feel about you, miles and miles away. A fever of one hundred and three would boil blood.

Pinch your nose so you won’t smell the exhaust and see the rows of bumpers. Scaffolding hides the aged concrete, but all I wanted was the best, and you know my wishes are sincere. Another song. Shuffle,  Full albums inadvertently seem to tell a story and I’m not in the mood for constant narratives because I wonder if my story is sad, a tragicomedy of sorts. Dreadful irony seems to compel me to understand and not hate them but I still do, it’s only you that I can’t hate though I should. I got lost on the way home and almost ended up in Toronto where’d I’d stumble into shards, scattered as I now am across a small town metropolis. Karmic punishment for the week I suppose. 

nerd

Ottawa macchiato quest, day #2 (with thanks to reduced bus service for stranding me)

Neat Coffee Shop: Roasting fail (oh my burnt), macchiato definition fail. Unplugged clover(fail). La marzocco mistral=pretty 

Bridgehead dalhousie: "ristretto" fail

bridgehead bank: 

http://montreal.en.craigslist.ca/mis/1156017756.html

always too soon.

connection that i think i once missed...

http://montreal.en.craigslist.ca/mis/1155452544.html

I didn't write this, there was a time I could have. 

You looked so cute this morning, sleepy-eyed and hair all disheveled. You were glowing. 

I'm sorry I turned on the light. I'm sorry I had to leave early. 
I missed our usual cup of coffee and tasty breakfast. I missed morning love making and the ignoring of alarms. 
I wish I didnt have responsibilities and we could play all day in this gorgeous summer sun. 

We dont have much time left and I'm not ready. 

All of the other things in my day come second to you. I want my 9 to 5 to move fast and us to move slow. 

i read what i was thinking a month ago and can't see how it turned out like this. what happenned to me?

maybe it was the onions, or maybe i did spend 5 minutes in the bathroom crying

and it wasn't because my cappucino isn't up to code. 

i think he's eager to treat this all as a mistake, a long mistake. it kills me because i wish i could see a beautiful moment of the past and move one... but instead i feel like i've emotionally invested myself in a lie, and there'e too much resentment for moving on to seem easy. 

braking on laurier as i come up to st-laurent, pulling between the line of cars and the sidewalk at the intersection, the light is red. there a pigeon, but it's almost perfectly white and i roll towards it, still braking. it should fly out of my way, but the car is too close and it has nowhere to turn, i slam the brakes, stopping only inches to the side of the bird, the center of my wheel right next to it. and it doesn't move, it doesn't flinch. if we could all be so desensitised....

it's not me, it's you...

but that's of little comfort now. 

and you have no idea how badly i want to just forgive and forget because i'm still clinging to two months ago and it's all i want, but i can't get that back and you can't get me back, but you don't really want me anyways i think. 

so fucking nauseous and dizzy and exhausted. i'm spent emotionally and physically and i can't sleep. 

i wanted to go home, even if it was only to smoke as many cigarettes as i could because i couldn't sleep and everything hurts. i ride my bike east on fairmount, headed to st-laurent. arriving at a red light i can only turn right because i can't bear to be still just yet. i glance around, watching for cars or pedestrians,  or the sight of you through the window, on his bed. i have a bottle of water in my hand because it kept falling off the bike and i'm somehow hoping to cleanse you out of my system with water alone and now i'm crying again and steering with one hand while the other holds the water. 

then, home. i'm in bed right now and all i can think about is how many different ways this hurts.

get out. get out. get out. 

what is your level of interest in a shallow, one sided relationship in which only sexual gratification is pursued? can i sleep on your futon?

feel so disconnected, so disjointed. who am i tonight and where are you and what are you doing now that my limbs are shaking in silence.

there are things rotting on my desk that he left there, turning brown i the air, sitting atop empty beer cans. i can't move them because i just don't care enough to. 

trust, no. 

locked in.

worn out, 

weathered skin.

betray myself,

you're wearing thin.

head rush, head rush

i think too much, i'll lose too much. 

-

i wanted something i couldn't have, now i don't know what i want or what i have. 

i crave comfort and novelty. it makes me sick to watch things die. 

tu penses que je ne t'écoute plus. 

vengeance. 

04-09

there's a pervasive hiss, a ringing in my ears continually...

it' just the unformed buzz of five different conversations filtered through the rumbling of the bass, but it seems so much louder than anything i've heard before. it just won't fo away and it's all i can hear, though your lips are moving, shapes that should be familiar, your eyes burning with quiet rage as you struggle to keep your voice under control. 

no matter, i can't hear you, it won't matter how loud it gets.

i just see it over and over and over again, the hissing the only soundtrack. 

sometimes i feel as though i'm the only one areound me aware of the possibility of failure and so, in order to better public awareness of the matter, i must choose it. 

breaks me

wastes me

wakes me

kill me, time

i'm so tired of being here, exhausted and awake and disinterested and unfocused and unstable and everything maes me sad or angry or confused or jealous but it's really the envy that's getting to me because at least you care, fuck. 

absolutely maddening. 

I react more physically than emotionally or intellectually. The left side of my jaw is locked up and my arms are tense, my fingertips feel knotted.

is this what it's like to be a part of the bed and nothing more?

I'm not trying to be needy.

i won't even hold you to your own standards when i at look at you. 

i'm going to snap. 

I find myself here again and again and again and again. 

I always grasp for what I've had before, pretend as I may that things can change, that I don't just make the same mistakes.  I'm so absorbed in the intricacies of the drops on my tongue because I'd rather touch than feel, and if pushed I'll choose sandpaper over suede. I'm so caught up in my own self. 

Libra. 

Some people just can't empathize. 

When was the last time a film really moved you?

I want to learn to draw just to sketch myself in

Wax crayons cross all the lines I would never dare to, 

my risk taking is ill though out. 

closure is intolerable, i live only in spaces that are open wounds. 

i want to know, i need to know everything. 

i float, i drift

i wish we could lace our fingers together once again

hold on to the side of this inflatable wreck

place a finger over the hole from which i am leaking all of these thoughts. 

i miss i miss i miss i miss i miss i miss

walking away, hoping i won't slip on the left over ice in this alleyway, that nothing I do will betray doubt, that i will win. afraid of what i'm doing- there are too many streets, too many alleys- I can't find you anymore. 

feel like this?

it's hard to tell exactly where it's safe, where the line is to be drawn, where caution begins and ends. we're content to float, shouting at each other to swim the other way when an obstacle presents itself. the water is getting warmer.

our petty jealousies are all the same. 

The snow on the ground is melting and the rain is falling steadily. The mist hanging over the city blurs the lights from cars on the street and from the streetlamps that stand, immovable, and watch them pass by. You're now so far away that i can hardly see your fragile shape, melting in the rain and the midst, trudging through puddles and over patches of wet ice in the damp cold. When you were closer I saw your proud march, all righteous anger and reinforced resolve marred by these patches of ice. The streets will side with neither of us, and so you slipped, softening your steely march, but as you get further away from me, as you disappear into the growing darkness and the fog and the blur of lights, as you walk to the metro from here, as i know more and more that it will be the last time, your pace is steadied and your resolve strengthened as the sidewalk seems to bend to your will. 

You haven't slipped on in the last 50 metres and soon you will be gone, leaving me to stare into the empty mist, my eyes growing bleary. 

we don't speak anymore. It's not the result of some explosion of hostility or of a physical sepeareation, we have yet to part, you are still with me when i wake, our paths cross in the bathroom, wrapped in towels to keep away the cold that is between us, even as our brief exchanges of hand signals and grunts become drier...

But there is a canyon in our interactions, a widening, deepening trench seperating us, the only sound that of tapwater filling it, rushing through the chasm between us. 

can't get the words out, can't get the words out, if i have to cut out my tongue i swear i'll say it. 

the frost has come

glazing the familiar landscape with white

white on the green-brown grass, matted by your footsteps

white on the dirt, where the grass is already torn

thin sheets of ice snap as you step up the path,

across the torn up lawn, to a familiar scene

you, standing across from me

biting your lips, glancing side to side

anything to avoid my eyes

i love autumn, the sight of bare trees, watching children fall into piles of leaves

but there's a taste this morning, lingering in the air

i taste winter

postcards.

the sentiment is lost when you don't pay your 75 cents. 

 an indeterminately large number of my thoughts, regardless of the part of you wherein they originate, veer wildly off course and, losing all direction, drive onwards only to the past, to little things. a silent look, a sour face, a motion of your hands that fuse together in my mind into a web of lies and hurt, of thoughtless words.

i spin this web out of you. 

i spin this web out of you, no doubt, in the hope that it will catch me when i fall, or that i will be too tangled up in it to be pushed of that cliff but it's sticky and overbearingly hot and increasingly uncomfortable and so today i hace decided to brush it out of the dusty recesses of my mind. 

my favourite seasons are for wearing pants and jackets, and walking on dry leaves.

zoning kills

a skyline created on the cheap, to fill low-rent land that should be at a premium, with an utter disregard for aesthetics. 

organic growth is unatainable in ex-urban developments, because auto culture requires that people who live in them will, by default, be ready to commute for employment, shopping, etc... 

by the time the new area has the population to support business, it's already been developped in a form that leaves no space for the proper integration of mixed uses. 

relics.

a hundred voices but they're all the same, one mess of thoughts and feelings. filter them out? i wish i could but i'm losing myself in them right now and i don't expect to break free, but that's all i want in the end anyhow, to melt into the blur of my surroundings, to be without any conscienceness of worry or doubt, of security. 

constancy. 

the edge, the extreme? they've wearied me and worn away my will. 

discomfort rests just beneath my stomach, but it has all of me under control. 

speedballs

i'll trade your champagne for my cocaine.

but you can keep the redbull and I'll just sink

plagiarism is a beautiful thing.

Careless, indifferent to your surroundings, you swing your arm and the bottle held loosely in your left hand collides with a lamppost and slips from your hand. As it falls to the asphalt and breaks into dozens of jagged shards red wine splashes up and pools on the ground. You keep dancing, off beat, your other hand bringing a cigarette to your lips as your feet move around the pieces of broken glass littering the ground.

It’s so easy to forget this scene, it seems so distant already the next morning, but the glass is still there as a reminder and you can only wonder what else you might have broken, a question that you can neither answer nor escape.

my continued emotional existence, my ability to maintain some semblance of normalcy, to function, seems to be hanging by some unbreakably elastic thread and so i dive and leap and spin, getting dizzier and dizzier and i just wish that thread would snap so that i could fall and break my spine and not have to feel my fingers and toes going cold even as my core is feverish. 

our silence...

i can't tell if it's perfect or if it's poison. 

i can never scream, but sometimes i can't even whisper...

my heart is beating too fast and i'm dizzy and i want to break him for touching you, but i don't think i can stand up. the lights are off and i can't see the blank wall across from me, my throat is parched and the glass of wine in my hand is something i can't bare to taste because it's the way you tasted when we last kissed and the darkness here is almost complete but i still can't get these images out of my head, i feel like your face is burned into my retina and i want so badly to cry and the tears well up but they won't escape, i can't escape, i can't break free of myself, of you, of anything.

i just want to cry, and i can't. 

distance

with every step we take closer i feel as though we are miles further apart. 

and i'm a child of the metric system so between us is an indeterminate vastness that i cannot begin to imagine traveling. 

but despite it all what really worries me is you. 

migrations.

i won't edit. 

-----

Andeven had I walked through the night, and I know i felt that I needed to, it wouldn't have helped at all because ALL I wanted to know was 'how do you do it, how do you go on without it, how do you live again' but in the end you don't know the answer et ca sert a rien que je te le demande, mais je veu tant savoir, j'aimerais tant le savoir

-------

restless and unsatisfied, and the friction is constant. 

they think they know the cure for what ails them, or at least the treatment for whatever the ill but it's clear that the setting is not the scene.

-----

remarkably light. remark a blight.

read even more and roadkill and bold lies in grand hotels tell rote epics made absolutely repulsive - Kant and Bach lie, in great horrible truths : rubbish.

------

i didn't wake up today. i never started thinking, or caring, or being. my heart's still beating, i'm still breathing, i'm barely even here but all i want is to leave.

------

spin me around till i'm dizzy
then drop me like the dead weight i am
----------------
what's the time mr. wolf? teeth tear through skin
pendulums dance side to side, arms swing, fists fly into me.
you've come to devour me?

-----

you'retheblackspotonmypristinelungs,thesullenyouthtomydiscosong.andyet...optimism
theemptybottlenexttomyglasshalfful,leadenmurmuringsonthesilverscreen,theashendustonanoldb-52record.
mouthfullofsandinanumbreallaeddrank,theheliumballonthatalwayssinks,shardsofglassonthebeach.
the radiation in my tan.

-----

e frole l'indécision, qui recule de mes avances
je brule d'émotions. je tourne en rond.
je ne peu m'échapper de ce tourbillon.

je ne peu savoir aout je l'ai perdu
de la certitude, dépourvu
comment faire pour obtiendre ce que je ne sais plus si je veux?
pourquoi plaire au moi qui l'avait voulu?


il se peut que décembre mai semé la confusion.
déjà en fevrier la recolte.

-------

what makes you happy?

i don't quite know what to say.
i'm not really "made". when i am, i am.

-----

I followed the lines from your nose to your eyes
and back in, to you skull
I followed the lines, the curves of your mind
front to back, and out with your spine

I followed your eyes as they locked with mine
and I watched you turn away
I followed your eyes, a steel-cold grey
and i longed for yesterday

---

Monday, July 30, 2007

I don't know where i'm going. Or where to go...
or some other vague statement of confusion/indecision
the emotional side is mirrored by the simple fact that now, as i prepare to leave the cubicle that has entertained my unpleasant self for a shorter-than-it-seemed workday, i don't know what physical location could possibly accomodate me.
if thing's aren't the same in the mind... if your thoughts are wandering without direction...
can the body just return to where it was before?
I don't know.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

it's 5:30 am and i'm walking through the byward market. i have a headache, although it's not from drinking... a mind more concerned with the beauty of style might find that my head aches from the weight of thought, but that would be embelishment without a factual basis. a lack of sleep and a not yet satisfied hunger are two slightly more practical explanations.
the sun is starting to come up, the sky is a light blue, but it still feels dark. 4 empty bottles of gatorade and a couple time as many cigarette butts keep a sleeping man company just inside the church's fenced off grounds. there's next to no activity even in the heart of the market, 4 servers from Zak's finish their shifts and light up cigarettes as they leave. as i pass them i wonder whether they recognise me from my very brief appearance a couple hours earlier... but i doubt it. the look they're giving me is probably the same they would give anyone walking around at this time of night?/morning?. i'm not really sure why i'm walking, but sleep holds no appeal for me right no........ it's not that i'm too busy thinking. thinking is the worst thing i could do right now.
i could take the bus. that would be good. but i don't have any bus tickets. ar there buses this early in the morning? why didn't i take the bus yesterday... "why?" is a question i could get a lot of use out of if i'm going to think about yesterday.
although i don't know if "yesterday" is the right word. the action is fairly equally split between pre and post midnight hours, and as i haven't slept yet and the sun has risen there is really no point in pretending that it's still saturday.
i want breakfast.
loeb-24 hours. the night cashier (who i've become somewhat familiar with simply because i hate to waste a daytime hour on something as dreary as buying a bag of frozen raspberries for my granola) is heading out for a cigarette. "don't worry" i answer "i'll be a couple minutes".
i can sympathise with his desire for a cigarette.... if i was a smoker i'd probably be burning through them.
i buy plums. and a yogurt/berry/granola bowl.
i walk. i'm back where i started... it's a bit after 6. i sit down to eat my granola. maybe someone will wake up. anyone. i could just really use a few words.
the granola is done. and my free newspaper isn't that interresting at the moment.
this is ridiculous. i'm going home.
i try not to wake up my roomates and lie down on my bed, call for a ride home.... real home. i want more than two pillows... i want lots of grass. i want a change... from my change.
maybe i'm not thinking clearly. once i get to sleep i'll be able to properly evaluate what has just happenned to me. (wait, that makes it sound far too passive... i'm far from passive in all of this even though it somehow feels like i'm disconnected... yet as i become more and more tired the wall i've established between myself and this strange saturday night seems to erode and while my headache is gone (unfortunately, my legs are shaking at random instead and i feel as though my guts were practicing nautical knots), the thoughts that that offer that irresistable opportunity for metaphor........ the mind aches with heavy thoughts......... are back.

-------

you're miserable and i can't fix it and i'm afraid it will bring the end.

you're miserable and i can't fix it and it's far too soon.