Let's Just Do Ourselves A Favour and Remain Two Perfect Strangers

Back before I knew your name,

your one true north,

your compass aim,

Back before I heard your voice,

tasted your teeth,

and felt your noise,

Back before I saw your scars,

dug up your grave,

and drank your tar,

Back before the monsoon came,

I knew nothing of the rain.

Why do lions hunt their prey, in the middle of the day?

And why do strangers seem so strange, if all people are the same?

"What makes you get out of bed?"

You once asked me.

And I once said,

"My bed will be there later on, from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn,

but a day is like a human life,

once it's begun, it starts to die."

Morbid.

Sad.

and So Naive.

Instead of names you gave me these.

You hated who I had become,

though I'd never changed the song I sung.

It's not the sweetest melody,

I'll be the first one to agree,

the tempo's rude,

the words are harsh,

the violin sparks in the dark.

Far away from crib-side yarn,

it fits more in a smoke-filled bar.

It is not a gentle harmony,

but I'll be damned, if it's not me.

And I warned you when we first became

more than strangers being strange,

that lions hunt during the day,

and I was hungry, in a way.

This City

doesn't this city just make you want to break things
doesn't this city just make you fucking hate things
doesn't this city just make you want to run
want to invest
in a knife
or a gun

don't all these people just drive you insane
and don't all these people always ask your name
just to forget
in a sec-ond
why they even came

into this world,
for shame
for shame

and wasn't it just the other fucking day
that you thought to yourself

maybe I can escape

and wasn't it just
the other fucking day
you told yourself

I can break the fuck away

but here you are in the same damn place

and here you are
losing the rodent race.

because money is tight
and morals are loose

and who gives a single fuck,
if their neck's in a noose

I mean, baby, or shithead,
all these little games,
come on baby,
my shithead
we're wasting away

bourbon, 
no-
whiskey
the devil in a drink

he pulls me straight past hades,
to deeper depths I sink

And it's the scars that you can't see
that run the fucking deepest

and who are you to say
I shouldn't fucking drink this

How dare you look at me
and say I shouldn't smoke,

I look at you-
and encourage you to choke.

Pond Scum

I'm sick of hearing, "you can't". It's starting to sound like the mantra of the majority.

"You can't live in a 10 X 10 apartment."
"You can't work two jobs."
"You can't up and move to another country."
"You can't just be a writer."

Why?

"Because, because you can't! It's not that easy."

No, it's not. But I don't want to do these things because they're easy. I want to do them because they're worth it. Because the higher the pressure the more liberty you feel once it's released. Because overcoming the challenge is half the fun. Because proving you wrong is inspiration enough to get out of bed, to run instead of walk, to jump when told to sit. Because in a world where the survival of the fittest has become a mere concept, the only true form of freedom is recklessness.

No, I don't want your advice, no, I don't need to slow down, and no, I didn't ask you what you're doing this weekend, because let me guess; you're going to check out that new gimmick restaurant where they lock up your cell phones because you and your friends are a internet-nymphos that can't restrain yourselves from getting off on hashtags in the middle of dinner.

"But why would you want to leave Canada? You don't realize how lucky you are."

Do you want to know, do you really, really want to know why I hate it here?

Because of people like you.

Because you bore the fucking shit out of me. Because you watch reality TV and shop at Victoria Secret. Because you're in a perpetual state of waiting for the weekend. And when it comes, you tip well, and absolve yourself of a 600 calorie coffee with the singular Hail Mary, "It's Friday!".

And as I watch you sacrifice your body to the gods of the Weekend, smearing the innards of an imported danish over your face like war paint, I can tell who you really are. Because, don't forget, I've seen you on Monday.

I've seen you Monday morning when I'm not important enough to even make eye contact with, when you bitch and moan because your 6 figure salary still makes you get up before nine. And for all of the smiles and gratuity that the weekend brings, that's who you really are.
A fucking Monday.

So instead of sticking around and sniveling about my surroundings, I want to escape. To experience, examine and explore. I've taken enough from Canada, for a long, long time.

I see that you're already comfortable here. You've settled in, calm and complacent. Not looking to leave, to move, to run like a river. No. You are happy being still. You are happy being stagnant.

And maybe it's the fact that I can't sit without shaking my legs, maybe it's because I've moved more times than years I've been alive, but I feel more at home in the crash of the wave than the calm of a lake. And you told me that you're scared of the ocean, but while still water is easier to swim in, it's the one that gets pond scum.


never yours,
LF

HIDDEN | SEARCHING

365 Days of Creativity

one hundred and eighteen

HIDDEN | SEARCHING

There's a poem hidden on my tongue

but I just can't find it,

my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,

this city is colder than your bubbler bong;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,

and I like how you take them at full throttle

playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;

like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,

because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm fucking high,

because I'm a god damn child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,

I'm the age old dragon,

I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,

I'm the pipe that you toke when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction

I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,

I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,

I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,

but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-

it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our fucks and starve our feelings,

But my belly feels full like the waxing moon, 

and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

Naked and hungry-

we share your bed

-searching for the words, in each other's heads.

Now and Then

Do you ever wake up and feel like anything is possible?

As if anything you decide to do that day is the right thing. The perfect thing. You can make no wrong choices. You could get hit by a car and it would be the best thing to ever happen to you, because it happened today.

You decide to wander around the city where you've live. Where you've lived for years, but now, today, you see the place as a newcomer. A tourist in your own town. Every building beckons, and what better one to visit first than the bookstore?

Everyday should start with a trip to the bookstore, you think.

The small shop is full of staff recommendations and ratings from the internet. Every cover tempts you. They all seem so fucking interesting. You want to pick them up and eat them whole. Digest them all at once. This reminds you that you'll never have enough time to read everything, but instead of bleak, this prospect seems romantic. It means that every book you do get to read is much sweeter. And it's cool, because you get to join the book's club. The story becomes the common denominator between you and a bunch of strangers who've also read it.

There's a woman working at the book store. She talks to you about Thailand and this yoga retreat she just returned from. It sounds beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful in fact, you think she may be the most beautiful person you've ever seen. That's nice.

You leave the book store with nothing, as it's too overwhelming to try and pick a book, and it was enough just to look at them.

On the street you notice everyone seems as perfect as the woman did. Flawless. Whole. With their experiences carried on their shoulders, bursting through their eyes and spun into the palms of their hands. Everyone has a million little moments, memories and ideas all caught up in their hair and tucked into their pockets.

And they bring all of these moments into every interaction they have. Everyone who meets you sees you slightly differently. Because when they speak to you, they don't see you simply as you are in this moment. That's how an infant would see you. No, an adult sees you compared to the last person they spoke to, you become tinged with the taste of someone they know who has your same name. They see you with a hint of hatred because your eyes look like their ex-girlfriend's, or they adore you immediately because you said hello the way their father does. Do you understand? When you meet someone, you're meeting their entire life. All of their experiences bundled up and traveling around on two legs. Every interaction unwittingly influenced by all of their predetermined notions and assumptions.

So. Here, you've realized this overwhelming awesome fact. Which you don't really know how to explain, but when you try you find yourself saying things like; "It's like we can't ever really know anyone, you know?" or "When was the last time you cried?" or "I hope I see her again." but in the end you don't mind if you don't. See her, I mean. You don't mind that you'll never see the woman again.  Like maybe she and you were only supposed to have that moment in the bookstore. Just a flash of personality in each others day. A random face that will show up in a dream two years from now. And when you wake up you'll wonder if she dreamt of you too.

That would be ok. That would be good. Because if nothing else, it's nice to be dreamt about now and then. Yes, you think, that would be enough.

Hereditary Debt

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seventeen

It's funny, they say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but it's the seeing of other people that most reminds me of you. How different you were from everyone else. And -very rarely- I see a similarity. Like today, I met a man that had your mouth, crooked and broken. Gone too hungry too many times to ever leave leftovers on its plate again.

When we kissed I could taste the coffee on his tongue, and knew that he took it like you had, with too much sugar because that was free. A coffee shop favor, sweet charity.

"Dance with me?" He asked.

But I couldn't, because he wouldn't move like you had, and if we did dance, he would stop reminding me of you.

So we talked for a while, and I watched his mouth. It moved like yours. Parting just a bit. Not much to say, and not saying much when it did. I remember, I used to love you like this.

"A soft spoken monster", you called yourself. But you were my Arcadia. The heaven I never thought I could get into.

I still wear your shirt, not sure if I can actually feel you, or am just imagining your skin woven through the fabric.

The tag on it reads;

50% Cotton
30% Polyester
15% Nostalgia
4% Regret
and 1% ....

What is that last one percent? What is the thing that completes the shirt (and by shirt I mean me)?

People always want to touch the pretty things they see, and debt comes hereditarily to me.

Back then, I knew you were yours. Not mine, not theirs, and only fleetingly would I have the chance to take your poverty away.

I scraped off your barnacles while I could. You, so distant, barely noticed when your leeches became mine; your greedy black monkey, now attached to my spine.

I grew heavy with weight, but had a new, impossible, impervious 1%. I had found it in your lips, your mouth, your kiss.

So, the morning you told me, 'I have to go.'
I made too-sweet coffee and said, 'I know.'

And it's funny I guess, in a sort of sad way, that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Because try as I might, every. damn. night.
I really, can't think what you smelled like.

Creator of Words

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and sixteen

/ I keep putting my hand back into the flame

wondering if I'll ever catch fire/

So who are you?

She asks of me

She asks of me,

the mirrors three

three angles three angels three angler-fish

three curly cue lights on curly cue fish

So who are you?

I ask of her

I ask of her

the murderer

the killer the soldier the warrior true

the one who abolishes anything new

So who are we?

We ask of each other

We ask of each other

our blood and bone brothers

So how can I stop her?

 HE asks the three

the three different words

three versions of me

With fire!

With water!

With forgotten name!

Whispers the feather, onto the stain.

Whispers the heart, onto the brain;

"Stop her you must not,

for she is we.

She is the dear spine,

that ties you to me,

but spinal chords snapped,

she is the one

who tears us apart,

who rends us undone."

Then how can we keep her?

Whispers the flesh

Whispers the young one

Seven years fresh

"To keep her held straight,

you must lay her down.

Gently, alone,

weave her a crown.

Hands, this is your task,

tie it up soon.

Ribbons of flesh,

Weaved under the moon.

Muscles and sinew,

lend us yourselves,

lend us your strength,

your wicker-ous cells."

The spine yes she needs us!

Kneads us all day,

growing us weary,

Making us slaves!

"We cannot undo her,

or selves, fall apart.

We cannot taboo her,

or curse our own."

-heart

But body!

HE cries

She's not even of us!

"Wrong!"

-the heart lies-

"We changed once she loved us!

Souls are not separate, dependent beings,

they barter and wager,

trade parts between.

Like alloys of metal, once fused;

no refusal.

The fusion of love is a permanent rule."

Don't listen-

-brain starts

but heart beats too strong

HE cannot hear brain,

o-ver bloody throng

"Keep her we must,

and keep her we shall"

The pumping red boa

tells the other halves

And HE nods, for though she had left him un-spun

Left him a hero, lost and unsung,

this muse, this music,

his life's inspiration,

she left him a bone,

called 'pure desperation'

"Come back, come back,

my sweet Jezabel.

I'll light you a fire,

remind you of hell.

I'll stick in my hand, and let it catch flame.

I'll bat away bats,

keep darkness at bay.

Scorching my arm

and burning my wrist,

I'll keep you unharmed,

I'll make you my BITCH

No, no! I misspoke,

please don't run away.

I simply mean,

I will make you pay

STAY! I meant stay,

oh my tongue's all a twist!

My mind has been muted,

my thoughts, all a mist.

He struggles with matches

to bring her back.

No wood does he have,

but his cabin shack.

With hair from the witches,

he sparks up a pyre.

Throwing in notebooks,

beckoning, HIGHER!

The pages do fry,

their muse-master spire,

and he burns up their words,

A Love Affair Fire.

His product, his project,

his whole sense of being,

belittled and quitted,

un-requited it seemed.

But just as the last works

melted away,

a piece of ash rises,

like salt from a bay,

and yea here what have HE?

What have we?

HE says

"It's her,"

says the heart

"she's no longer dead."

And red-orange; heat mottled,

a minuscule bird,

a flame-feathered angel,

Creator of Words,

wakes up and blinks her, e-ternal eye.

"Come," coos the Phoenix "It is time to write."