Poetry?

It’s crap lad.

Yea, but, I’ve never really understood the difference between the two. Apologies. Some people are actual true and magical poets and, though I try not to, I hate them as it is a magic I have never had access to. Some poets render me speechless. Some poets inspire rage to levels I have never felt before. So many days of my youth were lost to the shade of a tree working my way through the epics of Walter Scott and his contemporaries… not understanding it all but being completely lost in the magic.

I am just jealous.

So what is this then?

Crap.

Words that didn’t fit into stories. Emotions that didn’t fit into diaries.

Utter crap.

They’ll Tell You

They'll tell you that survival is possible. Of course they will. The flame of hope needs that initial strike of the flint. And as your survival is necessary to their cause it becomes mandatory; regardless of your feelings on the subject. That is why the bullet ricocheted off of the line of your skull in a one in a million piece of fate that had you spending three months doing purple-face with an ice bagged strapped around your head. That is why you have gotten so unbelievably fucked-the-hell-up but just could not get over the line to the overdose. They’ll tell you that your survival is necessary to their cause so, brother, just stop trying to die. Do what they need of you and make your final extinction the price of playing their game. Just do the things, and make sure they kill your ass dead when they are done with you. Because right now, they’ll tell you, sorry but we need you. Your survival is necessary to their cause. The dreams, these chemical induced visions that hit with the impact of godly revelations; these things that make you moan and scream and rage out at the darkness; these green tile walls; these tight white straps; the glint of steal hovering over your eye as they work around inside you; the tools they leave within reach of your skinny little claws when you think you are alone;

this they do because they love you

this they do because they need you to stay safe

this they do because, greatest sin of all, they need you to stay funny

and you’ve never been funny

so, they’ll take, you know… funny

They’ll tell you that you have to play to whatever field you are on. You don't always get to choose the game and, worse, you don't always get to choose the rules. They’ll tell you adaptability is survival while pulling random items from burlap sacks and attacking you with them. They’ll tell you that despite your love of silks and leather, you are a lizard brained monster and they’ll tell you that it is those lizard brain codings that will bring you simple pleasures that salve the wounds of this wild and racked world. They’ll tell you it is the lizard brain codings that allowed us to evolve and get out of the trees in the first place. It is the lizard brain codings that kept us alive when we stood with spears with our backs to the fires and our eyes not trusting the darkness of night around us; all these strange sounds, all those different stars. It is one of the first, fundamental and inviolable rules. I think they've gone so far as to call it a law. You have got to play to the field that you are on or you are going to be useless in this realm and uselessness is not something they can abide. I remember sitting in a class room once, the clock well past three. The teacher had a hand in my hair. A blood red finger nail was tracing along my cheek, across my neck, and along my throat as she hissed this at me.

(Is it weird that this is the only lesson I remember from all those years of schooling? Is it weird that I remember how I shifted in my desk seat? It is weird that to this day lipstick stained teeth make me shudder and want to scream? There is something funny about the codings of memory. There is something funny about the lizard brain. There is something about the smell of peppermint. They’ll tell me it is why they don’t want me near their gatherings of faith.)

I find myself on a field, vaguely aware of the rules of the game. I see that teacher, dressed as a cheerleader, screaming like her legs were on fire. There are monsters running towards me and a panicked man with a broken face hands me a football.

This, they’ll tell you, is what life is.

Euology

I set everything I found in his apartment on the formica-ish card table that was the only piece of furniture I could find.

A big blue can of Maxwell House coffee, half empty. No coffee maker in sight.

A box of small chocolate rabbits.

A mason jar filled with a yellow liquid, urine? Wine?

Two wrapped slices of Kraft Singles.

Two condoms; one used pulled from the stucco of the ceiling, one wrapped and found sitting on the tank of the toilet.

A mouse ravaged pack of Player’s Light cigarettes.

This is the final will and testament of one of my oldest friends. Some would say this is a sad collection of things to sum a life up with. I remember how we struggled through math classes. We never really got into function transformations. We never really got into compression.

I use the pocket knife I stole off of him decades ago to pull some blood from my hand. I add it to the mix.

Coffee.

Chocolate.

Wine.

Cheese.

Laid.

Not laid.

Smokes.

The murder of mice.

This is what you were.

And I am going to miss all of it.

Twink Death

The score remains tied; and I, the same, the same.

It was easier once when I was fearless: to speak my mind without worrying about the inevitable fist to the teeth. A devil in yoga pants and Doc Martens. Graced by the Twink Shield. There was a freedom then. Hated by all and wanted by the haters. The splash of pure colored light in a dark room. Always underestimated. The shaded hood of the gland. Pull back for pleasure. When did the fall come? There had been eternity in my hands. There had been an immortality in me. When did I become / what I became? I've seen him in my dreams. The new one. Looking awkward in his robe. Does Death train it's rookies on the twinks? Before mortality, before the Big Show and the necessary magic pulling souls from the husks to the other side of the veil do they practice on the twinks? Do they pull the light from us? I have seen him in my dreams, the new one, pulling at me. He’s a cutie. He hasn’t lost is skin yet. There is a rainbow thong under those robes. I fucking know it. He pulls at me. The yoga pants. The spiked hair. The piercings. The Doc Martens. The music thudding through plywood walls. The cheap string lights in each room. The hands upon me. The grunts. And the boy; looking so damn cute and awkward in his robe. When, how? becomes Why, now? because we let ourselves enjoy the fucking moment. Scattered old polaroid photos held to the candle flame. Names, faces, moments. Disco Inferno. The twinks are tied to the stakes. Burn Baby Burn. We flare up wild and glorious, gloriously we die. The horror of continuing beyond reasonably being able to use the word DADDY to entice. Charred cynical husks in eccentric clothing. John Waters guests stars on the Simpsons. The rest of us hide in government cubicles at StatsCan and focus on our RRSPs. Twink death. Brightly coloured toenails hidden in sports socks. Twink death. Panties hidden by respectable pants. Gone: The light in the room, the foreskin, the orgasm, the walk from the woods holding torn shorts closed at the zipper. It used to be easier when I was fearless. Hated by all. Wanted by the haters. The bear now; old, fat, loose teeth. Uncomfortable in our skin... daddies to the boys that we used to be. The faceless flesh without names we used. The lips that kissed at us and bit at us. The bellies we tolerated because of what lay beneath them. The skin we scratched to fuel our colored light in the darkened room. Forgotten. A number. An anecdote. A thing scrubbed clean in a shower and forgotten. Thus I sit; ice in a glass of rye; melting into someone else's moment. The cost of speaking my mind these days, and the inevitable fist to the face, is thousands of dollars of dental work or possibly never kissing anyone again. Silent. Wishing. Wanting. Seeing and unable to speak of the sight. Understanding why hands held so firmly or struck so hard. Understanding the sadness behind the violence. Understanding you, after all this time, apologizing so very, very hard and I sat there wide eyed trying to process why my face and ass hurt in equal degrees. Twinks, in death, trying to steal back some of our light. He is older now, and loves the way he looks in his robes. An old friend. He follows me everywhere. Kneeling by the squirrel dead in the road. In my father's hospital room. Attending the bedsides of so many fucksick friends. He blows me kisses every time. He aged into his role. I... have not. Thus madness; this madness that drives me to distraction; watching the same thing happen over and over and over again. Elton John wasn't singing about lions.

I was. (Lions)

I was. (and Tigers, and BEARS)

The score remains tied. And I, the same.

The same.

Catholic (Welcome to the MCU)

I’ve got myself a nice little spot that’s warm and clean. I have tried to shelter myself from the things around me that are so brilliant and so loud by making up some pretty solid excuses as to why none of these things have anything to do with me. Like the brothers of old, I have sent myself to the cloisters, loaded them up with all the books people have told me I need to read and I will come out at the appropriate time to save the day. Ask any of the heroes before me, or really, anyone who’s made a difference in the world and they will tell you it is all about the timing. Humans were meant to suffer a good ninety percent of the time. Nine percent of the time left we are either having sex or bowel movements which both equally move me in about the same way. One percent of our lives are spent in godhood. One minute out of very one hundred we can make a difference. For in that one percent of the time we can be heroes. It’s our last claim to the magic that is our birthright. For in that one percent of time the stars line up and the gods are paying attention and the ground flattens and your nerves steady up and your aim narrows down and you can absolutely do no wrong.

Its all about the timing.

The petty squabbles of the day to day, although the bread and butter of human existence, weary me. I read the books. I want to play the bigger game. I crave a grander throne. I want to play against the greater powers. Maybe it is arrogance. Maybe it is introspection. Maybe it is destiny. The books all speak of it, of games so much more important than bank statements, overdue bills and Jersey Shore. I’ve got myself a place that is warm and clean. I am sitting here, soaking my feet in Holy Water during a thunderstorm tapping a finger against an electrical socket and holding my gutted telephone by the ringer waiting for a lightning strike. My minute approaches. The ground is flattening. The stars are lining up. My aim is narrowing. Taxes. Hydro. The sky is as dark as the sky can be. My dreams are as vivid as my dreams can be. My prayers are as fervent as prayers can be. Everything is meaningful right now. You keep screaming right now. It is hero time.

Another Crash

They had hauled him out of the arms of a scantily clad thing, high on coke, armed to the teeth, looking to kill. They had hauled him into an alley behind the Christmas lit store fronts and set about their paid assignment. He didn’t fault them a single thing. They were very good. They were vicious and they were effective. Had he been inclined, he doubted he would have even gotten out a scream much less a punch. They were amongst the best he had ever seen. But they forgot to doubt tap. They forgot to make sure.

And they had ignored the screaming sky.

When it is finished he whispers at them in the darkness; a hissing sound barely formed from lungs that have long since forgotten how to breath pushing bloody wind over lips and tongue that have long since forgotten how to form words. He hisses at them in the darkness of the one simple truth that he holds as truth and that he knows they will absolutely forget. Long after they’ve gone he begs them to finish it, finish him. He begs them to end him. End him completely. Finish him fully. He hisses at their ghosting memories to make sure they not only kill him but destroy him utterly. Leave nothing behind. Because if they leave anything functioning, anything at all, he will use it to destroy them.

But they are long since gone, and hear none of this groaning.

The truth of it; he knows himself. He knows the darkness. He knows of this screaming sky.

Mistakes were made. Whether in preparation, or in exhilaration, mistakes were made. They did not read his file, or, if they had, they did not take it seriously. Fair enough. It is a mad thing this story of his life. Or, in the laughter and debauch and revelries of violence they did not hear his hissing. Or, if they had, they did not pay attention to the words. Fair enough. It was just a job. What you would need to end something like him on a night of a screaming sky is something akin to a high mass, to mad magic.

They did not finish him. They left in that alley under the screaming sky broken, and bleeding, and so very very close to absolution and death.

But not there yet.

So be it.

He waits as the darkness feeds on him.

He stares at the screaming, swirling sky as bones heal and nerves rewire. He stares at the screaming, swirling sky as cellular regrowth begins. Muscles reform. Skin grows. Arteries repair. He watches the sun slowly move over the sky, time and time again. He watches the trash pules grow, the trash piles clear, the trash piles grow again. He waits for his colours to return to him… creating form out shadow… making him a thing of the world again. He waits while lungs heal enough to breath and eyes heal enough to focus on something more complicated than sky. The darkness backs away and leaves him there, back to the brick wall, slowly sucking in a greasy trash scented breath. The colors of the world blend and fill him. They help him to his feet. They dust him off. So very close to absolution. So very close to death. He had paid so much for this. He was incredibly disappointed that they hadn’t made sure.

This disappointment becomes the mid-sized fire that lights his eyes and his face.

The anger is the gasoline that fuels the fire and makes him turn to the head of the alley with a monstrous scream.

Now he hisses a word that will crawl into every living thing causing a singular moment of inexpressible unity of all life on the planet…

RUN