wednesday

we are a bit tragic

dont you think?

two lovers in the attic 

each 

flirting with the flaws 

of the human 

form

a sad 

commonality

the brutality

of thoughts 

scrape

raw 

the insides 

of our

hearts

you say you could love 

me 

and I answered why

a mind like you

would invest

in the dream gone 

membranes 

of mine 

we stare in to each others 

eyes

trying to fall 

in love

crashing 

insecurity crafted

cages 

against 

eachothers 

faces 

wasting our 

passion 

by protecting our fears

limp lovers

dehydrated 

on predicting 

time 

your not the one for me 

and im not the one 

for you

but oh how i want to be 

can I pretend to be?

will you let me pretend to be? 

bedroom rites

im sitting in my bed 

tail bone tucked beneath knees

that keel over inside your 

bedroom 

when your ready to let

my heart  

swoon

backwards over bedsides and bedside tables 

i rock my indifference

against the 

alarm clock 

rock rock 

elbows 

gray sludged mug 

shot 

shit 

you saw my innocence 

and now it wears the magnificence

of injected pores

the wasteland of my body

is sold and sealed 

in your drawer

convenience 

of a body mine 

exploitation 

without a fine

cause’

all my friends are

decomposing logs

that 

swog the bogged 

down embers of

remember your

institutionally blessed

initiation rites 

i rather walk in forests

naked white

where my wasteland becomes

an entity

of 

wholeness

and the slowness

of your fingers

impedes 

wild pure

my body

is

mother earth’s

couture

what i remember of youth

sometimes I have this conflict
about rock n roll
whether its real
or some subconscious escapism
of my angsty soul
i think of the summer
when I rode bikes down alley ways to see a band in a shed
and everyone was smoking up on music
the sweaty grin of the fourteen year old kid
reborn out of his first mosh pit
trip
he stands there with his striped shirt
that he got for christmas last year
hanging on his arm
is the girl
who hands out
dollarama sparkles
on your third eye
we all had sparkles
draped down our cheekbones
smiling at each others
black market tie dye
i wrote
sharpie after sharpie
of admittance into
this dark space
structured on pure teen angst
we bashed into each other
cutting up our lips
on spiked bracelets
and
scarring our necks
with flowered chokers
all of us wanted to be
the real rockers
like we saw on album covers
and woodstock memorabilia
never quite knowing how many
greened out nights
or
acidic meltdowns
on our mom's couch
would get us
there
sometimes we climb trees
screaming like
lou reed
or
I'll sit in my bed
and burn incense
and pretend
my dad
was
neil young
this is a sweet poem of the light memories
the real poem
I can't share
its etched in
the floor of that shed
when you broke your leg
because the music
moved you
outside your body
and
it hurts.

In skies of Sunrise David

This poem is in memory of a beautiful soul who graced the earth which such a glowing presence, who strived so passionately to understand what alive felt and meant that he sadly passed on to the next life too soon. He changed all of our lives, he always asked "what is your reason to wake up in the morning...." before anything else, he loved us all.

I hope you can come to also ask yourself this, as being alive is a beautiful reason in itself.

Sunrise David

Part One:

wild eyed

he had been up climbing cranes

to watch the sunrise

oblivious to

his body

intoxicated by his soul

he wore his construction gear 

constructing his 

reality with his adept 

individuality

that rung into my 

heart 

the way his rush

rung into his 

eardrums

I thought

when he sat there in grassy kensington

barefoot

writing me a mind map

for his meaning of aliveness

that it needn't

be

communicated

by needles, spikes and sniffs

like the rest of us

I thought

maybe the way his left foot hung

over all divine

all over his thigh

like buddha

that he didnt want

needles, spikes and sniffs

like the rest of us

but I guess even the divine 

are 

still searching 

theres no spiritual classist

separation in the desperation 

to be alive enough

but oh how david tried

and

a week ago he died

heroin heroin 

wasn't his sick heroine

she was his potential

confined in sharp metal

a vein rushing rental 

to another dimension

of alive