mercredi 9 décembre 2015

Confessional poet

Confessional poet, unable to write any of those things without a counterweight. Writer of Ideas with tenure, beyond the insatiable dysfunction. Weary of the large and formidable vastness above the microcosm crevasse. A moment of rest at home with familiar sounds. Crackle of the metal stove top in a convenient kitchen. Jasmin tea near the sink. In my head, forever loud, diluted deliberations i neglect to share. A deafening percolation of insights and observations. Or perhaps, the onslaught of tinnitus and its maddening hold. Perplexed, immobile and infused by the proper dose of fatigue. The purpose is to achieve what none around could care less for. A lofty objective, to instill a new breed of fantastic loss of hope. Where convenience will confirm the impregnable. I won’t debate with your insecurities. Neither will i climb to the height of your expectations. Coercive love will dry up hope, like the creek at the end of a parched summer day. Attachment is not constructive.

mardi 1 décembre 2015

Episodic compliance

Veins as dried up creeks. Hurts in the chest. Passive nausea. Once again at a loss. Too perplexed to end myself. Drunk on life and pain. Haze. Weary on the matter. Sickened and fatigued. Fled the room, carried by slow moans and grunts. Cardioid unrest. Incomplete situation. Kept from sleep. Need to contemplate substance at an early hour. The inside of the den. Cramped sofa and cell phone. Nocturnal glow typewriter. Near life expediency. Poised sponsor by preposterous delay. Penned under pragmatic governance. Absent love disfunction. Episodic compliance. Released and no more happy. Devoid of expectations and lewd with numbered years. Even after all of this, i hold on to a comfort no less cruel than that of the significant other, borrowed off from despair. Chisel electronic paper for the sake of outlines and syntax. Photon soaked eyesight. Seared residual nuisance. Contrived subplot, effortless and predetermined, under layers of intent. Plague and nag frailty by context of prose. Flavoured exactitude. Weave a new breed of savage utterances. Overlook the vantage point. The mind wanders. Not useful under current social platform.

vendredi 27 novembre 2015

Everywhere Nowhere

Perpetual slumber party. Wear my love like a sunday shirt. Packed my bags near folded sleeping bag. Hasty retreat from compromise. On the road, weather complies and shapes the mind. Left you a note. Never found. Ritual and distance. Absent of mind. Numb with anger. At the end of my efforts and disguises. Second day of headache. Required inhumane function. Resilient in the midst of a long expected loss. Fend off weary images. 

mercredi 25 novembre 2015

Common ground to disobey

Delinquent or free spirited. Young adults sprawled onto the asphalt at a late hour. Back to the painted line. Dark summer road with trees on either side. Alcohol induced notion of safety in spite of all else. Lay claim to genuine indifference. Detrimental. Only family matters and dog urine. None of which i truly want. I could return. I know how to break you. Breach and redirect. Denounce your judgment to the better will. That being said, what truly concerns me is that i no longer see the point in all of this. That i miss you, but i won’t say. Indeed, grown fatigued. Parched and dry lips. Weary of loud nights that meant well. Strangely crafted animosities and surrogate idioms have ruined the procession. Nurtured some vile and unsaid concerns. And so, i partake in the deliberate. Hindered lust. Insults for what was promised. I'd tell you more, but it just hasn't come to mind. Ink has not found paper. Just leave it at that. Common ground to disobey.

What are you really there for? A traveller or an estranged savior? Coercive purpose. The most hated lover in yet another unpleasant interlude. Noticeable return to the faith in writing. Sex by legitimate accord. Sensitive to handheld diplomacy. Aware of significance. End of a flowered avenue, where she lay in violent certainty. Before the snow. At the cusp, where nearby children play. Park and stones with names. Dawn and dusk. Nobody blamed. Vigil and candle lit. Quiet for the long unexpected moment. At a loss.

Cold Dark Morning

Cold dark morning, orange red glow. Smell of diesel and crowded children who clamor at bus doors. Weary and hurriedly sent off to institutions. Methodically. Another sharp and blue morning. Frigid to the point that it would become digital, if anybody took the time to pay attention. Pixels and particles. Large organic electron. Cloud droppings on light grey asphalt. Fresh air in the city. Bursts of smoke. Renewal, if the context allows. Rebirth in vain. Slowly brought back is the mundane and recurrent. Beyond approval. Hopeful consumers and roadmaps. To each his destination. Often in single file. Cruel morning ritual. Heated seat or precipitated coffee mug. Age caked around the eyes. Fissures in the skin. Last minute fanciful expense. Self loathing and then resolve. Exuberant morning radio host. Always relative to where you are.

mardi 24 novembre 2015

Phonetically Written

Musical man, but i don't feel it. Lying to my eye. Stubborn silent impersonation. Living on the side.

Something from you. She said she's willing. Dream of something to feel. Naked for real. Painful kissing. Yeah, she's coming back.

It is raining and i can feel it. She is not there. Instant message on the paper. Coming over.

In the darkness. Out to hear it. I am out of luck
Travellin blind imagination. She is not there.

Other things have to happen. Inside broken.

Stand on the corner

dimanche 22 novembre 2015

Get the flood blowing

Individualistic intelligence is prone to better results inside a cooperative node. Become the idea you're not yet aware of. Blessed by great intuitive mistakes. Coercive and intentionally savvy. Constructively detrimental. Long dialog with friends and the forlorn. Self-deprecating debacle. Nothing artificial. Suppressive agreeable send off. Get the flood blowing.

mercredi 18 novembre 2015

Lost in a kiss with you

Montreal night lights flirt at the large window. Apple flavour skin and warm hands to convey thoughts. And her glance, bare in the music, serene other level. Delicate nibble, sensuous appreciation. Careful lips for the moment, hardly wet tea. Neglected kettle. Infusion nonetheless.

dimanche 22 février 2015

Exhaust: insights & insecurities

I'm writing you today, to tell you all about the story of a man that i once knew.

I can't recall his name specifically. All i can tell you is that when first i heard about this person, it took me a while to even feel as though i should even remotely give a care.
In any case, i don't even feel like talking about this dude anymore. I can't even remember why i brought him up the first place. 
What i should probably and truly bring about as the main topic of this paper, is the stunning reality of an effortless instigation, made fruitlessly uneven.
As a token of my amazement in regards to what i've just pointed out, allow me to remind you of the belligerent people that have become, on the eve of their last day, hindered by thoughtfulness.  
With all due respect to grand creativity that is always welcomed by the insightful train of thought, i should probably relinquish one more final sentence that ends abruptly with this simple word.

By the looks of it, through the tattered window of a poorly painted fourth floor apartment, the day ahead, announces itself rather bleak and without any possible circumvention. 

Wait, no. That was not the purpose of this random expulsion of words onto paper. No shallow description should be allowed at any given moment. I feel that i should not attempt to put in context of ambient moods or define situational explanation. I prefer the abstract display. Does that make any sense to you?

Hopeless, helpless and trivial. A slight warm up of the fingers; prior indication of the brain to make up its mind and allows for the more important insights to fend off insecurities. The smell of ink has always caught my attention. Even more so, the scent of fresh print. Equally alluring is the compelling perfume of used books and the towers of them, all the way to the back of the store. I will always associate milk boxes with used book stores. Chapped lips and nicotine yellow fingers. Torn carpet and jazz music from the cheap speakers behind the counter. Humid, cold and dusty smell from the uneven floorboards.

Does this make any sense? When have i lost any track of time? Why does it feel as though i'm constantly surprised by vague moments of familiar doubts? Haven't i done enough time, in search of what is convenient and respectable? When is the next bus out of town and the pungent diesel release accompanied by torque and downshift? Does that make any sense? Lean back into the moment and don't be such a control freak. Exhaust. Pretend the seat grants comfort.

vendredi 20 février 2015

Selfish moderator: whoever you were

Hope does not go further than one's ability to wipe his mouth clear of any trace of disproportionate intake. I have become accustomed to the surreptitious glances conceded in embrace. I hereby position myself against any and all handwritten admonitions or left over intellectual dispositions, carved in any sensible medium dedicated to humanity. No cash return and the dried conventions. I'm ready for more of the same. Ready to live an old unknown life. Selfish art, hidden abroad and fade with the motor on. Immediate battalion that plays the diversion. The worst destination. Concerned with the elaborate  handshake and innovative culprits. Sudden relapse in the lonely alleyway. One last Friday and a final rendition of this purposeful and immediate dynamic. Apparent throwback, sudden to convene, audio clips and shredded moments. I can't remember any of those past Septembers. You were there, whoever you were, leaving the motor on. 
I've highlighted none of the passages. Make up your mind in regards to what has any meaning. I wouldn't want to be perceived as a manipulative and purposefully empathic moderator. I hate those that hurt you. Let's leave this place.