begonias aren't wildflowers, silly

she'll be on a bus in the morning
and that makes going to sleep
alone tonight
not all that terrible
despite our rough edges
we just sort of fit
not in any traditional sense
but in our own way
we've found a place
that feels almost right
beside her in bed
i think i'll kiss the ink
set in her perfect skin
and sleep will find us
tangled and content

the jackson fifty

i'm always searching for
that perfect word
pretending that i'm a writer
drumming away on keys
and dreaming of samantha
somewhere in spain

it's just another lazy saturday
i sit here on my bed
gazing out the window
listening to the birds
and the emergency vehicles
still half asleep
hung over and dehydrated
sickened by the sins
of last night's doing

all i can smell is gin and sex
and stale cigarettes

there are books scattered across the comforter
and records tiling the floorboards
like grandma's forgotten family quilt
i settle the needle on do re me a b c 1 2 3
michael jackson died only yesterday

and so did a piece of my childhood

i've certainly got all the necessary elements
to write
the heartbreak, the mental instability
the gin, the sex and the stale cigarettes

even the rolled-up fifty
that doesn't belong to me
on a snowy mirror
that i dare not look into
until at least noon

part of me is pulling the other part
towards a park
or an ice cream parlor
or wherever else normal people go
on a sunny saturday
their socks stuffed into birkenstocks
their imported lagers peeking up over the ice

at least i know who i am not
it's not yet noon
so i close my eyes
to do another line

the park will still be there tomorrow

love is a writer from hell

august sixteenth nineteen hundred and twenty
until march ninth nineteen hundred and ninety four
thank you for all of your words
and for all of your dirty realism
you sick bastard

never buy mushrooms from a bum on east hastings

i'd rather be at jericho beach
where the pacific ocean is made of oil paint

loathe on the bright side

look on the bright side
tomorrow's a brand new day
ugh

i just can't wait to see my name in the credits

if you were on the tv
you'd be the blonde in the bad b movie
the one inching backwards
tipped-off by the creek in the floorboard
sounded from the other side of the door
the murmur of the villain's heavy foot
that would be me, the villain
the one with the heavy foot
you'd be the blonde inching backwards
the guy who scored the music for our bad b film
he'd put a crescendo in this scene, right about now
the bowing of strings so furiously taut
it'd cause the hairs on the backs
of the necks
of the audience, to jumping jack
thighs would be clutched and hands would be held
you'd be the blonde inching backwards
i'd be the clamor of foot to floor
come out come out wherever you are
you'd be that stupid blonde inching backwards
the one who reaches for the conveniently-placed
knife, atop a dresser
you'd be the boob jobbed blonde running out of inches
i'd be the slow turn of the door knob

all i see is green and blue and blue and green is all i see

"i can never seem to mix the
right chord with the perfect word,"
i tell my girlfriend. she laughs
and tells me i'm right.
girlfriends are good for keeping
feet on the ground.

the path we're on is a windy
one.
each step is a gallon of stubborn
every lunge is a million mile.
as a child i dreamed of running through
a cornfield that never ends.
i'm not as tall as the shortest
stalk.
the beaten circular path will be televised
tomorrow.
it'll be a scientist fuck frenzy.

how does one disappear in a cloud that's
stopped on a dime?
with the light of day as my guardian,
the silk in the reeds is all we've ever
really known,
now isn't it?

"i can never seem to mix the right wrong
with the perfect ex girlfriend," i tell my father.
he laughs and says none of us ever can, son.
father's are good for keeping
feet slightly off the ground

crop circles aren't so curious. they are really
just the beaten path of lost little boys
who aren't as tall as the shortest stalks
above their lost little heads.

i listed "storm" on my band's rider

val kilmer as jim morrison
plus what's her face
equals a blood fetish for me

a little glue goes a long way

taking your guitar into the shop for repair
and handing it over to the technician
is kind of like going to the dentist
when you haven't been flossing
you just know that you're gonna get
called on neglect

silly little cunt, i love you so much

this bed is unfit for sleep
it could give way at any moment
so i called in a termite specialist
he said we were infestation-free
???
he said that those were just notches
i didn't get it at the time
so i just shrugged
and rented season 3 of dawson's creek on vhs

charlotte thomas bespoke

i can never sleep
something always gets in the way
thoughts race more frenetically
in total blackness on this sleepyhemisphere
like jack hammer grasshopper colonies
a million cutting room floor trophies
strewn with guilt and piled to the ceiling's mouth
no blinds ever hang from this city's sill
no princess ever calls out from the tower
bloor st. is a fierce statement of foot steps
and alcohol breath
pounding the pavement's cracked momentum
in search of bed stands
to rest a watch
or a cellphone on silent
for one night
and one night only
this is so much greater than mother insomnia's eye clamps
so much stronger than aubergine ambien clouds
i watch the numbers roll over
at least they're consistent
i need a girl
i need another heartbeat
to soften my anxiety
to get lost with me
under miles of sheets
made of the finest merino wool
backed with thousand-count egyptian cotton
threaded with 22 carat gold
doesn't that sound sweet?
i'm so sick of counting sheep

this song will not write itself, young man. do you hear me? just wait until your father gets home

these words
don't forge
you and me
i'm
tired
expired
i've deleted
sleep
windows
bleed
with rain
and i
watch
them streak
warm hands
won't thaw
the spring
inside of me

i am
cocaine
and bottles
filled
to the brim
poison
contained
but watch
me
wash
over
him
it's right
don't fuss
just let us
do what we
must
young man
fly
high
across the
universe

chuck's line the hallway

click

we are a consequence. our bad ideas brainstorm.
dire mechanisms
twist and turn, give up

the fairy tale mob
born of other's dreams.
lost on perfection.

deliver me, hungry ego,
blasted rats.
fill my lungs with church smells.

stagnant shortcomings
with pews of dirt soaked wine.
everybody stitch a new skin together

massive sorrow
automatic in being,
geared for getting going on downs

and whales were never part of us.
a result
pliers, fucking.

somewhere it shines.
bitter fellow angioplasty
tucked into a bright satellite conglomerate

o follow in the swell.
greedy regrets that stick
served under fluorescence's glow

and somewhere,
a pair is being pardoned
the cliche uncupping of the hands as the bird rockets fourth

our home,
stuck in the mote
met with ammonia glances

it's you, diana
the typewriter keys
get stuck in your rib cage