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“Listen here dickhead, do you hear the words coming out of my mouth…

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I know what I saw, ok, I mean jesus, why you guys always gotta give me shit about this stuff. Fuck!” She’s leaning against the wall, the torn Gucci shirt has fallen over the edge of her shoulder. She is visibly shaken, the incident has taken some of the polish off her demeanor, but my god is she ever mad. You do not want to get within arms reach of her now. We’ve only gone and pissed her off further with our line of questioning. Standing across from her in the tiny interrogation room, she moves to lift her leg to scratch at a newly formed scab on her calf, she stops abruptly and pulls a long drag off of her cigarette instead. The accumulated ash tumbles off the edge, and lands on the front of her skirt. It’s tweed, an A-line cut, as my wife would later describe it to me, and looks to have been expensive, that is, until some dipshit bro thought she needed a date for the evening.

“Look, I am not here to bust your balls, ok? I just need some answers. Your clothes are all kinds of fucked up, and we’ve got what’s left of some dudes corpse downstairs.” She flinches at the mention of the body, I can tell she’s more shaken than she’s letting on. I should offer the counselors services again, but the last one got an earful, and a gold pen to the kneecap.

The smoke she is exhaling is hanging above us in lazy curls. Wafting up to the ceiling, and settling in a haze by the flickering phosphorescent lights. The tiles on the wall are chipped and cracking. The light here is a dim blue, meant to stop junkies from easily finding a vein. The chatter from out in the hallway is just barely audible. A constant smattering of barks, shouts and ringing phones. I can hear a reel to reel recorder in the next room, tick, tick, ticking as the end of the tape flaps freely. Restless people are watching us from behind a smudged, and dirty two way mirror. They are shuffling in their seats, it’s the squeak of the vinyl that gives them away.

“Why does it always stink like farts in here man, like, what the fuck you guys eat in here anyhow?” Trying to antagonize us – always brings a smile to her face. Underneath that Sephora make up is a ruthless, cunning lawyer with sharks teeth in her vagina. She’s not going to give us anything. Running down the clock, and we’ll just stand here, dicks in our hands, mouths agape while she lights up cigarette after cigarette. They are a crisp bright white, and that very fine linen paper, with the ultra wide filter tips. The brown matches her shoes. I have no clue if that’s intentional with Sophia or not.

“What do you think happened here”

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He says from over my shoulder. I am looking at the body in front of me, laid prone on the floor in a massive puddle of dark icor. “Well, hmmm… from the looks of it, I’d say he put two in the chest, and one in his head, painting that wall over there with bits of brains, skull fragments and hair.” I stand up slowly, have been having nasty head rushes as of late, when getting up from a crouch. “No, not that, my sandwich! Look there’s like one strip of bacon, and like half a leaf of lettuce. Jesus, don’t the rookies even look at this shit before they bring it to us.” He’s mad, turning this way and that, looking to get up in someones face, anyone within arms reach. “Oh come off it. Lunch was an hour ago, put that down and help me put together a reasonable theory of the case.” I spit the words out, realizing my lunch didn’t do much to satisfy my hunger today either. Irritated, we walk out the front door of this rat infested apartment, with its dangling light bulbs, and chipped paint on all the trim. The shared hall is choked with cops, and partially dressed angry neighbours. They’re all in a huff over the noise, and foot traffic coming and going at all hours. Really they’re just mad they can’t smoke crack or meth while so many cops are around. The floors creak under the additional strain of so many bodies. The temperature inside this hundred year old building is intense. Humidity of high summer has condensed on the walls, dribbling down to make foul smelling pools mixed with discarded cigarette ash, and garbage.

“Oh hey! Mind that puddle over there by that green door.” An elderly gentleman says, he has an indistinct, yet exotic look to him. Thinning dark hair, and a far too short kimono over what I could only describe as neon pink fishnets. “Huh? What’s that sir?”. I shout over the din of the gathered crowd. “Well, just steer clear of that shit. You know old lady Darcy’s a hoarder. That cloying smell of rot, vomit, and god knows what is her doing! Can’t even open her front door, it’s so chock full of shit in there.” He is becoming animated with all the young officers around, staring at him. “Some delivery dude came round here last week in fucking flip flops, had to go see a doctor because that puddle of sludge caused a pus ridden growth on both his feet. Fuck’in nasty. Banged on her door for like an hour, in a rage, he was. Poor kid. But what do I know…” My partner mimics the wanking motion with his left hand, the poor man’s soggy blt flopping about in his right. Mayo has collected on his lip, mixed in to his five o’clock shadow. He smells of cheap cologne, and sweat. We turn for the stairs, the black railing is peeling, it shows about twenty layers of caked on lead paint, and walk down the five flights to our squad car. The temperature outside isn’t any better, neither is the smell. Through a cracked window the radio cackles with an indecipherable muffled call. Followed by several clipped responses. In a rumpled tan suit, my partner shouts over the top of the car to me. I don’t hear it.

“Babe, can you come upstairs, Sarah’s been sick again…

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And it’s all over her bed sheets, her carpet, down the hall and seeping into the heating vents by the toilet.” With fuzzy, light blinded eyes I catch a glimpse of my wife walking back up the stairs from the landing. Pulling my sheets back, I feel the bracing chill of the late night air in my room. “God damn!” I blurt out as I step down, bare footed on the cold vinyl flooring, it feels like I’m standing on a sheet of ice. Lumbering half awake, I come to the stairs. My legs not yet functioning, my ankles creaking along with the old steps. Rubbing my hands on my thighs, feeling the fleece of my pants against my palms. Flexing my fingers, I mount the last few steps. Coming to the main floor I’m hit with the stench of it all. From the bathroom I can hear my daughter weeping, my wife a gentle murmur in the distance. I can hear snippets of their conversations…”No, no baby, you’re not in trouble, it’s ok, don’t cry, I know, I know.” There is a flurry of activity as my wife strips off the soiled pajamas and lays down towels to soak up some of the mess. I turn down the hallway, and grab a mop and bucket. I squeeze out some lemon scented soap and I can feel the steam from the hot water. The vapour is condensing on the cold window over the sink, rivulets of water pooling at the base of the sill. I pull down some paper towels, and grab an old plastic bag from a drawer. It’s sticky, and has an old crumpled up receipt in it, something that was beige had been in this bag.

“You two go curl up in bed, I’ve got you some water to drink, and I’ll strip off your bed after I wash the floors.” It’s the same script as before. We’ve done it so many times, I can move through the motions without having to think about it anymore. Afterwards I’ll fall asleep on the floor of my daughter’s room. I crash about, like a drunk searching for a full bottle among all of the empties strewn about the house. The smell is what gets me, never the sight of it. How can so much come out of such a small child. Looks the same, regardless of the end it originated.

After a time, I notice there is a sliver of light in the master bedroom, standing in the hall I can hear softly spoken words, lilting in a sing song fashion. Sarah is falling asleep in my wife’s tired arms. They are sharing a pillow as they cuddle. I can see sweat on my daughters brow. “This fever just won’t fucking break”. I say it aloud, but quietly, to myself. I need to grab more pain meds from the drugstore tomorrow. Turning from the doorway, I shut off the lights, and I collapse onto a pile of stuffed animals. Everything goes black.

I can hear the clock, the seconds are ticking over as…

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I sit here, in the stuffy, cramped, poorly lit waiting room that stinks of passed gas and desperation. The drab walls are covered in old posters, they look as though they came with the building. Torn, creased posters of a time gone by. Taped up and taped over with each successive room owner. Between coughs, burps and the occasional gasp of pain, all you can really hear is the soft murmur of far off voices, hidden down the long hall, behind a beaten up partition of dubious make. The neon lights are buzzing, the quality of air in here is making me uncomfortable. Why are there no windows? Why are there no vents? Why did I wear such a heavy jacket, there’s never anywhere to hang it, and I’m sweating through my shirt. I’m increasingly aware of the unpleasant aroma emanating from my work shoes. Blessed with foul smelling feet, halitosis and psoriasis. Even though everyone here is lost in their own pain or suffering, I feel everyone’s eyes upon me, flickering back an forth, from flat out stares to furtive glances. I fucking hate it here.

A printer chimes to life, and a warm slip of paper pops out, only the flop to the floor. The receptionist is no where to be seen. A pile of papers has begun to form. I fucking hate it here. “What was that?” The elderly lady beside me who reeks of death quietly asks, her hot sickly breath filling my face, eeking it’s way into my lungs. I feel as though I can taste her. “Hmmm. What? Nothing. Nothing.” I squirm in my soft pleather seat, hating the soreness in my back and the ache between my shoulder blades. My hair has started to mat to my head in the places that static hasn’t made it stand up on end. The heat in here is oppressive. The printer comes alive – again, more papers flit to the floor. We are all unattended.

I can see the shadows growing longer…

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As the sun sets back behind the row of old mangled spruce trees. They really haven’t been the same since that last wind storm. It just blew through here like a god damned menace. Took half the shingles off the west side of the fucking barn. It was absolutely mental. You really couldn’t even hear yourself think, for the howl of the wind and the screach of twisting fensing. God, what an awful mess the last few weeks have been.

The last few moments of mottled sunlight pierce my eyes like Knives. “You know, mum really loves this view because of those trees. You remember how fucking mad she was when dad tried his hand at pruning them…”. My younger brother is standing beside me, dressed in a drab grey suit, clinging to his coffee cup, like it’s a life raft in a raging river. It’s cold, icy black waters threatening to swallow him whole. Pull him underneath, drag him down in the fast flowing current. I turn away from the view, it’s the same stretch of lawn I’d known for as long as I can remember. Turning my back to my brother, I cross the room, it’s somber dressing a reminder that things have changed. Nothing is the same, even as everything here is the same. Stopping at the door I say “It was a nice service. Food was a bit shit, for what they charged us… Bastards”. Twirling around, as though jolted out of his revere, my brother quips ” And what’s up with the vicar, what a thick fuck he is. Got her bloody name wrong, twice!”.

The sun has totally disappeared behind the stand of trees, the farm is that strange mix of dark but also still light out. The carpet smells a bit musty. There is cigarette smoke lingering on the walls, embedded in the paint, like so many other things left unsaid.

“What are you doing, you’ve had that song on repeat for like…

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A full fucking hour.” She says, lifting the headphones up and off my ear. Just as suddenly, she falls backwards into her torn armchair, resuming reading her book. I sit forward in my seat, and put my pen down on my desk. It rolls away from my finger tips, falling down to the floor with a clatter. Angrily adjusting my head phones I turn towards her and say ” Jesus!, it’s so close, it’s right there, I just can’t figure out what that idea was. It was so vivid last night. I’m sure I was listening to this song when it came to me.” Clearly, I am irritable, and slightly disheveled, as I gesticulate wildly. The paper in front of me is blank, except for crossed out half thoughts and angry scribbles. Lowering her book down slightly, peering over the top she remarks. “Babe, you fell asleep on the couch last night. You didn’t even make it past Jeopardy.” Sitting stock still with my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Well,… shit. I dreamt that?” Rocking back deeper into her arm chair, it’s hard stripes at odds with the growing shadows of the late afternoon, she laughs. A full throated bark. It echoes in our quiet mid town apartment. Softly, I can hear the neighbours dog yapping in reply. The old plaster walls really don’t dampen much between units here. Standing up from my chair, I grab the sheet of paper, cross the room, haphazardly covered with crumpled pieces of paper, I fold it a couple times and drop it into the recycling. I stop a moment to watch it float soundlessly into the bin. Car horns can be heard outside, a bird chirps and a siren screams in passing. The sun has begun to set, and along the sidewalk street lamps are starting to stir.

Very bad, no good, awful poetry : Series 3

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The best part about doing this series of early poetry written by myself as a teen, is that it has garnered exactly zero attention, and thus has gained no traction online, so while I have the catharsis of sharing it, I know deep down it will remain just as hidden to the outside world as it would had I left it untouched in my note book, on the shelf in my office, where it has sat since late 2009. Oh the unbridled joy of on line anonymity. Plus I’m a straight, white male, so not a whole lot of flack comes at me, unless I were to go out of my way to be a huge asshole. And I save that sort of thing for snide remarks at a movies expense while at the theater. So Boo.

If you’re just joining us now, or me, now, a few things you’ll come to understand. I’m not a professional writer, though at one point in my formative years I had ambitions for becoming a comic book creator / writer. I did give serious thought to Journalism school at Sheridan College, but did art instead. Probably money well spent given the caliber of the work if you look across the length and breadth of my old written pieces. Yikes. So feel free to curl up and have a good chuckle at my expense. From what I’m seeing as I revisit these old works, is they aren’t terribly offensive, except in that they are just awful. Low grade, faux depth, pretentious gobbledegook. Another three hot, steaming turds for your viewing delight.

1.) The sky at night Circa 1999

A lone ball of flame. Gas from an unknown region. Source of light in an uncaring life. A wonder. All ablaze, separated by nothingness and the cold distance between us. I can see you there, hovering, seemingly still, yet you twinkle. Do I dare dream on you tonight, what a wish, what wish, my wish, my right.

What I think is going on here, is like a version of wish upon a star, but kind of mopey and murky. I don’t think I had started to work nights yet, as a high schooler. I did work one semester for a place called Norkim Distributions in Brampton, a job I got because of a former girlfriends parents. I was lucky enough that they drove me to work and picked me up for the 90% of the time I worked there for a semester out of high school. I remember not being able to talk to anyone for most of the day, then as I got home, tired, I’d just natter away until I made my parents angry and they told me to just shut up. I get it now. I’m not a big fan on inane nattering. It was more as a way of dealing with being virtually silent the whole day, and feeling like I might explode if I didn’t just get a days worth of talking out once I got home. It definitely felt solitary. Doesn’t make the poetry any better though now does it. And they say that pain and sorrow create great art, no!, Talent, talent creates great art. Not merely being a morose mother fucker.

2.) Gripe : Twice daily Circa 1999

Whatever I mean, whatever I’ve said, it won’t matter much if I can’t get out of bed. Whoever I am, whomsoever I was, it doesn’t mean anything, and it didn’t mean much. Wherever I was, wherever I go, I won’t do anything, if I go it alone. With, without, what can I say.

Some of these I remember writing, even if vaguely. But this one eludes me, almost completely. I think I am really absorbing a lot of Temple of the Dog at this point, and trying to skirt the notion of completely ripping of Chris Cornell and the Mother Love Bone guys. It doesn’t flow together at all. The rhythm is off, and it sort of just fades away. Like I was trying to be prophetic, and found pathetic instead. On a second reading I guess, I wanted to be told I had something to say, but there really is no “there” there. It’s just pure, unadulterated cheese, “Fromage” for the old school Much Music Ed the Sock crowd.

3.) The fix is in Circa 2000

Sure, I still feel miserable three months down that road. A long hard journey through the vast unknown. But what’s to worry, because when I’m dead and gone, all those years from then, what will it matter, if I was a little mixed up inside my head. Time off, time alone, time apart. It’s all a healing process taken for a broken heart.

Whoo, that ones a bit of a floater. But I will say this, it follows a through line, and doesn’t get too heady. No major calling cards of a bloated sense of writing skill. Fairly layman in execution. No changing places with the man in the mirror. A break up poem if ever I wrote one. That’s it for this installment of terrible, awful poetry. If this does anything at all for you, feel free to post any of your own, miserable teen angst prone writing. Be free of your poor choice of prose! let the wicked underbelly of flatulent poetry free. Blast it into the ether! Fill the void with your own stinky mass of blind ambition.

Let me off here, I’m good.

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I say quietly to the driver, he lets off the gas, eases the car out of traffic and pulls up to the curb. Looking over the head rest of the dirty, sweat stained cab, I can see the driver has a photo of two little children hanging from the meter. They’re young, smiling in a sun dappled park from some unknown portion of god knows where. They are wearing matching dresses, the kind that are ubiquitous at the Gap. It looks like there used to be a third person in the photo, an adult also wearing the same simple sun dress. But her face is obscured by dark tape, looks to have been scratched quite heavily where the face should have been. The driver turns to look at me, eyes turning up slowly. Notices I’m looking at his worn photograph and says “that’ll be $13.75.” He’s not exactly curt, but neither is he asking for any kind of rapport. Fumbling in my back pocket I open my wallet and hand him $15 bucks. “No change, thanks.” I spit out the words. The door locks pop, and I slide across the back seats and step out into a foggy night, it has begun to drizzle. Before I can turn to the driver and retch out another word, he pulls off, closing the door with a practiced impatience a cabbie learns after many years on the job. It slams, and the wheels screech, indistinct words tumble out of the cab. I didn’t even look to see his name. The cold chill of the drizzle has begun bleeding it’s way through my jacket. I turn from the street to realize I mistook the road sign in the loose fog, and am many, many blocks from home. “Fuck.” I say, as I’m pulling up my collar. Turning on my heels I begin sauntering up the tree lined street. The cool wind, and the harsh sounds of traffic fading behind me – FIN.

More Of That Terrible Poetry : Series 2

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Back faster than I initially imagined. I had a good talk with a friend, and we thought it was a good idea to revisit the terrible mush that we all produced as angsty teens. It’s all in good fun, and a hearty laugh at my own terrible ambitions to be a comic book creator/writer. Plus some of this tripe is absolute dog shit, so I need to loosen up and let the pretentious blatherings of my youth out into the great wide open for mockery. Can’t always post your best self. I also recollect that some of these were to be song lyrics, given how I have them laid out in my note book. But I’m not really able to replicate that here, so they instead read as longer form sentences, rather than curt sentence chunks. Anyway, on wards and upwards.

Grab a drink, and a warm blanket and get ready to retch:

1.) Thirst Circa 1995

I’m so thirsty that if i drink in your love I just might drown. Pulled down into the icy bleakness of your heart, so cold it fills up my head. Breathless voices, dance at the edge of my vision, like heavenly bodies glimpsed in the inky night sky. I’m just so thirsty. I want to drown in it. I want to breath it all in, cold choking my lungs. Pulled to the center of the void, where I’ll find you. I’m so thirsty, I’ll lay myself down. I want the darkness to expand into my everything, explore the corners of nothingness that I have never seen before. You’ve leached into my every pore, weighing me down, thirsting for my touch. To you, thirst is life, now I’m soaking wet and the waters all around me, pulling me down.

This one is a tad more cohesive, but still not exactly stellar. But I think I was trying to get over a breakup at this point, if my memory of the time is right, or maybe not. I thought the first big break up was around or some where near 1998. Not sure, could have been the medication I was on making me feel a bit, tweaked. On the bright side, it all seems to work as far as using drowning as a metaphor. Also that it feels like some one else’s personal darkness was having both an inward and outward effect on me. I will state, clearly, that in 1995 “Thirsty” did not mean horny, sexually affected, or have any kind of romantic connotations.

2.) You can’t call home? Circa 1995

Times a wasting, I’m heading home, late for dinner and I didn’t phone. Can’t call now, eleven’s long gone. I’ll say ciao and be home before long. Light of dawn is breaking, chills of the night, suns coming up as I run, temperature rising and I’m just too tired to fight. Last night was a blur, but now that I’m home I’m sure I’ll never go out again, not while I’m so immature.

A quick little ditty about how I usually ended up getting grounded in my teens. Staying out far too late, and not calling. But in my defense, we weren’t drinking, or smoking or doing drugs, and at that age I sure as hell wasn’t having sex. So being tardy (late) and not bothering to call home, was sort of my jam as a teen. Disrespectful, sure, but odds are we were playing our instruments, jamming and having Street fighter tournaments with Zero chance any girls were present, unless one friend or another had a younger sister.

I’m not sure why, but there is a significant time jump in my notes, as though I didn’t write anything down here between the tail end of 1994 and some time in 1998. Maybe the notebook got misplaced or packed away during a move or a bedroom remodel.

3.) When death had eyes Circa 1998

Stand back and watch the parade of clowns walk by. Teary eyed and wavy haired, marching single file in despair. For a candle has gone out and we’ve laid you down to rest. High above the clouds, the empty earth your bed, you will rest for eternity. When we call, if we call at all, I’ll name you – beautiful. You cannot turn back the hands of time, for they’ve been set, not to be touched – cold. The flame has flickered out, and we had to put you down to rest. With you, our hearts got buried in the ground. Sending up your soul, so high, drifting on the sound of our lonely weeping. A string of silly shoes, marching in single file, sad eyed clowns, calling out your name, songs for the void on their lips.

I can’t honestly tell if I wrote this after the passing of a family friend, of if I had just gotten into Temple of the Dog, and was trying to be deep, where I have no depth to speak of. At least by eighteen. Nothing much of anything had happened. I have such a bad memory, I can’t tell if a grand parent had died that year, or what. Certainly had a thing for death or dying. Makes all those “wish I were dead” memes you see on Imgur make far more sense, in context of having been a moody teen myself. Here I was thinking I was actually a pretty chipper fellow. I’ll have to ask some childhood friends what their honest opinion of me at the time was. I distinctly remember my favourite pass time being adding dirty lyrics to songs on the radio, as they came on, like an impromptu improve session with friends when driving anywhere.

Either way, this was series two of terrible, bad, awful poetry from my youth.

A spate of good movies recently

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Not sure why this is, but I have been blessed with the viewing pleasure of various really great, compelling films as of late. Amazon’s The Torture Report was outstanding, Netflix’s Marriage Story was full of career high performances, and Hell even Underwater was very exciting and action packed. Frozen 2 certainly didn’t disappoint, and while I was under no impression that I would care for Once upon a time in Hollywood, that had some very compelling acting and revisionist history. Ad Astra was gorgeous, and what a slow burn that was. It didn’t take me anywhere I thought it would, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Did I mention just how wonderfully shot it was. The calm serenity, it was absolutely beautiful. Almost breathtaking. Strange, somewhat like how I felt about Black Swan, but nonetheless entertaining and well cast, and executed with aplomb.

Joker was great, Joaquin was a captivating presence on screen, he really had to perfect that character otherwise it just wouldn’t sell. Perhaps I like that film more because I haven’t seen many of the great pieces of cinema that it pays homage to.

Hell Adam Driver was the best part of the Rise of Skywalker, and I did not care for that film beyond spectacle at all. I mean, at all. But he rescued that film from being forgotten by the time I had gotten into my car and driven home. It had moments, but nothing cohesive. It doesn’t resonate. It’s totally superficial, and that’s coming from me. I have so few layers, I love popcorn, tent pole pictures. But that film really left me feeling like so much was lacking.

Oh crisps! Knives Out, how could I forget. That was funnier than I had anticipated, and zipped along. What great casting, and the performances were top notch. Daniel Craig’s accent was offputting at first, but I’ve heard Rian Johnson joke about a cinematic universe where he plays a lead in a bunch of new movies where he has a uniquely different accent in each one. It was a fantastic who dunnit, and I generally don’t care for the genre.