Thursday, April 18, 2019


a motivational quote,
a sales funnel,
a scripted action, reaction, interaction,
a parody of “style,"
an interpretation of “fashion,”
the trend of empathy,
the trend of sympathy,
a glimpse into a simulation,
a digital "reality,"
of how it could be,
isn’t that what you want?
beards, craft beer and hipster shoes,
opinionated pukes and social media spooge, 

ultra-right pricks, ultra-left cunts,
misogynist punks, misandric thugs, 
power shifts like hands on a clock,
"honey, can you pass me the knife so I can cut off my cock?"
bored, lost, horny old fucks,
built on the arrogant platitudes of youth,
trendy tattoos and piercings,
“oh my god, I love your earrings!”
let’s settle down,
let’s cut the shit,
let’s find a “norm,"
like a long term commitment,
a tract home and a DIY divorce kit,
a community of support,
the ever growing church of alcoholic numbing,
escape those empty feelings that keep on coming,
a glimpse into a simulation,
a surrogate self,
escape those empty feelings that come haunting,
the way you could be,
isn’t that what you lay awake wanting?

Sunday, April 15, 2018

van Gogh's final shot at the big time

these dirty roads lead nowhere,
there’s really nothing out here,
save for a tear in the eye,
and a rough ride,
just dead ends and pot holes,
tired, salt-stained metal,
creaking with the weight of day,
no ultimate direction,
I take small pieces of pleasure from the platter of pain,
postponing what I know is coming,
and no it’s not "my shot,"
and no, no amount of social media can save me,
(that black hole into our collective mental illness),
the universe doesn’t care about our frustration,
or the level of consciousness on which we operate,
the false modesty,
the uncanny ability to feign humility while subtly downplaying the accomplishments of others,
or pretend tolerance while criticizing the opinions of others,
c’mon now,
are you sitting by the mailbox?
smoking your last Indigenous cigarette?
waiting for glory? 
what’s glory?
when is glory?
let’s get serious,
shut up and work,
with luck or without,
because it’s who you are,
drag your stone,
like everyone else,
some babies get hit by missile shrapnel,
bodies burned and limbs torn,
some babies die before they're born,
are you better?
life is a dirty sidewalk,
a lonely weekend,
a toothache,
a line of urinals filled with the tepid piss of a thousand drunk business men,
a disgraced politician,
an old man undressed,
Violette Morris’ last country drive,
van Gogh's bullet to the chest,
am I any better?

Sunday, September 24, 2017


take the same chords,
for your generation,
I've played them all in my time,
if you want, 
put your fingers like so,
and I'll show you how to find the tune,
maybe a little too much too soon?
a damper on your youthful hustle,
your limitless new day,
rainbow blow jobs,
dick pics, 
layered with dream pop soufflé,
it gets hard soon love,
it gets messy and noisy,
and smells like everyone who's been here before,
I recommend protecting your trusting heart,
cause no one is gonna show you how,
I have some suggestions,
but I'll mind my own old business,
plus, the waitress will take our order now.

Monday, August 28, 2017

one in the hopper

I live in a flesh house,
a mind with walls made of tissue and bone,
fuelled by electricity and blood,
I eat from mother earth,
I suckle from the teat of Gaia,
I wander the halls of infinity,
stepping gingerly across the glass floor of inconsolable despair,
I'm just a peasant,
too pedestrian for your equestrian tastes,
I love your simple epistemology,
it's really just a horny little eschatology,
it's a conversation that ends as stale as it begins,
it's ok though,
because as we age, 
we are slipping into freedom, 
which is just another word for emptiness,
and emptiness is just another word for loneliness,
and loneliness is just another word for the freedom to be,
and there's not much time for you and me,
because, you see, a lifetime is relative to eternity.

Monday, April 04, 2016


can I come into your sugarbush?
so dark and deep,
where the sap runs sticky and sweet,
where the wind breathes life into my tired lungs,
and the sun slices through your trees,
and bounces light off the trembling leaves,
like a giant maple cutting into the sky,
I can feel your power,
your sanctuary,
my rejuvenation 
my salvation,
and the immanence of your love,
let's go deep into your sugarbush,
swallow me into your cosmic night,
and let me sleep within you,
until I wake up baptized and reborn,
wrap me in your sacred arms,
until I forget what I know,
let me come into your sugarbush,
so we can labour until the bad feelings go,
to where we collapse the ego,
and your syrup mixes with my snow. 

Friday, February 12, 2016

the last of my bad habits

I've got a window,
inside my mind,
I cracked it open,
so I could take my time,

I feel helpless,
when I look into the sky,
troubleshoot the future,
why do I even try?
on this smouldering star,
I'm just a frozen fly,

friendship is just the distance,
between how we feel and how much we try,
the last of my bad habits,
will never really die,

but I've got a window,
inside my mind,
now I keep it open,
so I can take my time.

Sunday, December 13, 2015


a vast emptiness permeates my consciousness,
rain pounds the garbage and the dirt,
my pulse beats heavily,
my muscles convulse and cramp,
my body shakes in the midnight hour,
my mind stabs fear into my heart,
my thoughts flow like a polluted river,
sending torrents of darkness into my twisting, aching bowels,
my dreams are dark corridors with wicked storms battering the windows,
my power is gone,
my hope has faded,
I feel I am standing on the crumbling edge of a shifting universe,
I am a rogue cell giving life to disease and destruction,
I am a bug...

can you hear my lamentation?

are you there?

is someone there?

am I alone?

how can I know you if you have left me?

how can I love you when you won't speak to me? 

a prayer of simplicity to a shifting universe,
falls from my quivering lips,
and blood spoiled by hatred,
drips from my fractured and restless body,
send me an angel of hope,
send me an angel of peace,
have mercy of this rogue cell wreaking disease and destruction....
have mercy on this bug...

for there is nowhere to go,
there is nothing to do,
we are who we are only through the fullness of being.

in the quiet stillness, 
a baby breathes gently,
and awakens,
in the light.

this poem is dedicated to my friends who recently lost their business to fire.