Thursday, November 26, 2009

Love is a Poem

Sorry for not blogging in awhile. Lately I’ve been very reclusive. Not that I’m much of a socialite anyway, but, well, some of you may recall my ranting about dating. I’m sick of dating. I hate dating. And yet, Scarlet the Spy suggested I turn it into a segment for Apt613 – and I wanted to, I really did, even if it was just fictionalized, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I’ve been too preoccupied.

Some of you may have recall that I’ve been gushing about this woman that I’m enamoured with. Someone whom I adore so much that it hurts – and I mean “hurts.” It got to the point that I thought I’d have a panic attack if I didn’t find the words to tell her how I feel. So I took some time to write her a poem, and yesterday I read it to her, and now she knows.

When I finished the poem, she didn’t know what to say. I expected that – for the past two months I’ve been careful to guard these very feelings from her. Why was I torturing myself? I guess I didn’t want to come on too strong. But, of course, with the crush getting bigger and bigger each day, it became unbearable. I even found myself unwillingly dreaming about her. One night she told me she was really ill, and I had nightmares about it.

I told her I didn’t expect her to say anything. I just want to see her more. She said “we’ll work on it.” So I gave her the two pages I read her. She said she’d read it over. She said “thank you” and gave me a hug. It felt very good to hold her. You know, before this moment we’d never actually touched? Anyway, she was very sweet about the whole thing. I had hoped she would be.

I have not spoken to her since last night. I don’t want to pressure her. I want to give her time and space to think about it. I’m just glad she didn’t hate me for putting her on the spot like that, and for listening. It felt so good to get that off my chest. Now I feel lighter than air.

I don’t know what will happen, but I will say that if things don’t work out, I’ll probably always be her biggest fan. She is probably one of the most talented writers I know, and I feel lucky to even have met her at all.

Thursday, November 12, 2009


In the darkroom,
Gazing through the dim red glow,
I make your picture perfect face out nice and slow,
In peace and quiet.
I hear the music in my head,
And I think about the life we might have led.

In a dark gloom,
As my mind goes to and fro,
Like a cancer, this love continues to grow.
I can’t deny it.
I remember how you bled,
How I cut you with those careless words that I said.

In my dark tomb,
See your pictures row on row,
See my life pass by without your loving glow,
Forever quiet.
I think it’s time I cut the thread
And accept my place among the living dead.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Dead Poet Sobriety

Where are you taking me, Allen Ginsberg?
How much have we had to drink to-night?
Are you trying to get into my head?
Or my pants?
Either way, I’m too far gone to fight.

And so we wander the solitary streets,
With the pale, yellow, bulbous lights
You thought it would be funny to pee into
That Starbucks cup we found in the street.

Tomorrow someone will find it.
Still yellow, foamy, or perhaps
Brown, salty, dried-up in the sun.
Maybe that’s why it’s so funny.
You’re thinking about the future.


So we sit in a circle,
Beating off with twenty-nine generations of poets.
Thirty if you count mine.
Do you?

Frost doesn’t.
We read our poems to each other, and all he can say is:

“You might want to check your meter.”
Check this, you pretentious cunt.

But now I can’t take my eyes off Emily Dickinson.
She fingers herself in the full-moonlight
She howls.
Look at her go.
She would not stop even for Death.

Coated in starlit, murky, love-syrup.
We are as one now.
Children of the night.

Wordsworth agrees.
“We are thirty.”
We are all dead.
Yet we all live.

Each night, we raise the dead
With our poetry,
And we read to one another
Deaf and bland.

Remember, Remember, the blog of November

This past week-end, I saw Wolverine and the Mendicant again. They live together now. I’m over Wolverine, and this visit proved it. The only reason I went we to get my jacket back. There were five of us this time, and throughout the night, I couldn’t help but notice how maladjusted we all were. The Mendicant and Wolverine tried to molest me again while I more or less did defence. Amazingly, having a hot girl try to grab your ass over and over gets old pretty fast. Twice as fast when there’s an ugly, oily, hairy fat dude trying to grab the other cheek. He also tried to molest Thor, which was a mistake. He’s rather homophobic – having just moved to the city from Hicktown, Ontario. Thor spent much of the evening talking about how tough he was, and how he’d never hit a girl, and how the Mendicant had better not do whatever gross-ass thing he did again. There was also a girl with us who told us a lot of stories about how she and her 39-year-old cop-boyfriend got drunk and got into these really brutal fights with coke heads, and then went drinking with hookers. I won’t bother giving her a name, because I don’t plan on spending much time with her. We went to an old pool hall, and then to an old bar, where aging punks with ugly-ass Mohawks still hang out, even though some of them must be pushing fifty. And Nasty Nick was there. Apparently he’s always there. I learned from the Mendicant that when Wolverine tried to break up with him, he locked her in a room for a little while. I’d say that warrants an ass-kicking, but that isn’t my problem. Maybe some time she can sick Thor on him. Seedy bar culture gets old very quickly. I’m sure it would be cooler if we had vampires like in the Sookie Stackhouse novels, but we don’t. We do occasionally have cross-dressers, but they don’t have fangs. Anyway, this concludes my series on Wolverine.