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Baby, Montreal just wants to kill you. Toronto will move on after it’s done failing to display you in the galleries. And Vancouver is still sending you bills for your time spent discerning its ills. Pick a city, any city: this country is but a vast stone upon which to enchain you.
And every new day you are delivered.
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2. |
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And if I die tonight I want you to know there’s a stewing on the stove that I left there with my heart in it. And though unfinished things make you sick, all living things go unfinished, so here: can you stomach it?!
And if I die tonight I want you to know that my terror and desire cancelled each other out, so that my greatest act has been to break my bread with the worst of my starvings for this desperate exhibit of my skeletal remains.
But please ignore all this mistletoe, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just testing the waters of the self-fulfilling prophecy latent in every symbol, but oh: how hollow!
And if I die tonight I want you to know that I know there’s an edge, as far as resonance goes. Still as much as life is meaningless, readers persist in reading. And I just want to be read by you.
Congratulations on your selfhood, I can’t remember mine. I think it involved so many irrational acts of faith that the pronoun’s base crumbled. But here I am, still levitating.
So I’ll be one of many graceless supplicants tenting upon grace’s lawn…
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3. |
Spring
04:20
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Spring a thing that moves like a cruiseship -- in other words, consuming. Spring like a brick wall, spring like the fall over again. And oh these little gardens, hands in the earth, creative action. Oh these cruel, cruel tragedies of ownership. Oh and but when the boomers bust, when consumer’s consumed, idiot spring will be groping its prick down in the dirt again.
So oh: impotence in the morning. And oh: impotence in the evening. Fuck! Life is becoming the spitting image of an image longing for life, just like I knew it would. And fuck the dawn, fuck the dawn, but what’s next son? Fuck the dawn and so on, and so and so sown: freedom and dirt, a ditch for our vagabond to die in afterwards ?!
And parched by the fountain and prodded senseless to nerve pulp, miracle after tired miracle await in cue their makers’ hands for rough touch and “sculpt.” And the westward-bound young men spread themselves across sidewalks like flaked empire clumps of dandelion fluff, desperate to fashion new frontiers with their sweet sick stuff. And the razor sting of fresh cut lawns cuts through. And like childlike Rome dragging its feet into the dust, violent fucking spring lurks this suburban block in broad daylight.
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4. |
Waltzthing
06:13
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Is this the right medium, man, for that feeling felt from the ground? I mean, where were you last earthquake when the old earth quaked back for that gold that now lies wrapped round your new wife’s finger?
Dresden in a shoebox, I mean: oh no! Dresden in a shoebox, I mean: oh no!
But the method actors are sick! Dying for their art. Bending their bodies to fiction. Fine figureheads to our doomed ship. But really just an occupation, an occu-occupation, an occupation of our public space. Sacred plane to masturbate, and alchemize such feeling, man, that we must all SHUT UP.
But remember remembrance is flag versus flagpole. Arrested from the theatre, it goes, it goes spending to all the familiar shopping centres, for it is so easy to enter when it is as empty as filled until forgotten.
And Henry don’t drink with his boys anymore, il parle seulement en francais maintenant. And worthless object in my hand, at least this poppy I can dry then boil down and then shudder me through another day, just me through another day.
And in the rubble I found only fragments of meaning’s perfect gown. Still I wore it for this song. Though it don’t fit, it don’t belong, I didn’t know what else to say. And I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else to say in the face of such everydayed pain. In the face of such urgent prompting. And my complicity to suffering, I guess that I must SHUT UP.
But meanwhile back in the garden, there never was a garden. And the coral life hedged in the helplessness of its description was trying to imagine a catharsis more than it could imagine. There’s gotta be more to life than seeing some shit and then walking home and writing about it. There’s gotta be more to life than seeing some shit and then walking home and writing about it. But there isn’t!
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5. |
Fascism
04:28
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Am I dear a little off message? Am I dear like an empty gesture on an island? On a far, far island, drinking Lucy’s daiquiris -- what sweet fruit, and when will this stuff hit me? -- oh.
Am I dear tangled in my spinning? Did almost everything validate my delusion? We had some good years, some individualistic years, drowning while instructing a swimming lesson. But now death is on the table, and we lurch in shapeless body just to interrupt the ceremony!
But didn’t everything sure seemed so easy? Didn’t everything seem so easy? With a meme-like flourish and a meme-like flourish turning everything uncertain to curtains for your sure entrance and exit of the image.
So fascism is back in town, peddling absolutes, peddling its absolute shit around. But did you see that rhino go by? Did you even see that rhino go by? And all of my cards aside, what words would make this fucking boulder move?
And everything seemed so easy. Didn’t everything seem so easy? With a meme-like flourish and a meme-like flourish turning everything uncertain to curtains. But the medium ate my message. The medium ate my message. The medium ate my message with its sure entrance and exit just for its pure entrance and exit of the image.
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6. |
Jackboots
03:00
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Listening and not listening to a voice outside the window. Considering and dismissing and reconsidering its value as signs of a violence against an unresponsive night.
Wallace Stevens is cool but we’re both white dudes listening to ourselves listen. And without me and without me, there’s a world of lineage and language. Oh without me and without me, the world goes on without me.
And would I even know the sound of jackboots at my door? Would I even know the sound of jackboots at my neighbour’s door?
It’s not directed to me so that’s why I don’t go to the window. And also I feel: it’s directed to me and that’s why I don’t go to the window. And also I feel: it’s directed to me because I don’t go to the window. Still I never go to the window. I never go.
It’s another Canadian evening spent in deliberate spectral disbelief. Listening and not listening, racked with murderous indecision, whether to write about it or write about not writing about it.
Either way: I can’t unknow the sound of jackboots at my door. I can’t unknow the sound of jackboots at my neighbour’s door.
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7. |
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So I hang around like the weight of the moon at the edge of the room, making eyes and never to dance with big ol’ green and blue.
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8. |
Victoria
05:49
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Victoria, you were a pretty twig. My eyes were two rotten men that just wanted to see through your clothes. Lend me your brooch, I know what I’ve done. I’m moving out, I’m passing through. I came in and out of you like a graceless razor.
One hundred and ten pounds of failed conversation. I just want to make it home tonight. I just want to make it home.
And I just wanted to be the unnatural tendency that sneaks its way through the party, to spike the punchbowl. But I think I made my patrons sick, I was caught trumpeting loud my little prick. And I think that I will grow old and die utterly unremarkably.
One hundred and ten pounds of failed conversation. There’s the stories you tell and then the damages you keep to yourself.
But your two old feet just burn and break against the ground. Until there’s nothing left to hold, to hate, to hurt, to pine. To drive away and make words from.
Strikelines become the landscape. I get used to the way my body shakes. And each new year I will wander the grounds with a metal detector. Maybe god is the feeling hunched inside the blank ceiling space. Oh if god is a feeling, god, let’s dance our hearts out.
Until your two old feet just burn and break against the ground. Until there’s nothing left to hold, to hate, to hurt, to pine. TO PUSH INTO THE BATHTUB, OH !
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