I want to be shaken violently by a human being.
I want fire.
I want scars.
I want better reason to fight back.

Even to me.

—-

Continuing from the subject matter from last night’s post; I wrote this on the back of my bus ticket last night. Unedited. I was going to call it An Ode to Holden Caulfield, but it technically isn’t an “ode”… Hungry now.

I’ve been remembering lots of my dreams of late.

My jaw clicks every time I try to chew. It’s irritating, but not painful.

Considering taking this year out to make “art”. Is that wasteful?

My feet are still trying to thaw from the icy wetness that is the beginning of Vancouver’s cold season. That was written the other night, my feet are now the warmest tosies in Vancouver thanks to cheap op shop shoes! Bliss!

I love music at Internet Cafes – Tina Turner is on now. Such an eclectic mix of yesteryear’s hits.

Does anyone still use MySpace? I fear not.

Doing the job search thing and falling into the same pressures I always do; go with salary in FT job or bounce a couple of PT jobs and do my own thing in between? Cash or Fun? So many arts bodies in Vancouver… argh… so much! Too much pressure!

Got bored one day and started to get agitated by everything in the city. This is the creative, coffee and cold-filled result (needs more editing) – hideously inspired by slam poetry:

Is this Emo?
(aka Toronto and other Cities)

Lines tangle my vision of the night sky.
They are the veins of cable cars and city trams.
They breathe life to the mechanical worms and make them fly-by.
They’re silver veins pulsating with sparks, acting as electric webs ready to taze incase I reach my mark…

Above I see:
The moon and the stars; God’s monocle and age spots twinkling back down at me.
Beyond the tangle,
I still cannot lift my heart -
“Lift my heart up to the Lord”.
Metal trees and glass sculptures rise higher and higher,
Futuristic tetris blocks close in to dwarf,
Dizzy spells awash and my attempts to gaze the night… retire.
I try another tactic to return to my creators;
I put my ear to the ground for tremours of Mother Earth’s breath.
Instead, I’m met with eratic vibrations of deafening drills excavating her flesh,
and rickety subway systems boaring her to death…

Wait!

I feel her exhale,
She gently blows warm steam at my face – no.
That’s steam from the underground…
and I can feel the mutating microbes engineering new civilizations in my pores.

I turn to break free,
Thinking I’ll run into my saviours;
The eyes I do see,
Could have been mine some twenty years earlier.
He jingle-jangles his dirty black cap at me,
and I’m ashamed of my own behaviour…
I look away and just say… “No”.

My Mother, your Mother – has no more tears to cry.
We made sure of that,
The rivers and lakes of her face have nearly all dried up,
Revealing dusty wrinkles that show her untimely age.

Yet we keep on pounding, pumping and sucking at her black blooded arteries,
Does she mind if we are so unkind?
Unloving? Unforgiving?

Or does she taste revenge everytime we spill our own red blood in squimish sibling rivalries?
——-

Not to be taken too seriously, I guess. Just needed to get something out. Same day I created a comic series on my Freudian ego and id. That, shall never see the light of day.