Was born in Ottawa in the 80's. Once went insane. Has been writing for about six years, with over 200 completed poems. Works a lot half the year; spends the rest writing. Hopes to publish some of his better works eventually. Influenced by the songs of Bob Dylan and Neil Young. Has a love of many sports. Smokes a lot. All in all, a rather quiet individual.
break is in the words you say
when none are near and none respond
see the road and guide the sleigh
hunter and his frightened pray
to find the time to break the bond
wastes another gloomy day
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are words ourselves alone,
or what we wish to be?
are faces what we show
when we feel to be free?
is anger more than stifled
when it rots and twists inside?
the hunter’s lonely rifle
often plots before it hides.
we are walking with the burden
of who we really are.
we are holding silent sermons
from distances afar.
we are sleeping.
we are awake.
we are only biding time,
until we choose to break.
The logical poet drinks his meals,
walks backwards up stairs
stoops and kneels.
searching for borders
to breach the day.
walking with servants
who carry the trays
upon which rested the trinkets of youth
cups filled with poisonous
morsels of fruit.
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Worship the aura;
Forget the face.
You are the illusion,
The leather and lace.
Words deceptive faces form
A painted trace, a unicorn.
Install the lever;
Supplant the seed.
They falter, indulgent
Mechanical trees.
Lost without our vision born
A greater need for costumes worn.
Worship the aura.
Forget the face.
And always remember
Your open brief case.
Running through the forest ‘neath the hazy light of all that rests above the places where before I’d only crawl, I came across the shadow of the one who once to me was all I’d ever thought of on the dark, unruly sea where I had come to find myself submerged and short of breath that faded into nothingness, within me, while I slept—I dreamt of all the rolling heads that followed me throughout those languid days of emptiness that left me here, without a pair of shoes upon my feet to aid me as I run, forever searching for the veldt that lies beneath the sun to which I pray, without expecting that I’ll find the strength that I will surely need if I’m to continue at length and apprehend this cunning, all elusive, spectre-saint who haunts me when I’m trying hard to wash away the paint that covers up the gouges in the armour that I wear to hide myself from its all-seeing, vengeful, burning glare that carves into my chest when I am longing to be freed, reminding me of all my malcontent and selfish greed that could be what I’m running from throughout this sleepless night, while seeking out the one who bore the pleasure of my plight, above which I have risen to the tune of sadness songs, which I am always glad to hear, of which I’m proud and fond—and that is how I’ll leave you in this fractured, broken tune—for now I think I’ll find her in her glory, rather soon.
I’ve felt the wrath of innocence that buried me beneath the weight of all I’d kept oppressed inside the tower and its looming gate—it isn’t a coincidence that in there I have tried to hide the tremors of my waking mind that follow me, that nag behind when I am trying hard to find a way to break the spell of sleep when I am frail, slow, and weak—when nothing that I say is heard by anyone but those who know the ending of this picture show—the pointed barbs of written word—the tunes that in the past, I’ve heard that speak of all I’ve come to tell in all these never-ending rhymes that mean no more than metal signs beside the winding streets of hell where most of us have come to dwell—though that is not where I remain—I’ve found a way to end the pain that battered me, that bruised my brain—and never did I once complain of all the trembling hands that touched the crippled man with but a crutch to carry him far and away from all the things he longed to say before he fell and rose again to sing of what he’d come to learn—to sing of what he came to burn upon a blasted field of rock where all his greatest wars were fought—and in the end, he came to win and learn from what had done him in—and now he’s kneeling at your feet—you’re begging him to tell you why he never faded in the heat beneath the earth, where sinners lie.
I’m rising high in victory, above the sea of foaming wrath—the things we said so cleverly have led us down this winding path—I saw you climb the church’s spire: you fell to break upon the ground—I’m standing by your burning pyre, but still to you, I’m tightly bound—the waves are crashing on the shore; there’s little left to tell you now; I’m bound to fall, to fall before I ever come to tell you how I heard the rumours of your death that led me to the place I’m in, where still I smell your fragrant breath, where still I’m bound by mortal sin—the power of my loss is strong: it keeps me going on and on, forever in a whirl of song, forever bound by all that’s wrong; and in the end, I’m sure it’s fine to sing the sound of futile rhyme, for nothing matters here at home, where love is lost, where lepers roam—The dancing man with burning hands is flailing in the sleeping sands—awake, I drift into the sea where nothing is what I will be—we’re both alike, but drawn apart: it’s time to do this once again—to make a new, refreshing start to what will surely be our end.
I’m resting here with you whom I have come to call my love.
We’re soaring far above this place, we’re soaring far above
This shelter where our passions have unfolded in the sun—
Yet, I can’t keep from thinking that it all will come undone.
The time between our breaths is growing longer as we lie
Together in the armour of the pact that we have sewn.
The fire burning at our feet is warming as we rise
To walk about the forest where the seed of love has grown.
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I’ve tried to sap your honour, but you’re standing by my side.
I can’t explain your reasoning—you surely must be blind.
The hills around these premises are crimson with your blood,
And nothing save for what you’ve done can lift me from the mud.
The weary way I crawl along this path is breaking me—
It’s wrecking what I’ve so long sought to build where I now lie.
This fortress overlooks the edges of the boiling sea
Where men of fortune drift about, abreast in rising tides.
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I’m thinking of the things I did when I could do no wrong—
Those times have left me longing for the time when I am gone.
They’ve left me longing for a time where I am remembered
For singing of my lust for all that’s come to grow absurd.
The lasting image of your silhouette is still with me.
The very things we did together cannot rest at peace.
The shattered mirror in the corner of the room is bright,
Reflecting what we thought we’d be that lost, forgotten night.
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