Speaking of

You can speak of how scientists
discovered the latest
drugs to cure
our consumption
of designer’s broken secrets
falling sweetly
into their billboard lies.

You can speak of how your friends
love your wife’s smile
more than you know
or how you read only
books that teach you
how to captivate a girl.

You can speak of nothing

you truly want to

but I love what you say
all the nasty words
hurtful darts my way
it keeps me exactly
where you want me.

I am full of Modern Poetry
inhaling the true ones
like alcohol
reading masters and servants
listening to vinyl
before it all began
this rehashing
hashtag nonsense
urban dictionary well
lift me out of here
submit some poems
get published
like it means anything to academia
and Professor Moore.
They have their own clique
of refined words
and diction.

Wake up and kiss me
I sleep naked
for your seeds
to grow inside me.

You can speak to me
any place
but you never do

for I don’t want you to.

In the waiting room

Forgot my notebooks
my appointments locked me up
out of your box for a day
breathed perfectly
shaking off security guards
flirting in front of my daughter
walking in malls
of the living dead.
Watching you charm
the nurses
is he always like this? They ask.
My smiles are tired
my love superb
like a classical piece
Chopin opus 9
its ups its downs
its climax.
I needed that breakdown
to stop me from smoking
now I feel too much
numb it
with your body on mine
I don’t need modern love
too old-fashioned
too old to keep up
I’m so fine
in the waiting room.
My time to write
to heal
among these expert doctors
touching my breasts
my heart
when it belongs to you.
Crying to songs
my vampire make up
smudging my creases.
I am feisty
only he can handle me
in your wildest dreams
you wouldn’t want a wife
like me
not even a lover for a day
I’m not that type
not a true artist at all
keeping the drugs
under the pillow
the cancer behind
the counter
where no one can reach.



I am absurd in my absurdity. This is who I am.

Originally posted on Writing & Poetry by Christina Strigas:

The line up for free coffee
is growing daily up until
they too
take away the free love.
Not something I am unaccustomed to
all I crave is
the surrender to your clever ways
play me anyway
I’m game
raising flags at red lights
stopping my heart from beating
to feel yours
hiding away under the life machines
holding on to technology
like doctors
who are poets in their own way
like us
saving lives
with words.
It seems redundant to write
how you
have the words
I want whispered in my ear
you have the hands
caressing my skin
and all the other ordinary words
poetry stems from
but ’tis true. Yes.
Shakespeare is in love again.

I found these words scattered
around from six in the morning
where my notebook lay empty.
I raise my love to you
and bore you to death
with my obsessions
and that…

View original 48 more words

Eating words

rip me apart into tiny pieces


put me back together

am I not your human puzzle?

obscure \\ imagine my skin

concrete\\ touch my skin

or did you bury me

left me to die

when I told you to do so.


you know how to put me underground

I spit out dirt

my hands unbound

addicted to you

like all the drugs hidden in cement

while I read all the poets

published or unpublished

poets or so-called poets

self-fulfilled prophecies

running from themselves


I took poetry like accountants

study numbers

it is an art

to love words

and soak in them

feel them on your tongue

and along the chambers of your heart

it is the soul


that reads


it came to this

so I could come to you

with words cracked on my lips

syllables forgotten in steamed pots


arrive at my window with tiny pebbles

tap tap tap

in this mad world

into my long forgotten poems

requiring your eyes

to give them life


I tried to let you go

but Muse is telling

me it’s madness

and swallowing me whole


breathing and eating words

to write you a love poem

if this could be called that

not so sure


of what a love poem



or why I am using symbols

to show you my love

and how I think of you

every time you don’t.


I can go on like this forever

loving you

writing for you.

Long after you have forgotten

all about me.

To follow

In the centre of my universe I found you awake
up past midnight as usual
driving down highway 15 reaching
centre ville
and vinyl record stores on Bishop

so I followed you

all out of Bukowski again
twitter has made him popular
he says stroking his beard like I don’t know much
I shrug my shoulder and smile
don’t know much about that
I read him before indie
before coffee
and now I let him rest
he’s super tired
with your young generation and your attention span
you look familiar
he says
No I don’t
and I ignore him
before he talks about car crashes
National news
superheroes and writers.

I lost you on de la Montagne
where hotels will become condos with shops
and memories rubble.
I wanted to follow you
to a new uprising
but the ” manifestations”
students banging pots
took over the laureate prizes;
when I was a student I banged other things,
spoke about philosophy
across from Concordia
and made love with words
like I always do.
My hair touched my ass
my poems well hidden
and no one followed me.
How things change
yet still
stay the same on this
emotional ride lost on one way streets
so far from your world order
and parallel highways
but I’ll still follow you
except in my dreams.

Money or your mind

Bust open the door to get to a pen and paper

coat thrown on the floor

heart long gone as we were

shut it all out; sounds, shouts, baby come here

I have a story to tell you

as he rubs me hard and grabs hold of my fear

lay it under the tires

drive directly through the reds

in that danger zone, stop at nothing

but my clothes off

as wives and husbands have a fling

a hash-tag love affair

eating supper and hiding in bathrooms

over and over kissing all the colors in the rainbow

to get to your pot of gold.

I’m buying karma beads

gifts to my bitchy self

turquoise stones and empty pink champagne bottles

you stand back and watch me fall

pull my hair back for my drunken New Year’s Eve nightly crawl

drinking shots with no hands, knees on the floor

I could put on quite a show

dancing Greek like a pro.

Belly dancing whore, shaking hips

to your wet lips,

can you forget me?

Looks like you already have, I see.

You’re so quick,

another pretty face to eat you alive

with your southern charm

while your thousand dollar suits keep you away

from my kind of harm.
Idiotic days with titles

to remind me of how to love

or write

but I need no such prompts

pick up a pen and fight

strip to Marvin Gaye

past midnight.

You know I mean what I say

I’m stubborn that way

but the way you caress my hair

stretch out your touch out of nowhere

rub my leg with a drink in one hand.

Did you forget your money or your mind?

leave it all behind

to be free for a while

entranced by your poker smile.

I’m not like that

face it, I’m a grown up brat

writing stories

to breathe down the street

my arm in yours

watching old black and white movies

repeating lines

you’ve told me

without even realizing

how the signs were everywhere that day,

and I saw how you looked at me

when I crossed my legs.

I’ve been writing in my notebook, you see

where there are no eyes

upon bitchy me.

Featured Image -- 1433

Jeffrey Eugenides Imagines His Favorite Dead Writers Together at a Dinner Party


This is brilliant from one of my favorite modern writers.

Originally posted on Longreads Blog:

You’re organizing a dinner party of writers and can invite three authors, dead or alive. Who’s coming?

First I call Shakespeare. “Who else is coming?” Shakespeare asks. “Tolstoy,” I answer. “I’m busy that night,” Shakespeare says. Next I call Kafka, who agrees to come. “As long as you don’t invite Tolstoy.”  “I already invited Tolstoy,” I tell him. “But Kundera’s coming. You like Milan. And you guys can speak Czech.”  “I speak German,” Kafka corrects me.

When Tolstoy hears that Kundera’s coming, he drops out. (Something about an old book review.) So finally I call Joyce, who’s always available. When we get to the restaurant, Kafka wants a table in back. He’s afraid of being recognized. Joyce, who’s already plastered, says, “If anyone’s going to be recognized, it’s me.” Kundera leans over and whispers in my ear, “People might recognize us too if we went around with a cane.”


View original 90 more words

Electric Fence

My eyes are not that dark

I won’t scare you away

with my aura, supposedly

you like my scent


have you read me

to the point

where the back of your throat

is so dry

that only my

mouth on yours

would quench that thirst?

Never answer my questions

you should know more about me by now

but you stopped listening a long time ago

too far to know that it is best

to keep away from my electric fence.

I need so much “space”

that cliches are my t-shirt slogan.

He reads my book lying in bed

you are not in my head, just my book

you are not in my book, just my head.

I tell him I loved him more

when he loved me less

he says

I can never stop loving you

when the dark and the grey meet

it makes my insides corrupt

bare, existential

reciting Sartre like Shakespeare

confusing my philosophers with my poets.

Do your thing and write, do your magic

and love me with your gift

give me yourself.

I can still pirouette

on hard wood floors

so many talents

you will never know

and others that get buried

under the snow.

Sleeping naked is

how we were born to be

put on our clothes

and hide under labels

undress it all

digress from poems

and music


walk in a garden, or the

streets at three a.m

where I’m most free

in the deep night

not scared of anything

even in New York, Athens,

Rome, Montreal,

the night is where I find

the parts of me

I forgot about during the day.

I must confess: I am more attracted to


than people.

In this I know I am not alone.


I was thinking of writing a love poem

as usual

driving to get my Tim Horton’s

the words on the edge of my mind

about the invisible strings

in the sky connecting us

then I read about the three young angels

dead in Delhi, found one after the other

wrapped in postpartum love

and all the memories come back

of Amanda and Sabrina

how we loved them

cherished them

consoled the mom when her husband ran away

only to find out she too

had left them on the couch

with prescription drugs

and ran from her melancholy

smashed into a pole.

All these angels surround us

killed by the love of a mother

we give life not take it away

and so many mothers

struggle with their own breast-milk

their minds listening to voices

we can’t hear

their love consumed by fears

concocted death scenes


little floating bodies in rivers.

It’s the ones we know who have

died this way

that shatter our dreams

like those two angels I taught

and still hang onto

their drawings

the little one with ginger hair

and loving eyes

the older one holding on

to sad goodbyes.

They were the exact same age as my


The reasons don’t matter

when you see white tiny


deep penetrating love

I don’t care who can see

who is blind to the truth

who sees the truth behind the lies

who reads my poems

who skims through them

like a magazine article.

I don’t care who loves art

or museums

as long as you

and I

are in a deep penetrating love

on our knees together







just some pounding love drunk poetry

tipsy on your mid-day words

late night fucks

early morning pick me ups

drag your ass

over here

and kill me to death

under your poetic umbrella

while I lay here


on the same channel

change my road

lead me to your address

we’re all fucking psychos here.