Wednesday, 14 June 2017

Grant Jolly

Grant Jolly happens to be one of my favourite Poets. In addition to that, he doesn't only write but on July 16 he'll be opening his press called Manic Raven --  so keep an eye out!!! Moreover all the poems listed below are from Grant's book "Feed Him To The Bears" which is currently available on Amazon.


The Poet And The Artist II

There once was a poet and an artist. They fell madly in
love. The Poet wrote endlessly, spilling ink over
hundreds of pages; each sentence detailing the Artist’s
beauty in a new light. The Poet was broken and this
healed his mind.

The Artist worked on a never-ending portrait of the
Poet. With every single stroke of her brush, she slowly
pieced him back together again on canvas.

There once was a poet and an artist. They were broken,
now complete.

This piece is so unbelievably poignant, to be honest with you it reminds me of another one of my favourite poets Khalil Gibran. I just adore the relationship above between Poet & Artist, to me this reads as the ideal marriage between writing and visual arts. It's rare but can you imagine a hybrid human who is both a Poet and Artist a yin-yang if you will -- as I don't think one can have poetry without art and vice-versa they feed into each other. The day you meet your muse to draw all corresponding images to your poetry it will leave you feeling more than blissful. Especially if your muse can paint based on your writing – an incredibly symbiotic relationship that surpasses even inspiration itself. Can you imagine? That would be mind blowing for sure.


In Slow Motion

My memories melt
Like candle wax
As I stand in the shower
Charred lumps of darkness
Fall to my feet In slow motion
And my mind plays
Vivid flashbacks…
I don’t know how long
I’ve been standing here
But it feels like hours
And still
Your memory
Is on fire
Inside my head
Never fading
The rest of me
Decaying

To quote Haunted from the Love 'n Rockets “when the minutes drag...” we've all been there right? When times stand still and memories come flooding into our minds. I don't know what it is about past snapshots especially those filled with lovers from the days of old. It's the horrible memories that remain static as much as the blissful ones. I can just picture a man like Michelangelo's David standing tall in a shower of acid rain that slowly starts to chip away at his madness with a sharp mind as a corresponding partner.

Your memory
Is on fire
Inside my head
Never fading
The rest of me
Decaying

I wanted to cultivate a tactile experience with the section above – my hands kept tracing the words for a good 3 minutes. For certain the hand which wrote this piece was at a poignant time in their life.


Final Kiss

I sit there and watch
As you walk away
Your lipstick-stained cigarette
Still burning In the ashtray
Your perfume lingers…
I pick up the cigarette
Smoke dances
Around my fingers
I push the cotton
Between my lips
And close my eyes
Inhale
To taste
Your
Final
Kiss



Let me tell you a little story that happened to a friend of mine who was literally like the character in this piece. The interesting aspect of this poem is that we can flip the gender roles very easily as heartbreak is something that is conducive to all of us – normally there is the one doing the breaking and the one with a broken heart. My friend had been emotionally, mentally and verbally abused by her fiance. One night she found herself breaking up an engagement that was probably doomed upon the first “I will.” Needless to say my friend got her revenge when she let out 4 years of pain on him  -- all at once. Not in the similar fashion that Eric Draven's character did in The Crow this was all verbal, by the time she was done with him he was a pile of goo on the floor. Now, I do not advocate violence on anyone there is always a polite non ignorant way to express oneself and she did it perfectly.   In a similar fashion as this poem sometimes final kisses exist through inanimate objects over actually plump lips. 

Saturday, 10 June 2017

Hemingway's B & B

Twilight approaches, in its company a weary
spirit seeks a tear drops worth of welcomed
solace. Hands no longer able to navigate this
steering with wheel minimal visibility. I investigate
the unworthy surreptitious road to find the bed
and breakfast that holds my current reservation.

Finally, a driveway, delightful slumber only a
few kilometers in distance. What a wondrous sign
to greet me, WELCOME TO THE HEMINGWAY!
Immensely grateful to have finally arrived, not
allowing myself to take notice of my surroundings
only focused on my glorious king size bed with
a walk-in en-suite jacuzzi tub to wash away this

sense of darkness, trapped inside my own personal
oubliette. The key given to me at the front desk,
nearly breaks in the hole. I can’t believe it! For
$200.00 per night one would expect a key that
works. Clumsily searching for a light, my hands
feel the uninvited texture of dust bunnies that
coat the grooves of my finger tips. Disgusted!

I recoil my hand until I grow enough courage
to try again. Once illuminated my vision adjusts
to finally take note of my glorious suite. Oh my
great Goddess! What the hell is that? I approached
with my fire engine red stilettos still adorned
on my feet to find this tacky sea-foam green
and indigo paisley wallpaper slowly moving.

Unless the Tylenol ones I’d taken earlier to
alleviate my migraine suddenly turned into a
hallucinogenic? There, a dog eared piece
of wallpaper begging to be torn & a healthy
dose of dust & grime on the dark chocolate
brown Berber carpet. My poor shoes, I'd
just purchased them not a day ago & now

they have a fresh blanket of god knows what
happened to this suite's neglected floor. Racing
back to my overnight bag, I found my large
barreled curling iron it was all that I could quickly
grab to ensure that I did not commit to touching
the questionable wallpaper with my bare fingertips.

COCKROACHES!!!! HOLY FUCK!!!

Pleasantly consuming the glue that
once adhered this tacky patterned fabric.
Without a second thought, the stilettos
came flying off, the wallpaper once again
flat against the wall. I could hardly resist,
slice, crunch, crack poor little impaled
cockroaches find their doom as I go to

the real Hemingway to finally relish the
large, fluffy, warm bubbles I've so richly
earned!

Friday, 9 June 2017

Ryan Vallee

For an incredibly honest body of work check out Ryan Vallee!!!!

her hair was her
wild as the jungle fern
auburn like autumn tree tops
and just as free
i always wanted it closer
to spin it into symbols
on my skin
spelling things like heat
like risk
like chaos
telling things
how my touch was penciled lines
how your fingers
were permanent marker
framing the heart
and touching off
a million different impressions

The hair image completely sucked me in! To be honest with you, so many scenes came to mind, the first which popped into my head is from Brave, the way Merida would wear her hair so wild and free flowing in the wind. And, the other thing that I thought of came from one of the great classics, Jo Marsh from Little Women more specifically when she chopped her luscious mane and one true beauty -- off for the purpose of selling it so that she can give the funds directly to her mother to safely bring her father home. These characters both strong and so steeped in long hair both supporting the identities of who they are. There's something to be said about savage locks corresponding with a wild mentality. I must admit my favourite part of this piece is right here:

to spin it into symbols
on my skin
spelling things like heat
like risk
like chaos
telling things
how my touch was penciled lines

Can you imagine using your hair as a method of communication through symbols and words – it would be something infinitely profound – letters that disappear in an instant the minute the skin is touched and curls are scribbled in an disorderly fashion. It reminded me of the work of Contemporary Artist Janine Antoni how she would use her hair as part of her artistic showcases.


here we sit
on the edge
of what we are and
what we used to be
and i'm not sure
which way
i'd rather fall

To be honest, I'm not sure which way I would fall either! Who we are and who we used to be will always provide some semblance of commonality that is present amongst the two. When we age each day that we motor through this world is who we used to be. Even now as I write this the future is pushing its way forward regardless of who I was in the past. If I were to look at this poem symbolically I would imagine a pointed roof top – on one side riddled with nothing but cotton candy and the other side with cruelty free goose feathers. Now, which way would you rather fall, both are soft and would definitely ease a proper tumble – it really is hard to tell. I like that this piece asks rhetorical questions we may never know the answer to but, is quite essential for life given a philosophical perspective.


perfection is found in each
one of us but not in union
clean breaks
are story-book syllables
bare knuckles with weight
behind them
the heart has the core
of the earth but the same
number of fault lines
and we are walking those
cracks always it seems
i am guilty just the same
sometimes
i stick my spade
to pry just a bit
and to say it's human nature
is one hundred percent
correct and such simultaneous
bullshit because we can change
if we want to
but we never can

The truth is that as human beings we are both simulations and un when it comes to life and how we desire to see it. I authentically relished the end to this piece – it just says it all in a couple of words --

and to say it's human nature
is one hundred percent
correct and such simultaneous
bullshit because we can change
if we want to
but we never can

Does our human nature indeed prevent us from succeeding in life – it's difficult to tell. I watched a show sometime back which described the amount of time if would take scientifically speaking before the awkward change period -- no longer feels strange? Would you believe they said 21 days... that amount of the time in the course of a life time is nothing if we can convince ourselves from not only shedding our snake's skin but sheep's wool as well. As human beings inside of all us there are two perfect halves to fulfill a whole – there has to be this balance in order for humanity to succeed.

Saturday, 3 June 2017

Samaneh Sadaghiani

Short poems to me always packed an accelerated punch.  I tend to at times be too wordy -- but I can't help it -- I love words and tend to not use them sparingly.  Which is why I can spot the power of a short poem in microseconds. And Samaneh Sadaghiani uses these beautifully stylized micro poems to express herself with little pieces of delight.  

For more thoughtful heavenly morsels please follow Sam here!!! 

#Dear Mysterious Number

Pain is our greatest guide
It nudges us to look within
To search for pieces of us
That need assurance
That they are safe and loved
We can choose to heal
Pieces trapped in fear
And pained by neglect
If we bring them into light
I hope you can forgive
Parts of me
And parts of you
That caused you harm

You know, I can't think of a single moment where something positive did not happen as a result of negative pain. I don't know what it is about life but -- there always seems to be a balance there. I really thought that the end of this piece was quite poignant indeed and telling.

I hope you can forgive
Parts of me
And parts of you
That caused you harm

The key here regardless of who caused the pain in forgiveness – we all have excessively ugly sides of ourselves -- where after certain actions forgiveness is essential. It's funny, individuals always think the forgiveness is for the other person to heal but it really isn't -- it's for us to properly console our soul -- no one should have any heaviness in their hearts yet we only at times seem to carry them.

#Mountain & The Wind

Bring me seeds
My world is without colour
The mountain called to the wind
Intrigued, the wind made an offer
I'll paint your world
In shades you've never seen
If you help ground me
In depths I've never been

Can you imagine a world void of colour? My imagination, can park it right here for a while as I linger on these two lines:

I'll paint your world
In shades you've never seen

I wonder what colourless seeds would look like – can you image? Step back and step into my imaginarium with me for a moment if you will. Someone one day gives you these clear seeds, you have no idea what do with them so you decide to plant them. I have the blackest of thumbs, all I have to do is look at greenery and I murder them -- forget the heat of the sun. Now, that being said someone with a more cultured and green thumb would be able to harvest such luscious colours. Kind of like the visible conversation occurring in this piece with the symbiotic relationship created between mountain and wind.


#Tastemakers

Once in awhile
We find ourselves
Scoffing
At another's taste
In something that we don't
Or won't appreciate
These are optimal times
To practice
Getting over ourselves


I've written about the subject of tastes many times, there's something incredibly comforting about having one's own genuine self-created genre. There will be a plethora of things that you like of course but, there are always going to be individuals out there who constantly want to kibosh it. I have no idea why individuals can never agree to disagree – especially in our day and age where there are so many beautiful pieces from: art work, clothing, furnishings – there is something for everyone to pick and chose what they relish being surrounded by. While I was growing up a constant quote kept rearing its head when the discussion of taster emerged from the conversation, which was: “les goĆ»ts et les couleurs ne se discutent pas” translated it means tastes and colours we do not dispute... which is why I quite flexible when it comes to enjoying various tastes. 

Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Hanna Mulla

I relish poets who are constantly pushing boundaries within their work... just like the elegant pieces below penned by Hanna Mulla.


My mother tells me I have my fathers eyes. And his
nose. But most of all his face shape. She says the last
statement with furrowed brow, a sentiment not
unnoticed by me.
I gaze in the mirror and see a face round like the full
moon, wholesome, a canvas of stoicism. Memory of
my mothers slight frown makes me caress my skin,
trace my own features and wonder if I wouldn't be
prettier with a longer face.
In the Persian culture the moon ranks as the highest,
if not the ultimate epitome of beauty.
'Mahrokh', literally moon face, is a term of adoration,
afforded with affection, a compliment of
commendation.
I berate myself. Knowing such, how could I possibly
not fall in love with splendour of this degree.
I will never apologise to anyone for the softness of my
cheeks nor the framework of lines flowing from
hairline to earlobe or the dimples in my chin.
If anything I will love myself fiercely, splendidly, ten
times over,
to the moon and beyond.

Each of us has familial or cultural traits that are quietly expressed by the lines on one's face and texture of skin that at times we might come to detest. For example – I've always grown up abhorring my nose – in high school my nickname was Gonzo because of its slight hook. There are characteristics that we all exhibit in which we wish at some point or another were different. But for better or worse this is who we are from the beginning of our life right to our last breath. We can't make ourselves feel better over what it is we detest, we can only accept and decide to love and adore ourselves completely and wholly regardless of what our outside figure exposes our inner core to. I like that this specific piece above makes no apologies for the characters outside appearances only that self acceptance at one point or another through the course of our lives is inevitable.  I found the level of emotion put into this piece to be quite thoughtful and tenderly layered. 

We are nothing short of
miracles when we bleed seven
days straight,
red elixir marking our inner
thighs.
Since the beginning of time, the
ability to harbour and nurture
entire galaxies between our hips
has been something of a
phenomenon.
Shedding it is no less easy.


I love the boldness of this piece above, it reminds me of artists who use period blood as paint to draw with. Such depth and miraculous favour in what women have to endure each month, as much as a blessing that it is – it's also tremendous pain and anguish once per month for decades until it dries out to a state of nothingness. It's true though, as Hanna so elegantly says above.

Since the beginning of time, the
ability to harbour and nurture
entire galaxies between our hips
has been something of a
phenomenon.”

Can you imagine such a premise – since the beginning of time – a time that not many can conceptualize through their mind but there at one point or another millions of years ago there was a beginning of time that had been created. And, from the dawn of that time on,  humanity woman have had to deal with the discomfort of using at first thick pads that have transitioned to tampons and thin pads – evolution is constantly occurring for feminine high gene products. Women are the givers of birth and the nurtures as well. I supposed in some way we do carry “entire galaxies between our hips...” that's such a cool way of looking at it... Just think of how large a galaxy is and the potential it has to grow from micro to a macro piece worthy of earthly collaboration to protect the women of our world.


The poets have gone to town and painted the
walls red.
They've burned down the skies and pulled out
faith from every pothole.
We've clawed at wings and written epics about
the screaming and the sudden emptiness.
We turned our backs on God, cloaked ourselves
in darkness and demanded attention anyway.
When the ash finally settled like a noose of
shame we held our breaths to hear Gods
footsteps treading lightly, carefully amongst our
desecration.
With tears in our eyes, we asked if he would have
us back.
And through closed lids,
I felt him smile


Poets write and express themselves through their pieces, frankly because that is our wheelhouse the one place we can rest in solace and create. Through vast imaginations one can strive to a world that is accountable to everyone. One where darkness has no business being cloaked or brooding in the corner but does so because it has no other choice. Similar to the consequence of turning our faces against those who desecrate our hearts in their wake. We are free spirits who strive to live their life to the fullest amount of mirth left from an ice cream sundae or our demise at the end of a bottle. Either way it will be the self preservation and light of forgiveness that will keep our haunted writings as hallowed pieces of delectable delights on earth.

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

K. Iwanicki

The work of K. Iwanicki is: beautiful, heart wrenching & indeed quite profound... 

It's always circles-
everything comes in them,
leaving out the front door
only to be back at its threshold
moments later.

These feelings from my past-
keep manifesting
the same reactions
like clockwork-
my body anchored down,
hooked deeply beneath the mantle
of this familiar life
while-
my mind soars high
amidst the stars
bouncing
from past to future.

And here I sit,
telling the same tale
that I've told
so many times before-

It's the serpent eating it's tail.

I've always relished the conceptual image of an ouroboros. At one point or another throughout the course of our lives we are destined to allow our psyche to genuinely eat us alive. See that's the funny notion about circles, a single infinite loop with no end and no beginning. Yet, an ouroboros has a beginning and an end but chooses to repeatedly eat it's tail -- one perfect and concise circle. There is something infinitely profound with regards to the philosophy of symbols used throughout time -- a circle always seems to be forever looping as we do during our lives. The end really appealed to me:

And here I sit,
telling the same tale
that I've told
so many times before-”

How many times do we tend to repeat old stories, the stanza above reminds me of a comfortable couch at the ready to accept a hearty story worthy of laughs and tears.


*Minor Perturbation*

You are no longer here
but you certainly
left an impression.

Like a pertinacious wine stain
or nervous sickness
that sinks deep
in my system
sitting dormant
at the base of my spine.

Just when I've forgotten
that you ever existed
you float to the surface
and show up
uninvited
at two a.m.
and wake me up,
our sadistic ritual

So I lie there
for a moment
until a memory of you
flutters through my mind
but doesn't stick around
it just dissipates
like the flapping
of butterfly wings
ephemeral
and delicately negligible
yet it's effects can still be felt
all these years later.

There was one time after I'd studied Macbeth in Secondary school I'd spilled grape juice all over my mother's pristine white berber carpet – while I wiped I clearly remember saying Come outdamned spot! Out, I command you...” Yes, I was that obsessed with Shakespeare as an awkward teenager as much as I am now. While I scrubbed I kept thinking about the heinous act that brought Lady Macbeth to repeatedly wash her hands. 

No one ever enjoys the thought of uninvited guest they are beyond intrusive for words. The way K. Iwanicki expresses her disdain and disgust over this consistent obsessive call.

Just when I've forgotten
that you ever existed
you float to the surface
and show up
uninvited
at two a.m.
and wake me up,
our sadistic ritual

A truly painful truth we tend to forget...

*Disillusioned Oath*

We used to be so close,
now you only turn away,
you wont look me in the eye,
you wont even say my name.

We used to be so close,
playing games
and running round,
we would laugh
and we would cry,
only love
was to be found.

We used to be so close,
as close as any two can be,
our blood lines share
the same ancient line,
one that circles
and comes back
to you and me.

Now your veins
have dried and cracked,
all the love has disappeared,
your once joyful light
snuffed out
by inconstant
moody years.

How I ache
for your return
for your smile to come back
for our love to flow once more
for my brother
to come back.


One thing that I've instilled into my children that was not well expressed to me is that my kids only have each other if something were to happen to myself or my husband. Blood should be thicker than water but; then again we are not able to convince the world of things they should or should not be doing – however when it comes to family. Family should never turn it's back on you but; in some instances they do – where you feel alone and alienated from those who you would expect would be there for you for years to come – abandon at the drop of a hat. I genuinely felt the words of this beautiful poem above – I don't know how anyone could read such a beautiful piece of literature and just not want to weep.  

Monday, 8 May 2017

Melodee Korff

And so it continues with the fabulously emotive work of Melodee Korff... I've been following Melodee now for sometime and am constantly impressed by the myriad of images which come to fruition with the breath upon her ink. See for yourself...

Love me like you’re drunk,
Like you fucking mean it,
Like you won’t leave me guessing
For one more moment.
Love me like you want me,
Like you damn well need me,
Like you don’t know the meaning
Of subtlety.
Love me like you own me,
Like you’ve fought to get me,
Like you want to keep me
For all of eternity.
Love me like you’re mine,
Like you want the world to know it,
Like we are only dreaming
With our eyes wide open.
Love me like you're desperate,
Like you can't live without me,
Like you're going crazy
Without my kisses.
Love me like the gloves are off,
Like we’ve never been broken,
Like I leave you tipsy
With every word between us.
Come on and dare to love me!

Have you ever loved some one so much that you constantly desire for them to consistently consume you. In terms of love -- I believe we all have that one person who is destined to be the great love of our life. The one to completely obliterate our heart and love it at the same time – as most certainly with passion -- also provides intense conflict stitched within some semblance of self dignity. Because, there is not love alone – in relations that deal with matters of the heart. Hate normally makes an appearance throughout the duration of that love as we can simultaneously love/hate those closest to us – even when we want them to pay attention and acknowledge us fully through outs that are not false – only true passion.


The One

Maybe I'm not the one.
Maybe I'm just one.
One wave trapped in the ocean of your heart.
One path for you to take to make you into the man
you need to be for the one you'll end up with.
And that's perfectly alright.
See, I made a promise to you.
A promise I could keep without crossing my
fingers behind my back.
A promise without pinkies or paperwork.
A promise I sealed with nothing but a kiss.
I promised you that one day you'd see yourself
through my eyes
And you would fall madly in love
And I'll be damned if I don't keep that promise to you.
Because even if I'm not THE one,
Even if I'm just one,
I'm going to be one that leaves your heart better
off than how I found it.

Matters of the heart can indeed be tricky morsels of a life --  we are destined to live especially if it benefits another. People enter our lives during various moments and at times we cement memories concealed only in evil steeped with emotion--  where things could potentially end terribly. Broken hearts ensconce you with a blanket not even big enough to cover you in comfort. I firmly believe that every single individual who enters your life does so for a purpose. Some become lifelong companions. Others eviscerated from your heart in a manner that would make Chernobyl simply appear to be a camp fire burred deep in the woods of our hope and delight. I guess at the end of the day those memories that we hold inside of our core burst with pride or ones that struggle away with evil cores left. There will always be people who you've loved more --  who you'd hope are still in your life but are clearly not meant to be for some reason or another.

Long Abandoned Church

The church once a beacon of hope upon the hill
Sat quaintly in the Winter's quiet and still
Its doors abandoned long ago
Yet her lost soul came searching
searching, searching
Her lost soul came searching for answers to know

The road once well travelled was overgrown
With seeds of doubt that had been sown
The journey proved tiresome for her frail heart
Yet her feet kept trekking
trekking, trekking
Her feet kept trekking towards a fresh start

She climbed through mountains of sorrowful
downpours
Until she reached the now darkened doors
She bent her knees in despair
And her trembling head she bowed
bowed, bowed
Her trembling heads she bowed in prayer

She cried out for hope and healing
The strength to go on through life dealing
She prayed for forgiveness for her skin
And the guilt began lifting
lifting, lifting
And the guilt began lifting letting hope in

So many images come to mind upon proper reflection of this poem. I'm reminded of the origin story of Medusa before she had been cursed by Athena. How she had gone into a sacred place and instead of being left alone to pray had been viciously raped by Poseidon. Can you imagine the one place you go to for solace sealed a fate worse than death. Destined to never feel the fresh touch of what it means to genuinely feel loved?

Another image that comes to mind is a book by one of my favourite writers like EVER... Paulo Cohelo wrote a book called By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept the main character is torn between loving someone she had known since she was young and letting them go to freely do the work they were put on the earth to do. There is such a profound and poignant love there --  that I believe can be understood fully by the scribe of this piece...

Religious or not, there is something to be said about hallowed ground and exactly what it represents – the old lone and creaking church consumes me with feelings of both hope and despaire – what does it consume you with?

Sunday, 7 May 2017

the sacrament of poetry

did you ever want to write
something down on a piece
of paper -- style is of no consequence
as long as it falls into the category
of poetry. that moves you into
a complete state of emotional
disharmony – to the point
that writing is the only
sacrament offered
to you in church

-- the sacrament of poetry
is one the ensures each
individual on this earth
is able to properly express
themselves through phrases
and not through physical
agitation.   

Monday, 1 May 2017

Gus Sanchez

I must admit upon first read my strong sense of advocacy constantly screams “YES” while I viewed the poems below. As most of you know who follow the blog, I have a background in Social Services and a large part of that really is steeped in advocacy. Today's showcase is based on the profound work of Gus Sanchez.

someday science will allow us men to
have a period, and to experience the
agonizing pain of childbirth, someday
us men will understand the terror of
sexual harassment. rape. physical and
emotional abuse from a husband or
boyfriend that doesn't know what love is.
someday us men will understand what it's
like to earn far less while doing the same
job, and vow to break the glass ceiling,
and be treated as an equal and not just
a bitch in skirt. someday us men will
fell first hand the revoltion that comes
when you're first attacked online, just for having
an opinion, to know how being called a whore
or a cunt or “i hope bill cosby rapes you
next” makes a woman feel violated

because these women are your mother and
your sisters and your wives and your
girl friends

until these roles are reversed, you're just
a crybaby with a dick, and the world needs
more men

You know, someone once said to me if men could get pregnant than birth control would be free? Do you guys think that is true as well? Gender roles have come along way towards equality although we are not completely there yet. I really have no idea what it is going to take in the year 2017 for equality to actually reign. When I grew up, I thought men were supposed to be the strong silent type who could care less about women's rights. If memory serves one such male that crossed my path severely -- omitted the strong silent supportive type and was quite loud when he was expressing his views on women. Such as -- a women should be shackled at her ankles with a chain long enough to reach from the bedroom to the kitchen and in a constant state of barefoot and pregnant. That does not fly with me. Like men -- women have important roles to play in today's society and ours is steeped in ending gender inequality. So remember that the next time you ridicule a women who could've just as easily been your: sister, mother, aunt or cousin!

discarded post-it notes
words with no meaning strewn
across a cluttered desk

a cluttered desk: sign
of a cluttered mind
(what does that say
about an empty desk?)

sun-kissed palazzos?”
cocaine-soured sunday mornings,
restless for requiems never
delivered?”
no time for silence?”

filling these gaps is
torture for
unbalanced minds, not ready to

resort to cheap sentiment in
exchange for faceless and
undeserved approval.

I don't know about you but as we age our minds slowly start to deteriorate – we have to constantly post reminders. I've been in love with minutia since the beginning of my life – my desk has always been cluttered with post it's – to be frank it is one of the many ways that I keep organised. I have these round post it notes all over my monitor some could think I could have a hearty game of connect the dots – if i wanted my screen to be all marked up with permanent marker.


i'm too old and too
tired to get
lost in your mock outrage
pokemon go fuck yourself

i'm too tired and too
old to make you
see how stupid you sound

all lives matter hahahahahahahaha

my bags of tricks have gone
empty, the firefighters won't bother
putting out this
shit storm we have started

fake it 'til you make it...

i'm too old and too tired to be
too old and too tired:
my knees hurt – arthritis,
are you fucking kidding me?

One more hour of sleep, please?
And a new typewriter; she's
writing some debbie downer shit again.

Oh my good god! Bloody Pokemon Go! I remember during the summer there was a media article on the television highlighting Pokemon Go as the summer activity especially down by the water front near Toronto's boat terminal. Apparently people would gather at all times of the night – no word of a lie some individuals had their babies sleeping in strollers while there were hunting Pokemon at 2:00am... Yes, because that is exactly where a baby should be at that hour... with their psychotic care takers playing Pokemon Go.


If you notice not once did I mention writing style or form because to me this is very close to perfection in my eyes. Honest material written with such vigor. An advocate against any darkness for sure with stupendous syntax and grammar to boot. 

 Feel free to follow Gus and his unadulterated views here...