You can look back,
and you’ll see dust.
All that potential,
so badly managed…
But don’t you mind-
let those frustrations reshape
into what they always meant to be,
forgotten dreams.
Category: pseudo poetic
It’s the distance that I can’t take.
So many memories -so tasty and graceful…
I am so fond of our times together…
I adored that squeaky laughter when I bit you.
When we danced to the groove of gravy.
And made tuberous love as a means of asexual reproduction.
I miss you, poutine.
But don’t be afraid.
We’ll always have Québec.
And my hate of being away from you, poutine.
Follow me to the snow,
where we belong.
No path is the wrong path
even though they insist it is.
Sometimes there’s no exit-
sometimes we can’t really tell…
but they are jogging aimlessly
and we are their diversion.
I’ll hate to say goodbye
because as the snow melts
and our memories blur,
only dirt remains.
But maybe green will grow
against all grain and will.
Whatever future brings,
I won’t forget… our special path.
And yes, they hated it.
When everything has been said and done
and to hope is just impractical.
When there’s no way to keep going
and we can only look back.
Rust can’t be enjoyed when it’s the only thing left.
No more depressive songs will do.
It’s the end of the rail line.
And it’s safe to hate when it’s over.
All the paths you could have taken,
all the stations that weren’t visited
and all the trains you’ve mistaken-
At least the fight is over.
Kilometers of nada…
I want to walk in every direction at the same time.
I want to explore everything…
as long as you promise that everything will be the same
and that the only possible find is the vast nothingness.
Why are we here?
in the lands of snow and ice…
none of us wanted the coldness but
together we sought refugee from the clot,
erasing all those bad memories that stalked us-
running away from the monthly blood that long ago claimed winter.
Chirping, calling your presence.
For you to see…
the horrors of dirt.
But it’s time to move -call it at five.
You’ll never be The Prisoner again.
Don’t look back at those ugly bathrooms leaks.
Streams of consciousness were led to oblivion,
and everything went down the sink-
hour after hour, day after day.
It would have been another flood
but there was no hole cover.
Nor need to forget.
Not all the water can be contained.
Nor all the memories should.
Oh, I hate those cataracts of forgetfulness.
Heads without torsos hovering along the street,
drinking from empty pint glasses,
mowing grassless lawns.
Clover leaves have left -and so has your money.
I didn’t think I was colourblind
Why my mind can’t see green anymore?
It’s all so transparent now…
I hate green screens on St Patrick’s Day!
Dirty mouth. Last Hefe.
Like every third night.
Everything seemed right.
No mouth should break when you open it.
But this time it did.
Bought it the same day…
I wonder if that mold looking ring is healthy.
Worth going back? Nah… But damn them!
And damn their broken dirty mouths!
