With The Lights Off.

One year ago, around this time – I was stooped over a toilet and on the inside of a seemingly endless remission. Remission from what is still to be determined. Last Halloween a friend and I were high and elated with our ironic gesture towards the seamless festivities. We drank wine and smoked. We watched Rocky Horror. We went out. I got too drunk and smacked my head on a light up box. This gesture would be my defining act of the year. With purpose, without meditation. I smacked my head upside the light – and still did not wake. Last year I wrote a short piece that shunned adult costuming; saying that it acted as a form of charade or anxious hiding to indulge macabre or personify another. This year I simply do not care. This year I say let your costume embody all that you are for the night, and for All Hallows Eve let your ugly be emphasized, or turned into a greater monster. This year I know I mustn’t hide or ignore the creature I’ve been well aware of, seizing me only nightly. On Halloween this year – we shall seize IT! My last year self might commend or slap my present self for turning around the notion of dressing up to escape our current, collective crisis – but if we can’t exist on a similar plane, then where? If the land of the dead is to inhibited by the “living” for one night a year, then lets play games – and fence over the fate of our world there. If the ugly, discoloured, blasphemous are laid bare once, as opposed to the constant flow of cover up, alternative facts, and curious stigmas – then let it be, let it live. Lets see what you look like with the lights off. – D



I’m rusty now as I sit alone in a wilderness cabin. The ideal writing retreat. My family is off on a venture. Two ambition-less dogs lay on either side of me. Black and white, ebony and ivory. Last year my family vacationed at this same cottage, whilst I was away. Alberta, thats where I was. Drinking in the constant sources of picturesque scenery and cheap wine. Meeting people and forgetting their names. Walking, pacing, wonderfully the same tracks everyday and remaining silent until the silence was too much; then another wine was had. My trip did not provide any resolution for my stir, but it widened the wound; In a gracious way.


Then there is the matter of you. The dictator you, that ruins mornings. Mournings. I have digital frames memorized on behalf of your infantile gloating, your devilish grin. I beat myself on bad days for losing your interest. I beat myself on worse days for repeating any of it. The torturous part is that I feel I am running a marathon, in competition with you and another, starry broad. I’ve lost time by withering myself, scorching my walls with the memories of your pinning truth, and my nothingness. I cannot live in competition with you any longer. I mean, to you – I’m utterly obsolete, invisible. Lost in the shadow of another, I’ve already died. We, have died. How long will it be until I know this?

A poem about waking up from a good dream.

So I had a dream about you last night
and, fuck
even now
as I write this
my throat is aching
urging for content
and recoiling from the bitter mirage
that bloomed
without mine willing it so
beneath a Christmas tree canopy
of lights and shadow play,
I sat
this is a dream world revised now,
So bare with me
I looked down and saw you there,
the face that haunts
and was so obviously you
olympic shock, and elation brimming
both of us conjoined
in the stare that lasted lifetimes,
our mutual disbelief
muffled the scene
as I scaled down the holiday exhibition,
you met me
held me, pressed me, hungry
so now the fantasy
of lust set alight
gnashes at the pertinent
the familiar
The change of framing
from that world to this
is viceral
and the dawn becomes
a scientist
an illusionist
and yet , there had been a kiss
then comfort
in knowing that things had changed
after the flood
and exact colours seized
so true to life
before my eyes opened
to a plane of black
and the liquid longing expelled
I am here
and I have awoken
to love lost.

Pre – leaving the house anxiety.

Is there reasoning behind the fact that I feel guilt going out tonight? In black and made up awareness; Super awareness. Icarus I embody as my pleasures perch atop the highest sun. I want to anticipate, without being obliterated. How fitting that we will watch a film tonight, about the infinite, finiteness, of humanity. (2001) The paradoxical concern that haunts my every move towards the next party, show, date, stand up point of conversational initiative. Am I doing this wrong? Am I promoting a self that is not true? Theres only one way to find out. The lye down at the end of the night will reveal all darkened corners. For now the wine is at a slight advantage.


(Have a Goodnight, everyone.)

An Extract From Something More

I was born with this dry, contemplative existence. I look out the window today and see the flakes falling, crystallized, tiny infrastructures and entire worlds. I feel nothing for these mini galaxies and I do not let them melt on my cap. I do not let them touch my tongue. I am soar and preposterous, vain inside and outside of the looking glass; both reflections make me sick. Looking around, I am overwhelmed with unassuming dread, faces with no eyes or words that speak truth. There is little capacity for love in this world.


A New Calendar

Why does my mood suddenly feel sporadic and light under half moons and drunked-ness? Where am I to go in a years time? How can I obtain a calendar that measures time in something other than years? I’ve grown tired of weeks turning into months. Solid and perpetual. Have we not yet seen that purgatory is built in measured days? Years? I’d rather come to evaluate life’s events from seasonal changes. The day the snow fell I fell as well, it was not until last weeks full moon that content returned. The feeling. I consider that this would not be applicable to work schedules, the duality is too great, too infinite. Perhaps that is what we need. Today I thought this thought under a half moon and damp daze. I thought it was time for a new calendar.