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.

-D

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.

-D

Considering Spaces We Left

What are these spaces that we decorate, exactly? Myself as a child was always compelled to adorn the walls with half – pictures and ripped magazine pages. Women with classic Ray Ban sun glasses, my families trip to Cuba. I’ve moved to Montreal and it’s the same beast, in a different costume. Now the work space and areas for decoration are separate, categorized. I tend to like sticking stuff to the walls mainly, but in synchronization. There should be balance at play. I wonder how the heavy images on my walls effected me throughout my teenage years; the over stimulation with angry consequence and conclusion. I specifically remember a conversation with my Mom where she entertained the idea with me, one that she had surely thought of before, that maybe the pictures very adding to my anxiety. I’m now sure that this is true, considering the fact that simply scrolling through a newsfeed gives me palpitations; but still I wonder. I wonder where this intrigue came from. I no doubt first saw it on some movie, a teenage girls room covered with pictures of friends and fairy lights. This was the beginning, after it spiralled out of control. I would rummage through Rolling Stones and glimpse signs of possible pleasures, possible other lives that could have been mine, or were yet to be. These “other lives” were pasted over top of family portraits and vacations, birthday parties. They were stand – still movie frames that I aspired to one day be apart of. The cigarette package, a tortured artist, full womanly lips. What were these artifacts of adornment to me? The beast now has been tamed, considerably. Adopting to a minimalist technique, I now have almost nothing on my walls. I ask, for nothing. Perhaps the indulgence of daily movies makes up for the lacking of beautiful women pasted here and there. I no longer need the reminder that beauty exists. This compartment, how contrary to the one I occupied a few years ago; A lifetime ago. Now I find myself to be a collector of other sorts. Music, books, art, plants and tea. Trinkets that can be buried. This is good, this is relief and a sign of maturing. What an interesting thing it is to consider the identity moving itself away from you’re teenage walls and into secret, compartments. Which person should I pull out today? I ask my Mother, what will I be?

-D

La Vie En Rose

Across the way

she waltz’s

to music only she

can hear

La Vie En Rose

The party rages on

and

In the room over

a conversation

that is foreign to her

is upheld

she stops the waltz

to listen in

its no use

she does not speak

the language

It resumes

Hold me close and hold me fast

The magic spell you cast

dada da da daa

slow motion she swings

in a dry place

has anyone ever felt

so alone?

-D

Melons

A cigarette

leaves a funny taste in my mouth

especially when

cold air

touches my teeth

and I assume

someone is following me

A righteous pile of

melons

sits in my wake

and

almost trips me up

What a sly dog

you have been to me

 time

passing with no faults

and so fast

you know

where my buttons are

you know

how to make me start up

again

Please make me

start up

again