Kensington market dreams
At kensington market everyone has a different name.
The christen themselves at day break and at night they cast away the same.
vintage records , worn-in clothes.
the streets are paved with music, color, and a memory of home.
a smell hangs in the air.
ripe, sweet & sweaty.
freaks and hipsters stand on corners.
no on is an anomaly here.
everyone is normal.
everyone is sane.
here, at kensington market…
House of Bones
She lives in a house of rotting bones.
Decaying flesh and eroding sands.
a house with four walls and no windows.
her bed is one of palm fronds.
woven tightly and neatly.
coarse and crunchy under her weight.
her pillow is an arm that is constantly replaced each night.
her house can catch fire at a moments notice.
but doesn’t.
because the winds blow in an easterly fashion.
her house is built on bones.
brittle on porous.
bleached white by sin and sun.
her house is built on bones.
not of one but many.
her house has no skeletal frame…
but yet her house is built on bones.
MOSS PARK
The junkies at Moss Park have peppered arms.
Punctures, dark and starry as the night sky.
The strip house at the corner; derelict and falling apart.
Lube, semen and cunt juice ripen the evening air.
The putrid air of disdain and weed hang heavy.
A toothless man and his semi-naked girlfriend approach me and me a fix.
I run.
Scared.
Yet excited.
Punctures, dark and starry as the night sky.
The strip house at the corner; derelict and falling apart.
Lube, semen and cunt juice ripen the evening air.
The putrid air of disdain and weed hang heavy.
A toothless man and his semi-naked girlfriend approach me and me a fix.
I run.
Scared.
Yet excited.
SLACKNESS OF THE HEART
She pins an anarchist patch to the inside of her blouse.
On high holidays she sips brandy and chases mud crabs.
Every other Monday she visits the library and then rips the covers of newer books.
She has an affinity for horses and their manes.
She touches herself in bed even while men lay beside her.
She steals from the offertory to buy drugs after Sunday mass.
She loves her mother and hates the seed that made her.
She likes Sherry before going down and can never make her mind about the weather.
She speaks in a language only understood by plants.
Her voice is a whisper never to be heard.
On high holidays she sips brandy and chases mud crabs.
Every other Monday she visits the library and then rips the covers of newer books.
She has an affinity for horses and their manes.
She touches herself in bed even while men lay beside her.
She steals from the offertory to buy drugs after Sunday mass.
She loves her mother and hates the seed that made her.
She likes Sherry before going down and can never make her mind about the weather.
She speaks in a language only understood by plants.
Her voice is a whisper never to be heard.
FASTER.
CONVERSATIONS.
CONVERSATIONS.
Yesterday's makeup sticks to her skin like a late night movie.
Its auteur, her own self.
We both wish for faster conversations.
But we'd rather spend our moments holding hands.
At least, until the reveille of her departure sounds.
Its auteur, her own self.
We both wish for faster conversations.
But we'd rather spend our moments holding hands.
At least, until the reveille of her departure sounds.