Work in progress – Lobotomy


An ice pick through an eye, while barbaric,
is admittedly a rather elegant solution.

I can’t even begin to imagine
what series of little feats
of human ingenuity lead to such a brilliant
(and effective) idea that poking one’s eye
until you reach their brain, and then
mushing said brain around a bit,
stirring it,
like some fucking dry martini,
would do any good.

If you were ever taught
that everything happens for a reason –
Come on now, forget it. Ain’t how it’s done
around here. Your gods
are incompetent pretentious
little assholes
just like you and I.

But hey: some of the most beautiful things in life
are happy accidents. Sound familiar?
Of course it does. Folksy wisdom is a limited resource.



June Poetry 1 – Tiny Zaps to Your Already Electric Brain

Tiny Zaps to Your Already Electric Brain

I want to have known the term

Before myriads and myriads of
Tiny zaps permeated
Parts of my brain not covered
In Grade 11 Bio
When your beast slowly walked over to me,
All covered in ozone, all
Wolf-dog like, panting after
A recent kill, his first one in years.

I wanted to listen to

The rustling of the dog’s heart through his fur.
I placed my ear right against
His carotid. So much white noise.
We may have been biting on different tongues,
But it wouldn’t have mattered
Anyway – we were going
Well-forgotten motions.

So later you asked me if
I had an electric brain
And a heart apparatus.
So maybe I’m full of shit
But I think I now know the correct terminology:

Loving you is as easy
As pissing on my own two fingers.

May poetry 2 – Archaeology


O Lucille…
Her fossils were never enough to fuel a starship
But they were pretty,
Polished and well-kept,
And almost complete,
Except for the tusks.

It’s been widely theorized –
We believed –
That the tusks had been removed after
Her death as a show of respect,
Perhaps an ancient human ritual
Signifying that
Lucille’s parts would live on as intricate decorations in human houses


Far, far, far away

From her rancid decomposing corpse.

We are dreamers.

April poetry 3 – Control


to take control into my own bare hands,
I scooped a seed out of a sweet lemon,
Fragrant lemon,
Lemon with rind that I thoroughly enjoyed chewing.

I put that seed into a little pot,
And watered it for weeks.

Three anticlimactic weeks passed,
and finally a little plant appeared:
Green, cute, fresh.

I keep watering it.
It keeps growing bigger,
And bigger, and bigger.
It’s all going according to plan.

Take that, life!
Going to make my own damn lemons
(in a few years)
if I manage to overcome my own curiosity
to dig the little buddy out,
risking its short and uneventful life.
Curiosity to know what exactly it looks like beneath the surface.

April poetry 2 – Milk


At the surface,
milk congregates as a disgusting film.
The buttery yellow of this film, the sweet
scent of the ivory liquid’s broken down sugars,
the whisper of boiling bubbles,
they all sure do mock you with the potential
of oral pleasures.

Don’t blame yourself –
you simply lack the necessary information, like
the fact that the film’s underbelly
is a slimy, sticky, decomposing jellyfish.

So you’ll try it once.
“UGH that’s gross!!!”

move on.

I’m sorry
I’m laughing at your misfortune –
I really shouldn’t be. The only reason
why I didn’t get seduced –
I’d been force-fed it as a child,
I guess they wanted to teach us early on that life is full of shit.
I mean “surprises”.

At the surface, the milk congregates as a disgusting film.

You quickly and gently peel it away these days.
Now here is your favourite part –
the way it sticks to the roof of your mouth.

April poetry 1 – Shoes to fill

Shoes to fill

Dead the year I was born
Nineteen eighty eight
Dead at twenty-seven
I’m that age today
But I’m not here nor there
So I got nothing to fear

Dead from his heart saying
“That’s too much heroin”
I’ve never tried heroin I’m scared of needles
Dead from an old addiction
I don’t battle mine I
Enjoy them I enjoy
Them I enjoy them I
Enjoy until.

Dead while very famous
My Twitter follower count is one hundred and sixty four

Dead while beautiful dead while being a crown
I have no discernible shape
But I am also pleasing to the eye
He was all bones bones Gray’s Anatomy cotton
My gibberish is making me shudder

His shoes are big to fill
With feet that are too small too soft too pink too pale
His shoes are big to fill
And hard to find given that
His aftermath is copyrighted

My gibberish is making me shudder.

March poetry 3 – The Smaller The Dog

The Smaller The Dog

Say hello to
Closing your eyes
And pressing them
Against the floor.

Listen with me:
Clack clack clack clack
Of the high heels –
It’s vibrating,
It’s lodged inside
Your inner ear,
Like a pulse of
A small animal.
And you know – the
Smaller the dog,
The faster its
Heartbeat. The harder
It shakes its whole
Body, as if
Overwhelmed by
Being alive.

And you want to
Sleep like that dog
At some master’s
Feet. Any feet
Would do, as long
As there is a
Real guarantee
That you won’t get
Kicked while you are
Dreaming your cute
Doggy dreams.

Clack clack clack clack.

Any feet would
Do just fine, as
Long as there’s a
Real guarantee
That you won’t get
Kicked while you are
Dreaming your cute
Doggy dreams.