Poetry Archives Bio
June 8, 2017
10:22 AM
Limericks VI

There was once a girl from Vancouver,
Who knew how to suck like a Hoover.
She'd often go bust when she'd fill up with dust
For she didn't quite get the maneuver.

There was once a boy from Seattle,
Who was quite in love with his cattle.
He'd get quite forlorn when they'd give him the horn,
For most often he'd lose that battle.

There was a young couple from Thames,
Who both often liaised risqué femmes.
One evening they went to a "room for rent,"
But the mystery swingers were them's!

May 8, 2017
2:39 PM
For Lily

banished
from the busy living room
to the balcony

you stand defiant
slender foot in water dipped
your face turned to the sun


you take in the scene
of cars intertwined
through the cloverleaf

you breathe in
the invisible bay
obstructed by construction


and streets
oh Lily you still have time
but not much

others would hurry
but you will stand there
'til evening


'til the memory of
being cut down
will bloom and blister

like a fiery vision
and you
so precariously leaning


in the instant of
a decision
will gather your whitebrown skirts

coyly dipping your head
as if abashèd
by the sound of the roaring sky

April 18, 2017
8:08 PM
Der Kuss

the neighbours
across the way

discuss some
things at
length
        & then

just as they're 
likely to
collide

     they
     kiss
& navigate

the dire
straits  of
 their quotidian
    corridor

April 17, 2017
12:38 AM
night thoughts

To Evelyn Lau

the sound of cars
on granville cloverleaf

is soothing
like the sound of surf at night

(what silly word this  surf
more apropos

pribòi
that is  the beating of the shore


back in the bedroom
you flicked off the light

here in the office
I have turned a page

to write
about my quiet disbelief


your claim that
simply put you can't recall

the painful words you told me
yesternight

April 9, 2017
12:05 PM
Träume

time is the slimy unguent
of thought

my mother vomits Nabokovian verbs
in bright primary colours


the arts & letters are laid bare
on shelves

(true art is the ability to not
but distort colorectally


flanked by crazed messiahs in rags
on all sides  begging for some sin

a woman observes me lasciviously
from a white panel van


behold the man  o pleas enjoin his wail
a truculent recrudescence tantamount to riparian wit

the man is a battery of pain
walking the perfumed rows he discharges it  and meanwhile


my eyes are the framed mirrors of want
I sit in the Sanguinarium and

wait  & soon come yelloworange dreams to me
a bale of hay neatly tied on the back of a blue pickup truck


the same red coffeecan honda turns the corner
over and over and over and over and over and o—

March 22, 2017
10:54 AM
Arbeitsleben

Some things never change:
Reply All to the full org,
Barking on the call.

March 3, 2017
11:19 AM
Mr. Mnemosyne

On Seymour Street I walk to work, and oft
I pass the time reciting sundry verse.
In traffic I can speak—quite loud or soft—
As I my memory's confines rehearse.

I know by heart my favourite—"Kubla Khan"—
Followed by "Ozymandias" alway.
Next comes "The Second Coming"'s denouement
And "Richard Cory" then, without delay.

"The Tyger"'s blazing head I soon describe
And, to conclude my spirited parade,
I launch into King Richard's diatribe
And walk into the office, thus allayed.


This morning, near a crossing of two roads,
While waiting for the traffic lights to change,
A man spied my poetic episode,
And seems to have assumed I was deranged.

So on we walked to work, a foot apart:
He, glaring quietly at his new foe,
And I, performing interloper's parts
In my recitativo's cadent throes.

To clarify: I did not hound or troll
The man whose morning I by chance debased.
I counseled then my thoughts—"Dive to my soul!"
And he, to make escape, took up his pace.

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