tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63044282012-02-16T19:44:13.436-05:00When the ink dries, we'll have another bastard's peace.alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.comBlogger1991100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-44516743817269025762011-11-17T01:54:00.001-05:002011-11-17T01:54:22.604-05:00

that is the good thing about readings i think, they tend to outlast their bodiesi carry home little bits of reading-soul every time i leavestuff them in my pocketsfind them laterwhen i am doing the wash, when i am digging for changeoh, i think—i forgot about this one

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-49893290184424278762011-10-25T22:38:00.003-04:002011-10-25T23:05:08.942-04:00

remember. three readings in 8 days, maybe a fourth in late november. getting published in three different publications, and working at the link like it's no big thang. they treat you like you mean something. two articles in a row in three days on the maisy website after the internship was up. and you got published in rover arts this summer too, shit. remember: you are lucky. remember: you are

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-18401440328039161522011-08-25T11:35:00.003-04:002011-08-25T11:38:52.359-04:00

looked over at u&me noodles a few nights ago at work— the neon sign inside was off, or gone, or both. anyway such was the effect that i couldn't see it from my store, just the reflection on their old windows of the mediaphile sign from across the street. funny how things work out like that.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-19975914407706575962011-04-28T00:14:00.003-04:002011-04-28T00:32:52.682-04:00

across the street from my store is nouilles u&me. it's got a big yellow sign that i guess it was kinda known for, before it got shut down a few months back for health code violations. i remember a tourist asking me and some friends of mine about the chinese restaurant with the yellow sign during grand prix week a few years back. i didn't know which place he was talking about at the time, but it

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-23432168160688344642011-04-08T14:27:00.003-04:002011-04-08T14:28:59.809-04:00

the most exciting thing i've seen on the internet since the dawn of forever

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-54512170775623204272010-11-23T16:57:00.003-05:002010-11-23T17:18:44.547-05:00

The Link is learning to skate in the 6th floor hallway with Clay's board. The Link is I can turn corners now. The Link is sign-out time 5:59 am.The Link is listening intently to Tito stories when normal people are an hour or two from waking up.The Link is two Alexes, two Julias, and a rag-tag bunch of other names. The Link is Reggie's on a Monday night for a rum and coke and the Habs losing again

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-88641790857064718582010-11-12T23:07:00.001-05:002010-11-12T23:07:55.591-05:00

hey

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-86748527181691434722010-10-22T05:39:00.001-04:002010-10-22T05:41:35.734-04:00

life is the process by which old things are stripped from us. we are forced to make do with the new and that is how we proceed. right? tell me it's going to be alright.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-78483537095114806852010-07-24T23:41:00.003-04:002010-07-24T23:43:24.958-04:00

wading through the hot hummer heat. days slow and weeks slower still. someday i'll come out on the other side, right? this isn't like a stone one-entrance tunnel overfilled by german kids, right? no stampedes, happy, happy. i'm so easily scared. like cattle. rattle, rattle, let it rattle, clatter, clatter, cataclysm. i can't write anymore. no more words. i'm an empty well. épuisé.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-65978492109841443032010-06-14T01:39:00.003-04:002010-06-14T01:49:17.500-04:00

Windswept is on the shelf. Indefinitely. This is a band breaking up. We are all still friends. Who knows what the future holds. It was time. Etc. I've got a side-project. It's a novel about friends and the lottery. It's somewhere in the neighbourhood of 1000 words long right now, although the bulk of it is written on Loto Quebec printouts and needs to be typed up, and what has been written is a

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-45325430807616429872010-06-10T03:07:00.001-04:002010-06-10T03:08:43.003-04:00

Taken straight from the Terms of Service: "In any case, you affirm that you are over the age of 13, as the Domino's Website is not intended for children under 13. If you are under 13 years of age, then please do not use the Domino's Website - there are lots of other great web sites for you. Talk to your parents about what sites are appropriate for you."

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-85485183733110990202010-06-01T14:15:00.002-04:002010-06-01T14:19:17.316-04:00

i wonder which i hate worse: being poor or working. we'll find out, i guess. i've applied to five jobs now so far this summer. it amazes me every now and then that i actually have gotten one and that i may get a second yet—better yet, that it is my avowed intent to do this very thing. i told elise—she from the upstairs, she of the mustache—this yesterday, albeit in french. who is this typing this

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-50797421617047250712010-05-21T03:25:00.002-04:002010-05-21T03:30:09.358-04:00

i haven't been writing.i got a job and i've worked 51 hours and people have stolen merchandise from under my nose and i sell crack-pipes to crack-heads day-in and day-out. at least my french is better than my german. but i guess what all of this serves to teach me is that i'm still never as bad as i fear i'll be—but at the same time i'm often not as good as i think i am. happy medium? what happy

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-20882195635212482642010-04-18T04:39:00.005-04:002010-04-18T05:21:40.837-04:00

Let me walk with my emotions, let me do the dance of life. We are skin-cell dust in oceans, balanced on a diver's knife. You can never be too certain, 'cause of what can you be sure? It's just air behind the curtain,when life hooks you on a lure. So I'll bob with my emotions, and I'll kick the dance of life,and I'll drink the strongest potionswhen I balance love and strife. It's not lessons

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-5831892186884096762010-03-11T02:55:00.006-05:002010-03-11T07:52:53.617-05:00

I woke up around two into a fever dream. I'm not even that hot anymore. I don't know. Absurdist theatre works its veiny magic. Like that time I saw Hotel Rwanda feverish and dreamt of genocide. For a good couple of minutes I was awake but afraid to turn and face the room. They—they from my dream—seemed as though they must still have been real. I don't remember exactly what about them was scary

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-36141781405977841492010-02-19T03:42:00.003-05:002010-02-19T04:03:38.760-05:00

I'm still jobless and that has to change pronto. And by pronto, I mean, by the time classes start again on March 1st. I had a good talk with Sina about getting published which calmed me down a bit. She made me forget for a moment how badly I want to get Windswept published as soon as humanly possible, that I don't want it sitting around in my brain forever, that I want to get it out and be done

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-24471337766613898182010-01-19T22:37:00.001-05:002010-01-19T22:37:28.744-05:00

everything is just alright. i worry too much.the end.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-20301678896340817552009-12-26T12:23:00.004-05:002009-12-26T12:34:38.752-05:00

She left for two and a half weeks in Paris and the French alps Thursday night. It's been 41 and a half hours since I last heard from her, which I think is the probably the longest we've gone since July or maybe even June. I keep on over-thinking everything about everything (this letter, that letter, the third letter, the goodbye, the return, the time in between, for her and for me), which I'd

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-36616179909626179742009-10-15T13:31:00.002-04:002009-10-15T13:36:19.326-04:00

I think it's a pretty good thing that I haven't gotten around to posting anything in 6 weeks or so. Don't you? I'm too in the thick of it, and not getting sick of it. It's nice. I think I'll stay, border disputes and all. Maybe it's just the music talking, but I feel like I can do this. Bring it on, if you think you can rock. Confidence is a strange mistress. Like "Happiness is a warm gun," you

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-14512579796469885092009-09-03T11:46:00.004-04:002009-09-03T14:08:30.401-04:00

Two weeks from now I'll be contemplating life from the other side of 21. Circumstances being what they are, I s'pose I'll be thinking more about age and time and maturity this 9/16 than usual. Hopefully I'll be too aged and time-worn and mature to condense them into simple equations and straightforward answers, à la Wiesel, though. Things have been going really well, though. My worry-muscles are

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-16415517330513055062009-08-16T22:29:00.003-04:002009-08-16T22:33:37.095-04:00

Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again. So what did you do those three days you were dead? 'Cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.Slowing pains, growing pains. Miss, miss. I'm trying to quell the familiar melodrama sharkcircling in the dark, peachpit spots in my heart. You know, the poisonous ones. It's been a long time since I've been so emotional day-in day-out. We all know why I'm

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-2483603137206026422009-07-12T12:51:00.004-04:002009-07-12T13:09:49.719-04:00

"I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-28929329977072604702009-07-05T20:20:00.005-04:002009-07-05T20:35:30.757-04:00

Writing Windswept has taught me a thing or two about novelry. It's amazing how working on a 2-years-plus project will erect a framework for interpreting the world around the parts of you that collect and analyze sense data. What I mean to say is, stuff that might previously have occurred to you as a charming, if quaint, curiosity, can, under the influence of a novel, suddenly become the seed for

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-88673844752744551402009-06-23T11:24:00.012-04:002009-06-23T15:06:26.185-04:00

I guess I have, in the ocean-sized great elephant graveyard of my weaknesses, lying among the ancient ivories, perched on the most bleached and dry of gigantic rib-cages, a weakness for beautiful things. These three paintings are by a New York-based tattoo artist and painter named Regino Gonzales, and they are making me right stupid au moment. Never before have I wanted a tattoo involving a black

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-23839250710729496812009-05-12T13:29:00.004-04:002009-05-12T13:49:46.362-04:00

For some reason, when reading Nino Ricci's very good the Origin of Species this past weekend, the quote "April is the cruelest month"—tossed off in passing by a minor character, and not sourced—stuck in my head as being from Chaucer. That was "April with her showers sweet," though. I guess the cruelty-accusation came from Eliot. Anyway, it hasn't been April for a minute now, so maybe he was wrong

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-22373103824098377782009-04-18T01:09:00.002-04:002009-04-18T01:15:42.411-04:00

I am coming apart at the seam. Am I? I am. Compound and compound again, re-tread, overdub, loop back and thread through. I am just a maze of mistakes. A haze of mistakes. You could get lost in them (I frequently do). I remember back in mid-January when Will thought I was going to pieces again. I laughed then, but if I had a job and/or a girlfriend today I wouldn't tomorrow morning. I'm going to

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-47307840476002846272009-03-25T02:46:00.007-04:002009-05-20T05:16:45.215-04:00

A little past midnight, maybe, as I was walking home from Will's place—the usual route, down Northcliffe to Cote St-Antoine and along it to Sherbrooke and along it to St-Marc—I was crossing Metcalfe when I saw a car, a white Chevy Aveo, I think, coming north. It's a stop-sign intersection, but the guy wasn't slowing down, so I stopped around the halfway point to let him pass. As he came closer,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-82534649382504428292009-02-27T05:39:00.003-05:002009-02-27T17:51:53.675-05:00

I am all about the lyrics to 'Archers' by Brand New right now. Do I know what they are exactly? No. Vaguely? Yes. I am easily swayed by nice drums and harmonies and this and that. Musical terms I don't fully grasp and never will. I'm an aesthete. I know sonic beauty when I sees it. My sister is 18 now. I think my non-living at home has done her a world of good, but a lot of that I'm sure was just

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-29699833458699994772009-02-14T22:03:00.002-05:002009-02-27T05:50:01.093-05:00

i wish i looked the way i felt.(empty.)

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-5094348670271796892009-02-12T15:28:00.004-05:002009-02-12T15:41:44.668-05:00

it's warmish outside and i hate this weather. yesterday when i was going to pay my rent i heard (between the headphone-noises) one guy tell another "winter is always like this in vancouver." i'm glad i don't live there.i just made guacamole for the first time. i added some salt + pepper and some cheddar and miked it for 22 seconds and ate it with some hella ghetto corn chips my dad sent me home

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-89269161901274166462009-01-07T15:32:00.002-05:002009-01-07T15:37:16.791-05:00

im perennially perpetually fuckedand only yesterday and earlier today i was glorying in itbut the snow shits on my parade like in ways it shouldn'ti guess i don't know where i am going let alone where i am right now. i guess i am big pictures as pauses, two frames as camera pans, i guess i am always laughing at my other selves. and staring at the others, delving in little fits into all the cracks

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-15530697882350558932008-12-12T05:00:00.002-05:002008-12-12T05:11:52.673-05:00

It's 5 am. I've been up for the last hour, wasting time, because nothing seems immediate yet. I'm listening to Bobcaygeon on repeat. I know you're not crazy about it but it fucks me up something special; I always thought stuff like "in the middle of that riot / couldn't get you off my mind" was kind of the epitome of love. Well, here I am. So much for the closet; it can have my coat but not my

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-35556646391420995902008-12-04T07:19:00.002-05:002008-12-04T07:36:34.454-05:00

It's 7:26 ante-meridian. Blood is thicker than water; and I'd want you all around even if you had cancers. But it ain't all jugs of orange juice, apple-cider, suicide doors. There's more to it than they act. Stuck here where I sit with the violins and the silence, blotting my ears against the sheet-sirens and the violence of the ink-blood final fantasy mental images, I get nothing done except two

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-57109795708583769442008-11-14T16:52:00.002-05:002008-11-14T17:02:08.134-05:00

Theme for the week: I don't know. Everything keeps slip-sliding. Even the little successes get washed up in the current, eddies, eddies, eddies. I wish eagle-like I could fly above it all. I wish I knew where to put in the right amount of work, the right amount of fear. The new music—Ninja High School, Inside Out, more Trap Them—has been nice. I only feel like I'm always hungry. More, more. I'm a

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-79864757771463466972008-11-07T15:18:00.002-05:002008-11-07T15:23:22.885-05:00

I was working yesterday (first full real cash shift in over a year) and a bunch of people I vaguely know came by. Shirine's Paul, Will's Antoine. I was grateful to certain degrees that they saw me as a cashier and not as a bagger. Makes me feel all accomplished-like, sort of. The main bit, though, was this one instance. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught this girl in line at my cash kissing

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-15329069645944994942008-11-04T02:47:00.002-05:002008-11-04T03:00:56.860-05:00

Fuck. I have the worst love/hate relationship with other people's blogs. I guess, with representations of other people on the internet, period, if my dalliances with MySpace back in the day are anything to go on. Everything just comes out so perfect and enviable. I told Shirine last night my purest loves were ones gone unnoticed. It scared me how true it sounded. And all these—tumblr, wordpress,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-76245737874726815272008-10-21T11:58:00.010-04:002008-10-25T16:22:43.432-04:00

I've only cried two times since that fateful haircut in early August of 2001. The first time was December 29, 2005, a few hours after Kat broke up with me, lying in my parents' bed at 346, and realizing I'd never get to hold her side-blubber again. I guess even back then I was a slave to the little things.The second time was September 17, 2007, two or so days after the first break up with Steph,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-78404897037176290312008-10-12T23:08:00.003-04:002008-10-12T23:39:22.462-04:00

Time-taker-uppers keep keeping me down. The weeks are like a maze with no exit signs and hardly any landmarks. I've written myself a few notes on my arms. Keep writing. Don't skip classes. Don't be too late for work. Don't eat too much junk food. Don't make that jump. Keep waiting. Keep wading. We'll see where they get me.The hockey season's started, which means I'm going to be spending way too

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-25325271059228275512008-10-04T01:15:00.003-04:002008-10-04T01:28:14.469-04:00

Outside my front door the floorhallway smells like cherry popsicles childhood. It's strange and sad and stoically silent how they manage to bottle a perfection like that and use it to clean shit-tiles with in little apartment landfilldings tucked away into nowhere. I live on St. Marc. Nick and Norah were all around St. Mark's Place. St. Marx place. Swing with me, sixties. We're running away,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-4141655006386330152008-09-27T12:37:00.005-04:002008-10-02T12:41:09.226-04:00

It's funny how one forgets. Admittedly, it's been a few months—May, June, July, August, and most of September—since last time. I mean, shit. I realized this morning that I barely even remember what sex feels like (Ed.'s note: This is not strictly true.), so this should hardly come as a surprise. The child-like grabs, the hurrying for cover, the cursory glance. The reddening inflaming Lisa

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-89792342053524754432008-09-12T22:28:00.004-04:002008-09-13T08:40:55.923-04:00

I'm three days from being not-a-teenager-anymore. For a while there I worried that my guys—my guys, you know—weren't realistic as young twenty-somethings because of how much emotional drama they had. Well, each passing day proves them more and more possible, but maybe also more and more like me and not like anyone else. Move over, hacksaw. I am the new king. I'm listening to new new

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-50829227636119123602008-08-24T02:17:00.002-04:002008-08-24T02:38:14.282-04:00

I'm floating, falling, flying out of control. It's past two, I'm losing it, no word from Concordia, no work on the horizon, no word count changes, nothing. It's all—all of it—in my head. I'm too (whooo) cerebral. You know what I'm talking about, pretty eyes. You know. In M.I.A.'s Paper Planes video she's wearing a Ride the Lightning shirt.I had this fantasy (I keep them, like old hockey cards,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-49968772737361193472008-08-05T04:01:00.003-04:002008-08-05T04:07:51.771-04:00

I haven't written (or read) anything in about a week. It feels disgusting. I don't know where it's come from but I want it gone. This job and these friends (neither of which really exist) and all these goddamn thoughts. Tomorrow (today) is Biodome Double Pizza Bell Centre box office. Tomorrow (two days) is blankets lines rain Radiohead back home tired exhausted. And Thursday, maybe Jin and Sandy,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-51044530113645113612008-07-27T11:39:00.002-04:002008-07-27T11:46:17.400-04:00

I wonder how much faith it's mentally safe to place on this story getting me what I want out of life. Two years from now, broken, a half-dozen or more rejection letters in hand, maybe 36 or so credits to my name at Concordia, will I quietly kill myself? Or have we moved past that? It's hard to tell if the writing's coming because I'm doing well, or vice-versa. Probably a bit of both. Even if I do

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-87219896721289706152008-07-04T22:38:00.003-04:002008-07-15T02:03:52.890-04:00

The air is all still in this place. Everything feels dead, though I know outside it'll be all too living for my livid lonely likes. A simple concept such as going out to get some food (two slices, piping re-heated) to still my prowling hungers turns into an epic quest. Huh. It's been more than two weeks now. Fifty to go. I've read two books, though (The Children of Men and The Good Earth) so I'm

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-44638568973567935132008-06-02T03:10:00.003-04:002008-06-02T15:46:05.097-04:00

I finally got some more writing done on Windswept. Christ am I bad. When I read that Chabon wrote 4000 words a week I kind of cringed. Way to not be an author at all, Alex. God knows the distance separating me from the Stephenie Meyers of the world is more than the Montreal to LA, a couple of years and being driven by desire. I think. (I know?) Fuck it. It doesn't matter anyway, that's not really

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-77701859351390410262008-05-01T03:25:00.005-04:002008-05-01T03:42:07.382-04:00

On my way back home from Will's and watching The Aviator, I stopped on Claremont not far south of Westmount and pissed in an alleyway. Christ, it was magnificent. Then I walked over to my Royal Bank branch and deposited my mom's winter-coat cheque and floated on home.Today's session with Jamie was interesting. This might not get me anywhere—it hasn't so far, but I feel like maybe he's still

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-26319976176819147872008-04-19T23:04:00.002-04:002008-04-19T23:20:02.806-04:00

Regrets: I missed Paint It Black. That was terrible of me. I wish, of course, that I had someone, anyone, to go to shows like that with. Maybe the fault is my own for not asking anyone. Maybe not. But McDonald's and an OT win do not make up for a mistake like that.Vlada is returning to Vlada. By which I mean: I can never seem to reconnect properly with her. Maybe it's something, maybe it's

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-85754992097257871162008-04-07T14:44:00.003-04:002008-04-07T14:51:35.423-04:00

I'm back to my old mistakes. I skipped both my classes today, and my poetry reading last night at O'Reagan's Pub (wherever that is downtown). I've got my second psychiatrist appointment tomorrow. I don't know how that's going to go. I don't have much to say, except that I'm lazy and impossible to work with. Either as a teammate or as modeling clay.I'm also wasting an afternoon I could be spending

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-89375476219000934062008-03-26T13:40:00.007-04:002008-06-02T04:24:27.826-04:00

I feel saner than I have in years. Not years, but. I guess that's what school does for me? At least, normal school. Like taking tests instead of writing poetry. Oh and also, I'm way too smart for my Linguistics class. Like I come in and be all "I drop science, mother bitches!" and the class be all "Oh Alex, even though you have only been to four classes previous to this one all semester and even

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-57775378070273193492008-03-24T15:57:00.003-04:002008-03-24T16:02:29.428-04:00

Alternate title: "March 24th. Autothoughts, transform and roll out!"I watched some movies. The Devil Wears Prada, Semi-Pro, Horton Hears a Who. I gave myself a haircut. Matt didn't invite me to his birthday party for me to not show. Maybe people are getting smarter. Tonight: Skittles and the Habs play the Sens. Me, fate. In that room like Keira and Matthew and just "shall we dance"

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-26746893280766153812008-03-21T17:05:00.002-04:002008-03-21T17:08:31.519-04:00

My head hurts. The difference-gauze is fading. I'm back to the lab again. I need a job and something to keep me hopeful. And a 4-3-0 record, minimum. I can only hope Alexei Kovalev, in His wisdom, hears my prayers. Shit, it is Easter. So sue me for the religious crap. I'm going to take a nap. Let's all hope I wake up better.I need to live in fiction for a year or more.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-25303128672286872412008-03-18T03:20:00.001-04:002008-03-18T03:20:41.782-04:00

I'm too stupid for my own good. I have to write this all in one go because god knows I can't handle opportunities to edit. Nothing will ever be perfect enough but I feel like getting something off my head. I haven't blogged in ages. I don't really know why I stopped, or why I started, or why I'm re-starting. It's all a matter of the little unimportant idiocies that added up build a life. My only

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-63055755886991778682007-12-24T06:07:00.000-05:002007-12-24T22:48:52.651-05:00

"so next time it's three a.m. and just on a whim you want to skate or drink or swim in the soft pink light of the dim and fading memories we once shared, give me a call, let me know you care." he waited for six weeks, got no availability. by now it was the end of december. he's afraid of this week. god knows he hates his misery. by now it was the end of his temper. "one of these days" he lies to

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-82757870660005007442007-12-22T01:16:00.001-05:002007-12-22T01:16:37.167-05:00

love is just the preamble to heartbreak, and life is just delaying the inevitable. some things must be free, and those who start late can't slide in, but we say it's destiny. it's all bull. so here's a picture for next morning's papers, a mixture of death and warning vapours, i wash my hands of this affair. i'm sick and tired of being self-aware. so spit, spit, spit, 'cause this is it. spit, spit

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-25472233793320626862007-12-18T00:33:00.001-05:002007-12-18T00:33:45.422-05:00

street stays shy, but the cold air hits like a reminder. these days i don't even know where the fuck to find her. kiss kiss, bang bang. drop dead. drop dead. it's missing, gang. drop dead. drop dead. at the very least drop anger. no? caught up in rooftop anchors? it's your loss. it's your cost. it's your debt. he's heard it all before. i'll be more direct. "hi, kids: it goes like this." kiss this

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-67122867466664922592007-12-17T23:53:00.000-05:002007-12-18T00:33:18.497-05:00

he thinks he's god in the flesh. she drinks these gauze-in-defence lies that he spits. he's just a chickenshit. he's just dreaming of her leaving. strip tease. she sings about being. he can never grab ahold of months. they always pass too fast. she can never only hold him once. days always have to amass in the end so they pretend no amount of time means anything. he's out of rhymes. she's

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-36150991279401217992007-12-09T06:49:00.001-05:002007-12-22T02:15:40.147-05:00

i said, "kill the lights," he said, "hit the switch." i said, "thrill delights," he said, "hit this bitch upside her face." it's such a disgrace. but i did it anyway. and i didn't even say, "hit the lights." and he didn't even say, "kill the switch." instead, i said, "time, it flies." and he said, "kill this witch." and i did. i ruined it. upon waking i made a vow. keep on taking, i'll make it

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-37008965741521858592007-12-09T06:46:00.000-05:002007-12-18T00:32:27.804-05:00

spending these winter nights with this miss-splintered sight, i blink my eyes, and i drink my cries. guess cold and sadness are just in vogue. all the memories that lust invokes. i cough and swear, and my lungs are bare. two months and forever. he's stumped and i'm severed. funny how things work out—i was the vain one and he was the wildlife. hum it, or sing about another pain: when am i gonna

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-88432421143133110192007-12-01T05:41:00.000-05:002007-12-31T13:40:53.633-05:00

she keeps trying to smile harder, but he's every time a firestarter, feeling more and more like a tired martyr. he's angry for no fucking reason but even though she's always in season, well, he just can't keep his heart from seizing up. he works so much for so little to no touch. he's so brittle. she keeps her attire formal and smarter than the next girl. he sleeps while on fire, normal, and

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-75648057472312918892007-11-28T03:18:00.000-05:002007-12-31T13:40:35.647-05:00

i'm forever going to picture us as we never were: happy and in love. trusty and so mature. clapping, hand-in-glove. is that wrong? so lock me up and swallow the key. it'd be more or less par for the course. so, like me, i'll keep wallowing see; you can be whore, or dress up for the remorse. it's so wrong. so kiss me deadly, risky red meat, whiskey when we, tipsy, set free all of your black doves.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-65645712557787711672007-11-26T06:21:00.000-05:002007-12-18T00:34:43.730-05:00

hold on a sec, just need some rest and relapsation from this pace that's such a maze and gotta keep the music playing so i can't hear the sounds always emanating from your room at the end of the hall, the sex and the crying and all the phone calls, the goodnight fuck and the judas-miss. my fistfight luck that you dismiss. just wish i wasn't in stasis, in places that her memory erases. drowning in

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-77924714382339948782007-11-18T16:07:00.000-05:002007-12-18T00:35:29.251-05:00

Character sighed and walked back to his room. His life was a swiftly sinking gannet. If only he could get the oil stains out of his eyes. He blinked a few times and pulled thumb and forefinger from his temples to the bridge of his nose, ruffling pink manhole covers on the way. It was a mess. He was far too much one for melodrama anyway, but it was still a mess. He wished it wasn't always two or

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-53433088757991912412007-10-24T04:20:00.001-04:002007-10-24T04:54:02.296-04:00

it kills like pink elephants. it rings like pill telephones. false or not at all. all sore, caught, and i'll waste my days away like this. i'll waste my ways. a day like this? call me a dumb waiter, all i have on my hands is time and signs. call-up—a scrum player—but i love her demands and diamond eyes and she hates my dying sighs. i'll read, i'll redial and speed-wile while speeding around in

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-90859474948083152732007-10-10T04:33:00.000-04:002007-10-19T02:03:52.880-04:00

dear me: by the time you get this letter you'll be free, and i suppose it's for the better. you need sleep, but these dreams will never be clean, or, for that matter, stop getting wetter and believe me, you'll never get her sweet screams or even the measly pleasure of getting to bed her mean streets. drums beat to something permanent: the numb deeps or at least a burning end. come, steep in

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-46193579806556759702007-10-07T02:32:00.000-04:002007-10-07T02:33:40.965-04:00

Character was drawing red exes all over the calendar. It was September 4th. He wasn't quite sure where, or why, all the time had gone. And even though it all went wrong, he though to himself, I'll stand before the lord of song with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah. No. No. That was a lie. There were criticisms, too. He was justifiably bitter and cynical. He searched for a meaning, a reason.

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-56725079190176299012007-09-11T21:06:00.007-04:002009-07-12T13:00:38.771-04:00

blow a kiss and stow your hiss away, i won't bite anymore. 'cause it's saturday night prayers and sunday morning lights. and now i'm dumb from this plastic crap riff-raff shit that drowns my steps and thoughts. and now i'm getting hot. i'm so hard to turn off. a quiet "can't," a little lie, the riot tents, the longest lines. i need you to need me more than you need this. i've seen you less greedy

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-43249345733190344092007-08-24T05:54:00.000-04:002007-08-31T21:41:06.855-04:00

It was late at night. The hour at which taxis alone, taxis and stragglers, and early early-morning wakebirds mistakebirds, ride the streets. Mostly just taxis.Character was listless relentless lackluster all over some stupid parkbench, tackling his fear of the dark by playing into its hands. Outside dark was easier to deal with than inside dark, in any case. He drifted in and out of being tired,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-90683470057048685642007-08-20T02:08:00.000-04:002007-08-20T02:09:05.308-04:00

i'm prince rainiest the third. in a rinse-rain he kissed the word "tomorrow" and the number "11." his sorrow became dumber and leaden and fell away by pieces. until a day when she says "stop," keep going. it's the only way to stay sane these days; drops keep growing and plowing their way down my "please" face. they form a crown around my shoes, a smattering of "whatsamatter, kid?," a worn-up down

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-63159513071442133462007-08-07T03:00:00.000-04:002007-08-08T11:04:33.225-04:00

like a steamship with only words to live, we gobble, gargle and then burn the midnight oil to piss. we're kept hanging on by pocketbook mistakes. come home to bed to find a pick-locket just took the drapes. so we keep drumming, waiting for whatever's coming and the last thing that gets summoned is the always heat of the moment. can you tell me why i feel so hoarse? i can't stop ponying up tears

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-41125070091009623092007-08-03T06:04:00.000-04:002007-09-11T23:08:15.950-04:00

it's high time for high tide to hogtie the tongue-timed. she chimed in but i couldn't hear her over the rhyme din and the leak spin; i couldn't get near her. it was a weak win. a pause. did you mean this? a cause? please. have you seen a kiss romantic as that? slow-dancing, is that what i think it is? not what i think of this, but what this thinks of me. abet this sick story. we want to vanish to

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-7305470392081589432007-07-05T16:59:00.000-04:002007-07-05T17:01:18.020-04:00

Character was in the hallway, when Harry emerged eventually, drawing patterns on the wall. Not in or obtrusively. At ankle level. Little black lines here and there. It was almost cute. He was reminiscing about his childhood. He'd grown up in a bad neighbourhood. Riding his bike, training-wheels-less, through sidewalk cracks and dogshit, dodging ghetto gepettoes and drugs that he hadn't at the

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-38151232983634281942007-05-30T02:37:00.000-04:002007-06-16T12:34:11.889-04:00

They had stopped getting the newspaper a month or two earlier. Current events weighed on Character. The cost weighed on Antimony’s wallet. Harry never read them enough to even take them lightly. A silent consensus (of sorts; as you might have guessed, this was the only kind of consensus the three ever arrived at) was reached. It stopped coming. They found new ways to occupy their mornings. Harry

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-62956840667316599272007-04-22T05:38:00.000-04:002007-04-22T05:39:43.503-04:00

bare hands and naked eyes, my pickup lines are really compact. broken glass and raking sighs, my fuck-up fines are chilly and cracked. i'm axing my fears away as fast as i can hit 'em. you're taxing your "heres" and may's as slow as a quicksand victim. i put the online in nonlinear. you put the "i'm fine" in "not this, dear." but we're so good at talking it out. sad candles, flames and steam. in

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-73961586607282669572007-04-04T03:32:00.000-04:002007-04-04T03:34:28.809-04:00

still stuck in still hives, drowning in your dust moats. ill-will fucking still cries, hounding friends in rust coats. the wind winds through these codex passages. i'm moving on to better and stronger things. the sand sings. you need no ex-pats in this. absence makes the heart go wandering. had enough of this shit-taking, bit of hit-or-mistaken. cry and the world laughs at you, laugh and you

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-50536475522839455462007-03-15T03:01:00.000-04:002007-03-15T04:16:19.154-04:00

The newspapers were right: I'm going to drink myself to death tonight. Wait, stop, back up. I just caught myself taking myself seriously again. Weight drops, facts, loves. Eyes. Lust, not myself, was faking nice well. Seriously? Again? I'm shocked and a pallbearer. It's locked in: a call fearer. I don't want to hear the news. Shut myself back in with a tear and a bruise in a shallow place,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-54031998500349547492007-02-09T01:51:00.001-05:002007-01-30T22:36:12.533-05:00

how many slaves did you enlist to build this wall? too scared to deal with whatever free-for-all? berlin has got shit on my feelings. how many generations until it falls? how could you ever love a horde like the mongols? i can see you through the brickwork, and i'm trying so goddamn hard to make this thick jerk seem convincing despite the joy i take in wincing. keep hiding among the parapets,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-3585017415749061122007-01-07T02:23:00.000-05:002007-01-09T06:36:33.411-05:00

i swear the sigh of relief you heard wasn't from my lips. mine, sure, but not mine, and in case you're wondering what gives, i apologize for the two-facedness and the saying what you want to hear. it's just that to see you trace it, miss, as far as warmth i've got naught to fear. i just wish going to bed alone wasn't set in stone. and it's you, doctor, i presume and we met while traveling through

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-63641037547687599182007-01-02T06:33:00.000-05:002007-01-02T06:34:09.161-05:00

i miss the snow, the miles and miles to go. such a barometer of our society, white gets grey and then fuck purity. through the flakes you'd rise higher and higher, kept adrift above these lakes on wings of my stupid, dumb desire. take this advice: never stop to think or look twice. where faces are wreckful and bites go for a neckful you're better off aloft. i'd tell you to save yourself but i

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-70403375948091758582006-11-28T00:29:00.000-05:002006-11-28T00:30:49.046-05:00

i'm not in the business of loosening lips or playing games, but rather sinking ships and laying blames. give me a border right now and i'll cross it, honest. gush down the drain into you like from a faucet. tallest tale i could ever tell: finding my way to safety from this hell. i guess the difference is distance. i'll hack through every vine that i can see, but the only one looking out for mine

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1164368271565570742006-11-24T06:37:00.000-05:002006-11-26T02:29:34.303-05:00

i'm feeling overdone like lyrical clichés: it's last call for rhyming "pull it" with "bullet." i'm feeling so done in like when you say that "he says." it's not going to be honest so i might as well bullshit: you're like a goddamned lottery ticket. keep on trying and eventually i'll stick it? (will all the losses pale in comparison to some far-off imagined monetary win?) stay tuned, i'll bet

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1164111006793062372006-11-21T07:10:00.000-05:002006-11-26T01:47:17.466-05:00

i've got seven goals in a period, see, and you're still not taking me seriously. i can go through the motions same as anybody else. sure, the uniform's changed, but the smirk is just the same. don't put me on the shelf. i can hold my hand to my heart same as anybody else. sure, the rules have changed, but the game is the same. don't radio for help. i've got my colours on my sleeve and a number on

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1163743445545814832006-11-17T01:04:00.000-05:002006-11-17T01:04:05.876-05:00

god save the queen, the king is dead. god loves a liar, it's the witch instead. and i'm finally coming close to finishing this off. all i need is the cash, the grab-&-smash state of mind and the kiss-off. is it the best thing i could do? don't have the time to calculate hedons, but i bet that you would too given the situation and the smell of freedom. so sick of dancing in this macabre ball, i'm

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1163270690116481602006-11-11T13:44:00.000-05:002006-11-11T13:44:50.306-05:00

caught up in a scandalous dream with turtlenecks and fabulous cream. could someone tell me where i'm going wrong? 'cause i hate to catharsize myself through song. it always means hang-ups about the stupidest things, and all the knots & tangles that thoughtfulness brings and could someone tell me why high school is never dead? with so little said i don't know what's there to be over-read. still

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1161575169805315132006-10-22T23:46:00.000-04:002006-10-24T02:00:23.940-04:00

so when you quit driving nails into my eyes for just a bit i'll pry the hammer from your goodbyes and sling it so far away finding it'll take forever less a day. the most common problem with webs is they won't leave you alone, but as this familiar tide ebbs i'm dying just to keep my home from breaking apart. i can see the cracks spreading like the dark and i wish i could say something worth

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1159685884050964792006-10-01T02:58:00.000-04:002006-10-22T23:47:54.606-04:00

it's not so much a pain as a shock-hurt, even thought the breakdown's just like clockwork. so i'm sitting here trying to be bobby oppenheimer with an emotion explosion and a ticking egg timer. a smile and a hug, denial and a tug at a heart in my head, of a hand in my bed. we know how this goes, the very same thing at all the very same shows. i've never been able to avoid you, not to mention all

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1158482969663404222006-09-17T04:49:00.000-04:002006-09-17T04:49:29.773-04:00

i hope you're getting something out of this. cause if it was me, i know i wouldn't be missed. "oh that's just life, love and strife." don't give me that shit. i'm staring at you, pleading, and it's hit or miss or just take the piss and get it over with. and when i manage to forgive, i'll let you know. until then, i'll watch you as you go. and these hands aren't strong enough to accomplish all the

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1157039406153556862006-08-31T11:50:00.000-04:002006-10-01T15:54:17.676-04:00

frail little frowny-stars, self-obsessed behind chocolate bars. curled, crumpled up inside. fetal position, nowhere to hide. your insecurities show through your figure. so afraid of getting bigger. face taped to the instruments of torture. these motherfuckers are making a fortune. the happy medium's not enough. extremes aren't as rough to embrace. look yourself in the face. the mirror's

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1156455212132365612006-08-24T17:33:00.000-04:002006-09-04T03:47:12.863-04:00

nobodies strewn across this dead-end street. the wind keeps driving back my feet. so true, so bereft of you. faces grin and moan, but i can do this on my own. i'm still not quite sure what happened. now there's no shelter from that wind. with or without you, i can't live. you've seen how i am, you can't give me what i'm dying for. whispered wisps of beauty got me sighing "whore." who needs

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1154224156475769872006-07-29T21:49:00.000-04:002006-07-29T21:49:17.213-04:00

darkened streets and haunted windows. in every avenue, in every alleyway. in the right light, the city's sin glows. i'm a battering ram coming right your way. caped, gloved, masked, restrained. i don't think this needs to be explained. our lips can do the exploring, our bodies the talking. stares from church spires boring holes through the backs of the mocking. manhole covers shift a little,

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1152341114329404792006-07-08T02:45:00.000-04:002006-07-22T14:04:32.133-04:00

normal expectations were on the run, but it seems you've sapped the fun. and you turned me into a post-statement liar, balancing on this debasement high-wire. faster than i had a chance to say, "what the fuck?" and the friendship is stuck. jesus fucking christ, your mistakes are so high priced. she smacked her lips and grabbed your dick, i smacked myself for coming on the trip but now we've moved

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1149087997620343882006-05-31T11:06:00.000-04:002006-06-02T22:17:39.510-04:00

i know it's time to end the silence but it's hard to speak i'm so frustrated. i've always romanticized violence but your reasons feel outdated. and now it's not even that you're got your blinders on, two-eyed people, dog-like, following a blind person, but once people who can't think for themselves start thinking to themselves that we're all going to hell, better watch out for the (invisible)

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1148004048270627782006-05-18T22:00:00.000-04:002006-05-18T22:00:48.843-04:00

shacked up like a war wound. eyelids heavy, brain is de-tuned. legs thrown around. oblivious to sound. run my tongue around this cracking mouth, backwards cite the hippocratic oath. i think something's gone wrong here. the television's attack is relentless. smiling, grinning war-profiteers. the coverage is twenty-four seven. i'm spent, miss. take my deadpan away for wiretaps. don't know what to

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1146894994142828582006-05-06T01:56:00.000-04:002006-05-13T05:04:40.030-04:00

this is an ode to the out-of-reach, an elegy for the stuck-up bitch. fake living perfect on a plastic beach, dying pretty, distant, angry and rich. pink promiscuity tracksuits you so well. sunglass cage, pursed lips, and how i wish you'd go to hell. i hate it that i want you so badly. i haunt you 'cause i hate you so madly, and it feels like you're all the same. still, i can't keep saying my

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1146328481271216752006-04-29T12:34:00.002-04:002008-03-27T04:35:58.646-04:00

shackles crumble. they start to rumble. hoods slip off, pulled by reawakened hands. eyes ablaze as they form roving bands. jumpsuits now a symbol of power. and for the rest: that sweet superiority's turned sour. imagine the look in his eyes, the surprise, when that face he'd never paid too much attention to hunts him down; makes him eat his vomit off the ground. and i've been told not to confuse

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1145048625992759962006-04-14T17:03:00.000-04:002006-04-15T00:06:33.000-04:00

ink me up and down, i want my veins to run with black. cut them away and watch gravity pick up the slack. as i fall i'll ask you to take up this, my attack. laying down to rest in death between the dying cracks. this means more to me than you will likely ever know. i alone will, in the moment, understand the meaning of when i am meant to go. a blood pact with a stranger i'll never meet. going out

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1144624612897658122006-04-09T19:16:00.000-04:002006-04-10T20:43:59.313-04:00

savour the taste, feel its embrace. feel the weight in your palm, dying trying just to keep calm for another moment or two. the time is nigh but the whole thing has yet to start. another moment or two before the beginning of the end, before you get to play your part. bask in the heat, the sun, your anger, light on your feet, your eyes filled with rancour. this is what it all comes down to. the

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1144461274206835932006-04-07T21:54:00.000-04:002006-04-09T19:15:37.446-04:00

three feet in the grave, digging up bones. this summer it seems we're all dead ramones. black leather, bad weather. jeans torn at the knees. no upstroke: it's not a joke. we're all adopting names that end in "ee"s. the kkk took my baby away and these days i just want to have something to do. blood is gushing, rocket's russian. when i'm down you know it's carbona not glue. song titles that begin

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1143498323070437212006-03-27T17:25:00.000-05:002006-05-25T22:39:51.746-04:00

snoozers losers, wakers takers. this time around, i'm the faker. finders keepers, losers weepers. this time around, you're the reaper. seventeen years under the curse, but i'm out of this hearse. and the best thing, or should i say the worst: you're still immersed. keep your knees bent, keep your head down. plug your ears so you can't hear the sound. that prison is where the answers are found —

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6304428.post-1142070315864657792006-03-11T04:45:00.000-05:002006-03-11T05:44:40.736-05:00

i remember it too. bathroom doorways slanting with light. darkness coloured black and blue but my thoughts left turned on all night. someone hit the fucking switch, i'm drunk off my exhaustion. someone deliver me from this itch and all that this silence is costing. hands numb at the wheel, can't grip to u-turn much less turn myself around. forgotten what it's like to feel as i watch you burn. as

alex iconhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09273671467730604021noreply@blogger.com0