your dead steel
my black blood

a contanimated companion

my cold thoughts
your warm choke

our goodbye is more a greater greeting

your dull rainbow
my ill thrill

your sick soul
my loss at your cost

Orange Punch

why do i deny
every little lie
luring like stuck tap water
in the night

i live while you sleep
i live like a Chinese Kung Fu dynasty
chasing opium and drinking drunk tea

i live underwater in the dead sea
out of control
upsidedown rock n roll

i die in your day
your dark and dew six a.m.
your unwanted stress
our outdated death

what happened to the pumkin cabin the in Wild West?
chewin fever cactus and flyin silly like stars
shooting out of our
ancient animal rifle
the weapon we were forced to abondon
at birth
has just killed the very kind
who had our doubt in mind
so so
my lover
my orphan
lets shine with this here red wine

Hepatitis in Power Chords

i never thought you'd come my way
unnoticed like a snake
with a sweet sad violin venom
a ninja enemy

(i wont let you get the best of me)

hep c
your end is my birth
my birth with a hundred rehearsals

will i drive through the fence?
head strong
brick built
i was never a disappointment

yet, here i am
no hellos
just bluesy rock n roll
brittle bones and a whole lotta i.o.u s

i wish this were deja vu
or a sick long nightmare

my reality is ruff
but im tired of being tuff

Dead Winter Crash Test

cest l hiver
and im hungrier than last year
i got pitbull meat
and a small fear
so small
it swallows me sideways
and im anxious as a deaf ear

like karma's snake
i never meet an exit
except my own end
that begins at a sharp tip
and sings and dont stop
till i get a bad head bop

my thoughts are west bound
where i might be found
barely living
simply dying

i cant control the candle of my confidence
i haven't a match
and i lost the fire that kept me burning
like dynamite in the cold Canadian frost bite nights

Gato Malo

under the influence of Jack
we have decided to kidnap
old saps
hangin hostile onto their pocketchange
to a Dollarstore for cheap candy kicks
while were wide loose and wild low

asleep on a popular corner
saturday night hype cant keep me
off my cloud

you must be sick
so says a passerbyer
in leather chop sticks

im as sick as i am sober
so i says back

people dont understand no matter what track our feet
seem to trail
we all end up at the same station
leave me some cash
to catch a quick ride or
maybe a bite to eat


Mohawk mama
red bandana
silly Wendy hoppin a fly
leopard print boxcar

moss and gangrene dreadlocks
XXX on your jugs
whiskey breath behind rainbows

Johnny Cash and some feminists kicking back
me and you
huffing glue
tipsy laughing

wild women with no end
no drunk dreams
just ripe reality
us, underwater, slipping
never sorry
always looking up at a memory of
poor hobo top class madness

Blood for Blood (Taste Test 8)

drunk dinner with Dad
hundred dollar dishes
and guilt like gunshots

a ghost of tears tucked under the table
more wine please?

brothers by my side
both manly enough to hide their insides

its been too long to show the darkness
lets drink something stronger
and weaken up our anger

ive got hostile bones and demonic vultures
blood on blood
the empty spaces are harmonic
lets sip to silence and tap our toes

Live Love Laugh

.............this map
has me nodding
like a stuck circle
like a dog
that has bit off his own tail
ive fallen victim to a sick trail
....an orange cap to head rock
....a white solid to keep a knock off

A Thousand Hides

all the empty pages
with what i forgot to say
and too much time untouched by nudity

and all the explosive beauties
my nasty head kept caged up

oh what is this
just another day gone slow
with no theatre lit show or
a single sound of encouragement

i start with putting on black boots
and so i stand lost in a spacious look

i dont belong here
every lock is letting go
like a rare bird
i am no longer chained to a sky

if freedom is a feeling or state
where is this place

in a nine to five alarm clock
a maybe million dollar wallet
a pocket change pouch

or is it in a family tree
where leafs dont trip they fall

maybe in a lovers ice melt eyes

i say freedoms inside
in a place that has no space
but just the body bag

in mine maybe a big heroic door
no need to take off my shoes
i will be swept off the floor
and guided to a poppy field paradise
with Papa Jack mad on whiskey
and all my favorite poets drinking black tea

life's to short to sit sideways and cry
this is why my face is wrinkled wet

im going to leave town with a wild fuzz back
in a jean jacket jet

ill have no expectations
just questions with no answers

like a boxcar on a tall peg leg
towering through Jasper
and its fine pine eyes
ill sing a silly old song to my mother
and hope it will remind her
she had her head in a cloud
and ill build a poor door
until i turn hero
and save myself


under a bridge
through the cracks
i met death first
blood black fingernails
and an expensive handshake
i exchanged a piano key
for a bag of tea
an inch of juice
an Indian spice
and like a cancer dancer
its a slow move

How Many Times do I Have to Die to Realize Im Alive?

i tipped the jar
December nights needed i stay warm?
one too many sugar hits and im sick
or soon to be sorry

maybe one more little lick of blood
will sweeten my stomach thick
and rob my spirits of
a painfull kiss

another one done
and my brain is late
and these lids gain weight
and im in another place

i wake up wet
with a loud ear

oh, an honest photo of my family
slapping my face praying on boundaries

i am in a bathtub with foolish eyes and frozen lips

Heavy Head

ive got nowhere to go
i slink slow
and wait for you to love me like you used to
i look for it everywhere
phonebooths, backseats, lotto tickets
these angles aint fit for me
im slow jazz bleeding in the grass
to weak for your weather
these tears
irish rain
our introduction
re birth
into a sky
a fucked up fairy tale
infinite and true
like a letter in a bottle
fate can wait
but my heart cant
i need you like a drug
if i cant have it
my grave is dug
a cold lump of grey
and my wishes
your name instead of mine engraved

White Curtains

i am in a bed of lucky clovers
dead babies in the cage
my own in the pickle jar
my man ran when i told him
i wanted a cucumber

i am not the crazy pitbull lady
living off my golden age memory
i told him
my world ends in your eyes

my cries got rythm when Daddy dances away
the baby dives and wiggles

this must be a joke
the kind a never laugh at
like the time i was tied up with rope
and kept quiet with dope

if gods a comedian
im in the front row of the show

a round of applause
the crowd doesnt care

some people got every shade of negative on their shoe
and its ok
if it isnt you

Waste Case 666

firebreathing dragons
living out of cans
scrambling for coathangers to push tin or tubes
voices whisper in the stereo dynamo
of a wacky worn out ear
tomato skin sweating in the cold turkey night
shadows grunt
names are dealt
handshakes are made
little legs run on black grass
to pick up trash or treasure to feed the empty stomach swinging souls
burning in the libido of city rulers
hanging off of fishing rods we reel our own reality
i watch and forget to learn the lost lessons
of many years floating in a Scottish toilet
what we thought of freedom
didnt matter
as a matter of fact
freedom was like a condom
used abused and forgotten

BC to San Fran

we dreamed of going to graves
Beat graves in America
highways and hobos
boxcars and sloppy joes
conversationalists without discipline
and one goal
constantly under skies
and birds instead of alarm clocks
with freedom feet off our knees
in a growing glow of scenery
drunken banjos lost in our foolish forest
a suicide squad
itching out like city flees
only i died without moving my feet
never met freedom but deaths angels indeed
you fled
quietly and concretly
like a butterfly key
opening our dreams with simplicity
i scored one goal
not ours
but it took a hotshot at my soul
it opened me for the world to see
only a grave i might be

Insides Out

you can find me in dark corners
praying for blood in doorways
ive got a self medicated nametag
as i knock for your room full of dead babies
and stink of sex
and sorries
you say your one dollar short of taking over the world
i say were poor as i stir the leftover tunafish on the floor
we know ive been walking backwards
in the animal swamp city slump
i go back to my mothers
dance for innocence
to end up riding the railroads up my arm
ive lost my looks
and my words wobble
the police are here to tell me
to turn inside out
i dont listen
so i cook a cure outside the kitchen
im hearing Bob Dylan
the first poem i ever wrote
im back to the basics
me vs. me
its alright ma, im only dying
ive tried, im trying, im tied
it was early when she died
one day they might say

The Wolves Howl When the Moon is Out

i have lived in craters
became a cactus
sick to a green
with dirty dull needles poking out my pores

hep c and hiv

we will shrink old in our trash can galaxy
talk with leather tongues
a new dialect spoken with simple belts hanging from our mouths

we watch the mornings grow
the buisnessmen make is rich and the children dont exist
the insects become our skin
and our insides are outside on the same city curb
we wait for this guy
he blows dope out his nose
a tie type with a pointed beard
and a Cadillac cane

too old to be a friend but enough to be a killer
a kind killer or a medicine man

the schedual is the same for a crippled few
we barely know eachothers names
but our clock clicks to the same cello

we beg for a buzz
a kick or a cure

we pencil roll outside a cheap mall
full of old men and sad stories

Dilauded ave.
the place to get misplaced
in all fucked up shapes
we all end up flat and broke

Oh Geez

the pleasure or the future?

the choice to be chosen
or the loss of winning the wrong game

we are all praying we wont live the be that age

yes yes
the drugs will save you

and no we will not reveal your death date

so go on! waste time trying to figure out your destiny
i will be spending money under a coconut tree


tisk, tisk,
we are here unoticed
and wrapped like cheap fish

waiting for the moon to burst like a juicy pinata full of quarters
a million phone calls will be made

HELLO doctor!
why hasnt anybody noticed my existence?
the panzers pull pitbulls for pocketchange
as the murderers line up like stoplights pretending to be poetic
while the drugdealers pick up pigeons for pennies
and kicks
and the long legged girls hop
on the backs of jumping jacks
for hickies and licks instead of twizzlers and hickory sticks

and where am i?
the subhuman kind
swimming in yesterdays hangover
outliving the curiosity of my mind

this piss stained corner has taught me this
if i were heartless
id be rich

nevertheless my head still turns
when the sunsets
and my hands dont wash clean for wine and cheese

im a bargener
heading towards the storm

a dollar for a poem?
i said a dollar not a stone!

this city aint got sympathy
for wildcats like me

im not on my knees but could someone tell me
where my mother is please?


Trumpet Squirt

you’re a bean bag
used as sock
on the foot of an all day apple picker

tired & tasty

the sun hasn’t been pointing it’s fine ass at you for seven years
those seven years of
“i can’t afford a Father to keep my nose clean”
“i sure can afford to clean out my nose”
tissue is only a dollar

one piece for your sweet pie
that has no inside
but you blow those brick bombs
& the naked builders
cause’ your not Thompson
your tragic


Jukebox Cackle

you told me drugs are too good to be true
so i
used your Mother’s umbrella
as a plug for eight months
minus six rainbow days
with hugs around my neck
and a nipple
of reason
(that i forgot)

but took three hours
to take the bus
from one stop to the next
because the people were so friendly
until one gunned me down with daises
hurt like rabies
but i didn’t and don’t have rabies
i saw David Bowie
on Mars
and he told me“people are beautiful when they have nothing to believe in”

Our Conversation is Ripe

im surprised all these pills haven’t killed me, yet

what vibrant veins i've got
what a useful nose i’ve got

(i can’t comment on my brain)

maybe my heart how it’s all over this page
and maybe
burning up your eyes
with no
to help
but a silly image
like a smoking foot
to surely cure you
my hot-hot fire
my no-wart magic

that i use on madhats like a poetcat with
who might call me a bloody wanker
because i drink like my Grandfather
and my white is nasty
and what is more honest than white?



the vulnerable veins
of the orange-peel littered streets

suckin’ smoke

crystallized eyes wide for reaper
gardened with pig-tail hair

nude as a knob
twisting & turning

bumbling & yearning for a succulent fix

[JACK in d' BOX]

snakeskin (fluorescent) fishnet

Je Me Souviens


nervous on Parc avenue
pacing through the rainbow-boîtes
pastel & trippy

baby gardens, dead flowers, prickle weeds,

broken bottle under my shoe
ganja-mon begging me for one-seventy-five
to hop for Tam’s

& i’m eating poets,
spitting out drums, banging on trees,
(dancing underground)
waking up the dead
they say

i say where’s Em café?
i want a pint & a burette
i want a French-accent & a gram of clay


prochaîne station: Charlevoix
& the amputee tells a junkie-lean lady
that when it comes to the egg
the more boiled the beautiful,
an asthma sucker smiles, because it’s true
the blank white image the same
but the bubbly beating unknown
a memory
a mystery
a question
of strength & untold evils of the golden canvas

obvious as confetti, sincere as spaghetti
it laughs like a clam
as it swallows your face
and all your dreams which it then
in a potato bag through the forever lemons
stuffed in the cheeks of paranoid pigeons
that pace past unstoppable stilettos who lift their skirt
& do nothing but chirp


jack! where’s your box?
where the cheap coloured suits say hey bella,
come amo? you call your father?
& i say that’s none of your business, okay?
but sure, money maker – knee breaker,
got a dollar to spare?
got a phone to use?
got a number to score?
got a box to build?
a shoe box? for a poet-man,
he’s dead but his mad creations shouldn’t be exposed to light
& need to
chant & smile & maybe play banjo & never die?


drunk in St. Henri,
peeling band-aids off the abandoned gas-station
onto the bloody butterfly of my knee

flying on the backs of street-cats
with broken doors hung off the hinges

if i weren’t drunk i wouldn't be here

i wouldn’t be in this should-be-white bathroom
which never has toilet paper

and he cups my cotton-crotch
grande with faux-heat & erection

he thinks he poured my puddle
(the piss i couldn’t wipe)

an hour in, and
no lotto
no casino
no flamingo lights

my legs are sleeping & i have to fart

i’m not drunk anymore, so i scream sincerely


Uncle Wait-on-it-Murphy

your tambourine don’t clack or
like it used to, rusty red beard

all that cactus chewin ain't sane old sir

you mop like a wet sock
when you spit barbells into the puddles,
them preppy puddles
only four fingers away
from your tin foil feet

those penny vacuums
sucking out soup
pouring all over your favourite David Bowie cd

no, Major Tom can’t help you on this planet
of Cracker-Jack maps

you to them puddles

where you let the guppies decorate your toes
and tell you
while you wait for the soapy cardboard to melt
and then the purple wave hits
and the guppies
and you wonder why this imaginary toilet bowl
won't flush you to the infinite underworld
where your mad suggestions would catch you a fine fish
that would lick you dry
of your
empty earphones
magical Mexican plants
that leave you
c o n s t i p a t e d
as you pop-corn over the golden dumpsters
burping out melodies
twisting to the fat fingers
stuffed in piano keys
you tighten your knees with your fishnet skin

when i was a cabbage patch kid
you were cooler than pop-eye

i'm not as dumb as i was two hours ago,
them things ain’t candy cigarettes
puffed outa
that plastic flamingo

HOWL for Liana Paré

monotone canaries whistling Sinatra
waking the noon-dreamers from protectively hidden memories
of tragic-comedies printed on banana-peels
stuffed in the sealed Freudian-slip drawer
& scattered recollection of the illusionary countless days
of endless sunsets scratching crotches for friendly-fags
preaching equality
& black coffees by the dozen for one-seventy-five of your seven-twenty-five
crusted tastefully in back-pockets from panhandling the lightning streets
filled with cold bodies plagued with sour-breath philosophizing the psyche
and household plumbing
who wink at little boys gesturing pleasantly-disturbed intentions
while they broom heavy-tissues weighed down by divine brain-fluid
leaking out the exits poisoned by the unfortunate good & glad mother-nature
& swarming fruitflies in empty soup-cans with charcoaled fire-craters
dusting expired baking soda stolen from the dépanneur owned by clueless Chinese
behind the blindly-decorated boxes
glamorously sheltering the nameless & the ageless corner-warmers
who dance casually & hop spontaneously
at the bus stops bumming cigarettes in exchange for crooked smiles
never rehearsed
& empty sandwiches that sympathetically hype the tightly-capped heads
of the expensive soda-pop drinkers who both support
& minimize the hopelessly misunderstood souls vibrant with rubber-pets
& imaginary-friends contemplating Hitler’s many assassinations
hidden in the deepest cracks of empty flower-pots
kicking scummy-boots
behind the governments-gate who generously lends a half numbing
for a half/paranoid half/dead moist feather-plucking latex worm
who sweats sweet-pearls onto the eyeball shine of the
hospital waiting room floor
where madly destroyed hopefuls sit desperately
praying & calculating mathematical coincidences to the almighty
of unexplainable fertile-faiths with questions answered by mad geniuses
illuminating the starless-night
celebrating mental illness with loaded guns
& it’s many gifts to art and science from Italy’s Renaissance
to the confused wet raindrop tattoo sliding concretely
down the clammy face of a moaning crackbaby loosely wrapped in the boiled-spaghetti arms of her overdosed mother knocked-up drunk & helpless
whose repressed-anger dissolved intravenously
with the dirty-needle of her howling husband the black-eyed slack-mouthed
one of many misguided money-hungry dogs brainwashed by greed & ecstasy
suffocated with pointless pride
distributor of galaxies spinning indescribable emotionally with flashing streetlights pretending to be candy while therapeutically impossible of the
no-need prescription
to the third underworld poisson floating lively in a calm infinite ocean
of the other planet unknown paradise
patient & precious with groovy-angels
banging on bongos and blowing in harmonicas
hypnotizing & earthly Shaman
welcoming & warm
where the moon is worth carving riddles
no one bothers to think-twice about because your angelic cursive is illiterate
to any level-headed-joe connecting the little-dipper
while constipated at a boring house-party full of health & mindlessness
dulled by repetitive life-experienced aliens scrubbed-brightly like trophies
who know nothing of childish naked-nights rolling down the golden hills
of limited-laughter and sublimated-paintings
coloured brightly with opium flowers
who blossom freely in the trusted swamps of a sewer
over by the sleazy after-hour bar
snowed in by sneezing freckles on the powdered noses of young prostitutes
selling colourless rubix-cubes to the amputees of St. Catherine
studying literature in a quality university who frequently recite beat poems
out perfectly diseased mouths to the pierced ears of the zombies
who squeal in heat of a high that fall gracefully like autumn leafs
onto the lap of a forever-bitter grandmother helped across the busy-city-street
while strained obviously-racist against traumatized-eyes sunny for a present
wrapped in karma & rotten-teeth biting over blued-lips who kiss the ripe-apples of Eden
& the butts of many bowler-hat wearing psychologist
in the wrinkled hand of enlightenment
lied to spirits in red who chant
head-hunter head-hunter head-hunter
in the silence of meditation fully-medicated
meowing space-wonderers
right back to the symphony of morning on the greenly garden
of a lone psychedelic purple-mushroom infested rock
where woken with crisp visions singing
“that’s amore”