| Destroy all rational thought |
[Jun. 24th, 2007|02:04 am] |
writing is slavery.
I don't feel the need to explain myself anymore.
The last statement, unnecessary. |
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| Muse # 9438 |
[Apr. 9th, 2007|03:37 pm] |
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I think the greatest thing that can happen to an artist is to have all their work destroyed. |
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| Bald Rapunzel |
[Mar. 7th, 2007|10:02 am] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | purgatory | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Cibo Matto - Birthday Cake | ] |
I met you at the estuary,
Laughing at nothing,
Lying naked on the riverbank,
Letting your hair wander free with the current
Which filter fish nibbled at enthusiastically
Marvelling at your exotic delicacy
You wore nothing but your faults,
Your seams, your cracks, your wounds
Polished in the decayed moon light,
Displaying your sins as if jewels,
And laughing unapologetically
At nothing in particular,
I took refuge by the shore,
Built a fortress in the grass
Out of bones and gristle
And let the salted air,
Turn my proud skin to leather,
I drank empires to quench my thirst,
Razed my enemies with my lust,
Your laughter, however
I could never conquer.
I admired you from my Kasbah,
A failed voyeur,
For my gaze was never hidden,
From your fertile cognizance,
I fed my people to the elements,
And slunk down to the river’s mouth,
To trade all my spices and pearls,
For but one lick of your soul,
My offers choked in the tide,
But you took pity on my appetite,
And fed me your stare, for a hundred years
From across the river’s edge
And in that time we often traced
Symbols of our endearment
With our toes in the cool, gushing water
Our love always drowning in the ocean,
And while my heart was well supped from your smile,
I grew emaciated from your laughter,
Starving for your touch
Your locks grew slowly towards my grasp
While I grew slowly mad.
I awoke one day demented,
Bled dry of all my reason
My whiskers tickled by a curiosity
Your mane had finally reached me,
Your laughter in the distance
Translated by lunacy into loneliness
I summoned my strength at once,
And pulled myself towards you,
But my heart was weak, though my ambition strong
And then the current ate me.
I returned a lifetime later,
Mummified by my desires
And carrying the lantern of my youth,
The river now was parched,
Dammed by hungry men,
I found you dead by the bank,
Your hair long since devoured by your scaly friends.
I wept for you eternally in the mud,
While magpies scavenged, and traded
The fragments of your soul |
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| ENNUI! |
[Jan. 26th, 2007|12:02 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  Chapped | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Beastie Boys - Intergalactic | ] |
It's been a while since i've updated this bad boy, but I guess it's reflected my general level of literary activity. Fortunately, i've just recently got involved with a lot of things so I hope to be churning out a lot more work in the near future.
There's a few exciting things happening soon.
1) SEEDfeast is on February 8th (may be pushed back to the 15th but i'll give ample notice), this time around Stefan and I are organizing it so there will be heavy features on poetry and music, we will also be screening some short animated films from the SEED animation class. It starts at 5:30 pm and goes till roughly nine an afterparty is in the works.
2) The Diamond Cherry reading series: Myself and a few other SEED students (nobody has really seriously stepped up to the plate yet, but perhaps Molle Dorst and Alyssa Thiel) will be featured poets at the Diamond Cherry reading series at the rennaisance cafe, a date is still in the works.
3) Art Attack! - A night of guerilla art and poetry hosted by SEED and the Toronto Public Space Committee, we will be beautifying the streets of Leslieville with home-made murals which we will place over bus shelter ads and the like. Date is also in the works.
And finally, for those who don't already know. I'm once again enrolled in the Toronto Fringe Festival (a two week independent theatre festival) with an original work entitled "The Devil's Albatross". The work is a huge step away from "Johnny Shot the Jazzman" and I feel it very accurately exposes my maturation as a writer. A lot of it is still in the works, but i've decided to post one of the scenes from the script (something which I never do) to give you guys (my phantom fans) a taste of the production.
Enjoy
( The Devil’s Albatross (Scene 3)
(an excerpt from the seedalt fringe festival production.) ) |
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| The Gorilla Manifesto! |
[Jan. 22nd, 2007|10:15 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Torontosaurus Rex | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  emote! | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Yeah yeah yeahs - Date with the night | ] |
You are on a bus; you’re drinking a latte with extra head, for an enhanced foamy experience. You are in transition from point A to point B, you are at approximately point C and a half, but space does not exist between the source and the destination for you. You are preoccupied with the tabloids; suicide bomb, suicide bomb, nose job, laser hair surgery for men, suicide bomb. You’re plugged into your personal music device and listening to a recent chart topper that is edgy in its content and style, but so universally digested that it could never be misconstrued as offensive. It is somewhere at this point (keeping in consideration that this point does not exist), between sips of your double foam latte and paragraphs exposing the most recent celebrity meth-heads that you notice a four hundred pound purple gorilla next to you smoking a cigarette. His name is Bob.
Before you question the fact that there is a large, stinking, parasite infested fuchsia ape curling his finger around your comfort zone, a single thought crosses your mind.
How dare he smoke a cigarette! There are several factory stamped signs decorating the interior of this steel and slave labour road vessel. Smokers will be gassed. Beware; smoking causes euphoria in lab lichens. Smoking may lead to more smoking. You still smoking?
Bob (now named Bobella) sticks out his furry magenta paw (now saffron) in a gesture of greeting and cosmic ill-will. He puffs on his cigarette (now a stick of incense with the trademark sent of seraphim farts) and begins to recite a poem that is no more words than smoke or phlegm.
The taste of this poem is grotesque and arousing, like salty catfish playing hopscotch in your cerebellum. The resulting orgasm caused by this mad vision, is naturally so disorienting that your four humours congregate to debate which bodily fluid need be excreted first. Your knee cartilage leaves you for your hotter sister, your subconscious ruptures and leaks intimate moments all over corrugated floor and finally your smug sense of self satisfaction ferments into a slop of primordial ooze which is served to eager hands at a downtown soup kitchen. Your identity was nothing more than padding for your collision with the cosmic mind fuck.
( The death of the Narrator begets the birth of the Gorilla. ) |
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| An open letter to the sun. |
[Sep. 21st, 2006|09:55 pm] |
Dear Mr. Sun, Life Giving Sun.
I'm enchanted by your flaming lips.
The ones that spat forth Mother Earth.
Like Molten Cud.
I'm lost in your diseased structure, an isotope graveyard
where bright eyes
go to die.
Will you come home tonight?
Hungry Sun
Consuming bone, the wood of my flesh, as if brisket.
Munching on God's children and succumbing to heart burn
trying to digest their acidic garbage.
Your belches wilt the cosmos. Put down the fork fatty.
Cancerous Sun
You're an itch,
A boil on my ego
A hot fungus, parading in my blood.
Multiplying, under my skin.
Like manifest epidermal destiny.
Atom Smashing Sun
How Ironic,
You Ionic,
Nuclear Furnace
That you desire to scorch the skies,
but it's your desire that's burning you.
Scalding Sun
Searing me with your stare, your light.
Your ancient eyes exhaust me.
Gaseous Sun
Your wasted breath
inspires precambrian life,
Your eyelids weighted,
with the dust of nebulas
and you have no one to brush it off.
Centrifugal Sun
A nuclear despot,
A tyrant of the void
gravitating everything towards your solar regime.
Blinding Sun
So bright in your vanity.
So beautiful, you can't bare
to share your body with earthly voyeurs
without taking their sight as payment.
All Engulfing Sun
How is it,
that you are so far away,
wearing the moon as your slippers
and yet, you're always touching me? |
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| Hello September |
[Aug. 14th, 2006|01:25 am] |
When you’re a child, routines are all you know. And why shouldn’t you? Hell, you got it easy! You get told when to eat, when to sleep and when to shit. You even get applauded for your efforts of eliminating into some kinky cartoon animal chamber pot, with its mouth pried open like an eager fecophiliac. It’s no surprise that we have so much trouble remembering our youth, as it all becomes a myriad of skinned knees, cheap Halloween costumes and mustard stained shirts. The only thing remarkable about youth is that, well, it’s so unremarkable. That’s not to say that the trauma of spilling your juice at age three isn’t any more trivial than getting laid off at age thirty, but as a child, a couple tears shed and you move on with your life, you learn to forget the past and live in the moment. In that sense, kids sure are on to something.
But there is always that one traumatic event that scars are memory and comes to define our childhood more than anything else. It usually manifests itself in the form of an evil molesting uncle, or succumbing to discipline under the cracked leather belt of an incompetent father. We try to escape these memories, but it’s hopeless, they saunter around like a wayward fart in an elevator, you just know it’s bound to hit you any moment. It becomes a wine stain on your psyche, try to scrub it out with vinegar, but it still stinks.
Perhaps, it’s to keep us in check. It’s the initiator of our ego, the first clue to our own consciousness. It’s that exact moment when we go through this experience that we realize something profound: “Holy shit, I’m alive… this is horrible!” |
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| The Massacre in my pocket... to the max? |
[Jun. 21st, 2006|10:31 pm] |
Alright, alright, I admit that I love Tom Savini too much, how could I not include Dr. Tongue on the cover of my first published work? |
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| Hey Assholes! |
[Jun. 21st, 2006|10:02 pm] |
Tommorow night is the SEEDpress Book Launch! If you have an ounce of "awesome" in your bones you'll attend the festivities tommorow.
WHAT?: SEEDpress Book Launch!
WHO?: Featuring ten budding Toronto writers from SEED Alternative School: Kawai, Chris, Noor, Alyssa, Dillon, Marie-Therese, Nikos, Jenny, Samantha and Molle! Each artist will be reading from their newly published manuscripts and copies of each of their books will be up for grabs for 10 bucks a piece. All funds go towards the expansion of the Writers Craft Program, of course.
WHERE?: SEED Alternative Secondary School, 885 Dundas Street East, 2nd Floor of Queen Alexandra Public School. Located on the south-east corner of Broadview and Dundas
Directions (from Subway): Make your way to Broadview station, go up the stairs to the street car platform, take either the 505 or the 504 to Dundas Street (Landmark: Coffee Time on the corner), Get off and walk to the South-East corner (Landmark: HK Variety Store) Walk a little farther east on Dundas untill you come upon a school adjacent to a large field, walk through the first doors you see and go up the stairs!
WHEN?: 7pm - 9pm or later!
WHY?: Free Entertainment, cool people, a chance to learn about Canada's oldest and most revolutionary Alternative School, the chance to support novice writers and best of all supporting the future of the writers craft program at SEED Alternative School.
After Party @ Lo'la
Promoter: Ear to Brain / Discotoast
Date & Time: Thursday, June 22, 2006 - 9.30 pm till 3 am
Venue: Lo La, 7 Maitland St.
All are welcome! |
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| SEED feast |
[Jun. 15th, 2006|10:59 pm] |
A suprisingly enjoyable night, though quite odd. Something is really troubling me though, my maths and sciences teacher Alvin, is quite the Enigma to me. I don't know whether it is preconceived notions or me over analyzing, but there seems to be a very sad quality about him, like he has no deep connections with people.
I've had some of the most enjoyable conversations with this man in my life, and he's told me strange things which I can only come to believe with his explanation. I've let him down repeatedly throughout the year, and yet he is still jovial and understanding towards me, he makes you feel bad by trying not to make you feel bad at all.
That's not to say that he lets people walk all over him, he's very confident, but at the same time very shy.
I could write a whole novel about him and never truly understand, well, it is my utmost hope that I never can understand him, what is the fun in that. He is certainly someone I do not want to lose touch with when I move on in my life.
I have a feeling that a certain Mr. Fotia was in my presence tonight and some how, I did not recognize him (being in the under slept, under fed state that i'm in) and missed the oppurtunity to fraternize with him. Adam, if you were there tonight and I missed you, I deeply, deeply apologize, i've been completely out of it man I don't know where my mind is at these days.
And now without further adieu, here is an essay I wrote for my english ISU.
( Fear and Loathing in the Gospels ) |
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| The Man who ruled the Universe |
[Jun. 12th, 2006|11:26 pm] |
Perhaps the weirdest shit i've ever wrote
The Man who ruled the Universe
Over the years it has often been speculated as to where God placed his beloved Garden, the one where he rolled the dough of flesh from dust and using a cookie cutter, made man in all his simplicity. These cookie cutter men, went forth to build cookie cutter towns which grew into cookie cutter cities. They occasionally fought wars over whose cookie cutters were most like God’s, but they always ended in cookie cutter conclusions. But all the while, they forgot the garden, and it grew wild and knotted as there were no cookie cutter landscapers to tame it. Over time they forgot its whereabouts. Modern anthropologists might suggest it lays in Tanzania, others might suggest that it’s hiding somewhere in Mesopotamia. The truth is, the garden grew into an unkempt grassy knoll bisected by concrete rivers deep within the belly of a certain cookie cutter metropolis, it his here that God brought forth his second genesis, his most esteemed prophet. He is the man who rules the universe. He is our hero. And he loves acorns.
( Read more... ) |
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| Your Dreams are Dead |
[Jun. 10th, 2006|11:56 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | PH neutral | ] |
| [ | music |
| | El-P - Stepfather Factory | ] |
It's funny, writing about the world I experience comes so easily to me, but writing about myself always draws blanks.
It's probably because my sense of self has become so jaded in recent months. I've come to realize that these pyschologically conceived notions of "self" or "me" are really nothing more than illusory and very off the mark of the "Real deal".
Blogging is the anti-thesis of vedas.
Not that nothing is happening of course. Working at Curry's, getting my G1, working on my manuscript and my new stage play, smoking too much reefer, not smoking enough reefer, saving up to go to Argentina and Chile with Lia, skateboard, skateboard, ignore the injuries, prose, prose, prose, sleep.
Anyways, I cordially invite you, my slumbering audience of stalkers and recluses, to attend two nights of spoken word, music, drama, comedy and general mind-fuckery.
SEED Feast, June 15th 6pm-9pm
Located at SEED Alternative Secondary School
South-East corner of Broadview and Dundas,
Second floor of Queen Alexandra Public School,
Featuring: Morbio, Stephan and Wilson's band, Acidic Linguist, Poncho, Mollegog, Alvin, Luciano, Alyssa, Heba and More!
Bring food, nibblies, potluck fair, your eyes, ears and genitals!
Please get intoxicated in the adjacent field and not in the building.
I will be doing a 10-15 minute reading from my manuscript and perhaps my latest stageplay. I'll be on most likely between 7-8pm.
2) SEED Book Launch, June 22nd 6-9pm
Same place, see above
Featuring: The written works of 10 (or is it nine) SEED students; Molle, Sam, Jenny, Alyssa, Nikos, Noor, Chris, Kuwai, Marie-Therese and yours' truly. There will be numerous readings from all the writers as well as books for sale!
Possible after-party too. |
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| Huff |
[Jun. 9th, 2006|11:18 am] |
Pop! Fizzle-whiz
Precambrian drugs
Would you like some manna-naise
With your evaporated trilobites?
Ancient atoms, fornicating on your
Thought molecules, and leaving
Carbon based love stains.
Chew twice, choo choo!
CH3CH2CH2CH3
Only you and me
Know the melting point of vision
Pick up your corneas
Before they ruin the carpet
How much life experience,
Can you compress into a can?
This is an all too repeated reality
Reality, all too repeated
Too repeated, too repeated
Your neural jukebox, is skippin’ a beat
But you have your own world
Underneath the sheets
Have you ever made love,
From birds eye view?
Recycled words,
A messiah’s last breath,
Within a paper bag
Why drink his blood, or eat his body
When you can breathe his air?
You’re the gas prophet
A Hoover of a huffing heifer
You don’t preach words, you inhale them
Suffocating on your revelations
Blood may be thicker than water
But gas is heavier than air
You left behind a daughter
Not that you’d care |
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| Pardon My Dust |
[Jun. 9th, 2006|02:43 am] |
Doooot… doooot… doooo
What is this hellish sound, this satanic mechanized bird call?
“Castle Frank Station, next stop Sherbourne”
Words mingling with the neon hue, what do they mean? Make the connections. Adapt, Survive, Manipulate… WAKE UP! Where the hell are you? Wiggling your toes will bring you back to reality. There’s a sickly sweet odour in the air. Did you piss yourself? Just wiggle that big toe champ. I’m in a steel tube, a giant tin can on wheels, and I’m a bipedal preservative. Who am I again? I should leave before that bird chirps again.
Peeling the cement from my eyes, I can manage to traverse the steps. These burgundy hallways won’t do, they look like they’ve been designed by a renegade Sunday school teacher, a colour blind terrorist. Someone must stop her before she paints the town mahogany!
( THINK! ) |
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| The Man who spoke in Acronyms |
[May. 8th, 2006|01:41 am] |
At the end of a rather bleak row of dollar discount clothing bins, past the “previously enjoyed” fifty cent porno section, at the crossroads of kitchen ware and sporting goods, lay the answers to the secrets of the universe, woven deep within the silky tapestry of a Kentucky waterfall. These sacred follicles belong to a very special man: Roy (from sales) AKA the man who spoke in acronyms.
( I didn't know him too well ) |
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| The Nightmare Before Existence |
[May. 2nd, 2006|12:12 am] |
Creation began as a mutation
Gestating on god’s toilet seat
On a hazy split end Tuesday
Somewhere in Florida
These lawless germs
No more than perfumed Alligators
Running through mazes in plastic castles
Painting their destinies on the highways
With tongues dipped in motor oil
And searching for the big cheese
The great Gouda
These shrink-wrapped souls
who birthed civilization
And then ate its placenta
Build milk crate towers to the heavens
So man can taste his creator
Enter you and me
Stage left on galaxy nine
Two star-clad barnacles
Leeching the universe of its vapour
Dancing to the drum
And tracing our names
Through the dust of the nebulas
I’m an honest salesman
Selling assurance of the holocausts
And you’re my number one customer
It ain’t easy
Being a boy
In dinosaur’s pyjamas
Trying not to laugh at your hi-jinks
So I don’t blow the milky way
Out of my nose
I’ve determined your equation
Your Buddha of the thrift store making
But I can’t divide your Atman
In this parabolic apocalypse
In retrospect, I regret
Sleeping through the resurrection
But I’ll catch the Matinee |
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| Where the sun don’t shine |
[Mar. 29th, 2006|11:13 am] |
When I was born I came out ass first. My father, a television evangelist, was not amused. Years later, on her death bed, my mother told me that my god fearing conservative father suffered and epiphany that day, as he tried to reason where an ass faced child could fit into the kingdom of the lord. She told me, that the moment my placenta stained posterior met the light of day my father felt as if he were staring into the very abyss of hell. In retrospect, I can only laugh.
One can only feel sorry for my father. He lived and taught a world of endless contradictions, where splitting the red sea is a miracle but splitting the rear end is an act of Lucifer. My mother told me that a lifetime with a buttocks breathed babe flashed before his eyes. I often wonder what he saw. Did he yelp and assume that the two hemispheres of my mind had split to form a smelly fecal chasm? Did he think me a nephilim and worry that my mother had made coitus with an angel? Did he fantasize himself playing t-ball with the ass-child? Did he recoil in horror at the thought of his deformed babe trying to eat ice cream? How could he ever tell me to “turn the other cheek” without dying a little on the inside?
But I also wonder, what would my life had been like if the daylight met where the sun don’t shine. Would I have spoken through a complex range of flatulence? Could I see with one brown eye? I certainly could not be analyzed by any Freudian template as no paediatrician would be able to differentiate from my oral and anal stages.
If anyone had just cause to hate me, it was my mother, birthing me ultimately lead to her death. My rotund rear was the anti-thesis to any woman’s womb. She loved me dearly, perhaps because I was her little defiance of my father, her little retort to all the preaching and the praying that he doused her with over the years. My ass may have ripped her apart, but his words put her in the grave.
She used to laugh and cackle in my father’s absence and say, “God supposedly made man in his image, but I think he was pretty spot on with you.” The image stuck with me, and during every one of my fathers sermons, I imagined a massive corporeal creator smiling sideways down on at me below.
It wasn’t until my mother told me all this that I realized why my father could never look at me. He probably felt as if I were some terrible affliction sent from god, here to remind him of some horrible pre-nuptial sin in horny adolescent summers gone by. Job had lost his family, his wealth and his physical well being but he’d never had to deal with the cantankerous presence of an anal adolescent. I think the experience scarred him, every thing I did, every word I spoke was in his eyes and action of the ass-child, the rectal mutant of his loins.
After mother died, he couldn’t relish in his victory. For every time he saw me, he knew that she had won. My less than glamorous entrance into this world, mooning all that the good lord had created, had set the stage for the loss of his faith. And without his faith, my father was nothing.
I guess first impressions stick. |
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| The Massacre in my Pocket |
[Mar. 23rd, 2006|11:23 pm] |
I awoke on a spool
Threaded from Moses’ beard
And I left eternal redemption behind
There was a delay, a “Tashi Delay”
The train had stubbed its toe.
Somewhere between the alpha and the omega
Is a land of abundant preschool cubbies
Where modest zeppelins painted napalm
Grope their way to quality propaganda
Don’t look too hard at the pavement.
Navel less tender beasts who aspire to one day
Open the Boy scouts of America.
Playing with the children who drink from the bidet
But gazing at the dawn of ghosts and loathing
While the jellyfish birth silence.
The Godfather of the Spotless Matrix
Will soon be ripe
It was here that I learned
The whole world was a virgin birth
And I witnessed the tampon of the great deluge.
Yahweh found the arc of the covenant
As a toy in a cereal box
And his love of Saturday morning cartoons
Is the reason for our Sabbath.
I better not leave the river styx |
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| This one if for Luc |
[Feb. 10th, 2006|01:11 am] |
I am the world's greatest barbecue pit dancer, and have been since the great poulty civil war. I wear a crown of kebabs, a skirt of spare ribs and two polish sausages dangle elegantly from each of my ears.
Men cannot resist my tangy musk (it's eau de mesquite, you know) as I parade around my smoke stack kingdom, collecting taxes from the pheasants.
I am royalty you know. I sit upon a propane tank thrown to digest rotten daquiries and curdled coleslaw that linger in my butterball belly, seemingly deep in teriyaki thought.
But you see, I am an unhappy princess. If you look very close you may see a trickle of A1 sauce excreting from my meatball eyes. I am unloved, my sirloins quiver for a lover but the spatula proves to flaccid, and the grill is too linear minded. My parents, the Hamburger Helpers, have often tried to marry me to the other aspects of the American Patio Deck Dream. But the Beer Baron proved to surly, and the sprinkler was way too predictable.
This is why I dance, to seduce the kind of man who'd raise a sautee brush before he'd ever raise his voice. For I am a tender beast, like a souffle... or George Bush's sense of reality. And I cannot be tamed with trinkets or tongs alone.
But alas, I am a lost soul. The world's charcoal tooth and kerosene lust has been ceded to the freeze dried microwave vapidness of modern day america. No longer does the fire burn in men's heats, no longer does the passion of the grill envoke the spirit of the quest, the quest for the all american meal.
So until the sheep come back to the slaughter, I dance a lonely dance. My mutton mouthed misery crying out to the smoky sky, calling out to the abandoned beer guts and patio chairs of the world.
Those of you who remain must love your meat as if it were a lady. Remember to press your patties, not push and to flip with with the same patience and chivalry as nibbling on a young lasses ear lobe. And always, always keep the rythm of the heat just right.
For if you don't love your lonely burger queen, she just might bite back. |
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