A Commentary on Urban Living in 4 + 3 Acts (It's finally done)

I

Through the metal that binds the river to lake,
Rests shore upon the arms that giants built
And with trembling hands does the cool hand shake
The tools of rising, stone-worked gait
That shook the earth with fire and black.
It was this time that I walked the serpent aisle,
Down the paths that led from park to church.

It was a labour too late in the low beats of love.

Past sentry, a pole, stark in fleeting yellow
Glides the death that is written, by evening
And with seeping sores, did the sore man bellow
The laugh of noxious, reaped, slumber
That parts the doorway of our gate.
To sleep goes silent, a lost weeping angel
An angel to sleep through silent murder.

And alone in night’s trembling vision, is lit the candle
That slows the passing from dream to terror.

When dawn breaks, red fire bleeds from the hills hunch-back
Dream-dipped in sunlight that pours from heaven
And with singing sirens the cool breeze breaks
About aging spirit, drowning in the lake
Mirrored to sky, by the light of day.
Pitted still by the gray wandering Sirens,
That wander, gray, in a private pleasure.

No curfew curdles the breaking light that saps the life from the day.

As the ceiling is lit, by center sun, burning
Chariot, red, driven by that celestial horse
The church bell shall ring, twelve times, cold yearning
For a saint, city bound by divine rapture
That awakes the worms from a cold grave.
And as twelve rings, one shall soon follow
One bell sounding, in the life-less meadow.

II

Elliot was right as he told April is the cruelest month.
For every year it passes, and every year is lost the security
Of our pyramid. Building blocks to stack on top, of
Silent thoughts said aloud in the head.
While Horace said we are but “dust and shadows”
Pulvis et Umbra Sumus
I feel not the dust that builds in youthful bone
And mind only that shadow when I stand in one not my own.
Pulvis et Umbra Sumus
I am not that man to silence the lips when trembling with desire
To say aloud the thoughts of compulsion – not those of reason.
It is this compulsion that makes April the cruelest month, bringing
Silent torture and normal action amongst abnormal logic
That strips the want from drink and woman
And places it, solely, on my growing tomb;
A pyramid made of logic-less reason.

It drips, the sweat, as I think I may be that man, of this world
And am chased by the horrors of his Manalishi
Growing green with every passing year, wrapped in
That beat that strips the wind of howling fear
And replaces it with menacing ‘nothing’.
Operor non adveho silens in nox noctis , tamen saevio in dies.
A pulse that pushes, that thought, that apparition
Slowly into the silent grey that is the skull
An nescis, mi fili, quantilla sapientia mundus regatur?
And grey with age does the brain grow, limp and slow
Forever a drooping branch, from knowledge, losing leaves
That brings Autumn forever closer amidst quickening breeze.

III

Wind blows despite a stifling heat
And collects in pathways, underground
Forcing papers abreast the coddled traveler
Forcing hats off heads, and heads affront
To straddle the ledge of our steel aqueduct;
To slip a dream into the dip.
“How time passes, a watch is broke”
Says the Man, to Man
The same sound is said aloud:
“My Son has studies, abound in books”
And the light flickers as the future passes,
The same dull path that thousands follow.

Rumble, rumble, rumble
Crick, crack, crick
The pale noise suppresses thought
Rumble, rumble
Crick, crick
The same noise again, in different steps
Rumble, crick, rumble, crick
Again the noise, building quick
Rumble, rumble
The noise bubbles
Into a froth that the madman laments,
And his terror leaks into the brain
Saying softly, saying plain
“Madness, madness, madness”
The silence erupts, and the heat builds
Into the arms, the feet, the legs
A tingling is felt, beneath the ears
A buzzing noise, in the drum
A sniffing to breathe, a breath too long
Rumble, Rumble
Crack, Click;
The noise again.

“That wretched noise”
The mute remarks, in the air
Blank, with dew-sweat, melting the coats,
And umbrellas of walkers.
“The wretched thud of clapping irons”
Over and over, the mute laments,
Thinking past the gravesites of immigrants and
Indians, wanderers and drunks.
A whisper, is said aloud in the heat and dank
Silent to the macabre mob, pale against black
Twitching and ill, it lingers in the air, above her head
Feeding the wrenching, the tangling of intestine
And slowly settling in the bottoms of boots.
“A kiss, a kiss, a kiss, a kiss”
Often sought by the traveling mad, alight
In metal worms and trolleys – that travel the day
In reflective tin.
No bell is sounded, no body to block the shaky advance
Of yellowed nail and nicotine hands – pursed lips, cracked
To the smoky lair that is the ‘outside’
A baptism of ale in the early morning.
“I am free, I am free, so awfully free”
And the crowd moves aside to let Him through,
Past the men, soaked with dew-sweat.

“I noticed the light, draw, a halo”
A chuckle aloud in the silent crowd,
A hand too close to pull the paper –
Across the lap of lonely knees.
It lingers, long, soaking, red
And grasps at ghosts, that torture the mind
Spoiling the milk that is the brain,
Churning cream to so much butter,
That stews, unstirred, in silent stares.
There I saw the wretched worm,
Grasp the innocence of the air
And tear it from so much light –
That a tear did shine, silent, amongst the Mob.
And We were left alone to bare that pull.

“Alone, alone, alone, alone”
Is said, quiet, in the skull
Silent so that no Parent mourns,
But continues talk of bread and jam;
Soap and wars.
Movement in the corner seat, lifts the eye from
The news to News, and spills my jaw.
Too late, too long did the Mob wait
And silent, to death, goes the doll
That waited, noiseless, in the crowd
Mocked by the tin that confines the world
And soaks in paintings, with no picture near.

IV

Under a grey fog, like so many eyes under caps
A crowd floated over the river, into the city
To the Bluffs, to the Bluffs, was thought in-totale
And it spread like so many souls leaving Heaven to enter Hell.
“I had not thought that death had undone so many”
And left so many unwravelled to wander free
Past the distillery and the cliffs
That scraped earth from the ground, and buried water
Resting, stagnant, in green-tinged winter.
I proclaimed, in cyclic excitement
“I awake from my dround slumber to slip a sudden second from my mumble wim”
“Perchance this puddle of oddcity be a new fall for him again,
“But my merry envision prod the giant into scareful re-teat.
“While not a penny to pool for tumblesuck or carpet crawl,”
“I revisit Loki, Derrida, my toong on the flur.”
The Crowd, Finnigan, rose again
To lash out against the concrete slabs and tiled brick
That split the earth in halves, too quick.

A bird, wet with oily water
Flew from reeds in the shrinking river
And spoiled the night air with its cry
“Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo”
A twitch in the brain,
Slices the voice of the flightling,
Growing uneasy with passing note.
It speaks to the Lone Man, living in the wild.

V

Silent as the still trees waving
Burnt, black and shuddered
Lies waiting, slow, dispassionate gaze
From the eyes of subtle mothers;
And violent shall the grass-grave envelop
The youthful brain of bashful wonder.

Robbed, be the parting, passing rays
Strange, red and hurried
Tossed to earth from a passing cloud-scape
Ripped from sky, tormented sound.
And yellow be the humming, sickening orb
That lights the way when sun sets down.

My yoke is bent upward, a flower,
Full, wide and wondrous
Grows from green-robed eye, to oceanic gaze
That sets the distance of mid-bound sex.
And towered be the gaze growing
By seedling of that blossomed plant.

Ripping seams of new-formed brain,
Slight, lost and tunneled
Works their way through, youthful roads that
Bring the worm of love, to passing flower.
And flower passed in silent adventure,
Be all but reality in young pollen.

VI

A way a lone a last a loved a long
A stripe of shore that borders boulders,
Rocks piled high by crashing waves, that rock
The gentle breeze, and silence the ship-men.
“Can you hear the Ghosts?”
Asks Lucas Finn of his friend,
And a prayer is given to Poseidon,
Galatea the nymph, that travels aboard
The moored boat, in the river.
Sundress, and hat, span the paddle
As water is splashed on a tea-cup,
Resting in the bottom-boat.

The ghosts, white, in sheets of skin
File past the fog that collects around
A kindling fire, propping tin and stick.
“If you wait for a moment, I shall take you to see the frumpy fishwife”
He cackles under sandy hair, moving froth from lip to chin
“Oh Mrs. Lombard let him in!”
“What a good boy Finn is, do let him in”
And the cup jitters, as the heaving continues
Launching the tongue into the air,
That is wet with splashing and thirsting palettes.
“I’ve got a rather nice pair of britch, with a stripe”
Fit as a Finch Finn would look, gazing in the window pane.

The drudge would skip the lake,
Clean of oily, sandy spills that stank of
Silent whirlpools drifting still and soiling
The water that the Crowd drinks.
A bottle empty is better filled,
And while tossed aside into the murk
That laps at the sand of the cliffs
And stains the hulls of long-dead ships;
Our whale is the coin that moves the world.

VII


An opening iris of the heart, bleeds the life from
Wicked dreams and vocal evils that confuse the
Breaking strands of thought, left in too much head.
There is reason why the glass is dipped to pour the ale.

I cannot part from that sea
That floods the island of my chest
And dips the lighthouse of my creation
Into the depths of its satin waters
That rip the thought to centre from dread.
A tide of young, tepid wine.

And it would seem as if the earth stopped,
And when it turned, it made the sky dizzy in
Rumbling reasons to stop that road and that cloud
That covers the sun from shining full, bright.

Yet despite the grey of that pother
The ocean still moves, and brings that tide
And dips the chest in trembling waters,
The island not separate but part of that force
That rushes to beat with the breath.
And waves become ripples that move the Eagre.

Shantih, Shantih, Shantih

A tsunami.

A little about me perhaps?

What can I say, I'm a pretty "normal" guy.

I was born in Etobicoke, and currently reside in -----, Canada. I am the eldest child, with a younger sister. My parents are wonderful people, fully supportive of both me and my endeavours.

I enjoy playing the guitar, I've been playing for a few years now and like to think I'm a decent player. My idols are Peter Green, Buddy Guy, BB King and Eric Clapton (of course). I play a Cherry Red Gibson ES 335 through a Vox AC30 Head over a Marshall Cab. I enjoy playing most styles of music, but my true love is the blues.

I have a wonderful girlfriend of 7 months, and think very highly of her. I love her to bits (as only an 18 year old can love, passionately and tenderly).

More recently I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a chronic condition that will leave me medicated for the rest of my life. It's not so bad, just means I take a wee pill every morning. I don't have many compulsions (at least no noticable ones), but I am plagued with obsessions (worries really). Drop me a line if you want to know more - it is interesting, but scary (for me). To describe it, I would have to say my thought pattern is like a knight's movement in chess. Non-linear, but extremely analytical.

I am attending High School, and am going to be joining the ranks of Trinity College at U of T in the fall of 2007. My aspiration is to, I suppose at the moment, pursue a career in International Development/Relations.

Cheers.

To Wayne

Underneath the tree that bore no leaves,
Slept a man who bore no name.
Naked be the branch that sheltered naked shoulder,
And gave light to dark upon the set of day.
Shadowed age bore no line, as shadowed face bore no heart
To flip the comic foil forward, beneath a lone tree in the dark.

Atop the earth that bore no crop,
Was birthed the child that bore no past.
Wrapped in flesh and silky armour,
Gave rest to screams, as did the gull.
Drowned in the salt-free sea,
Rekindled by the crowded hell.

Past the sign that bore no letter,
Rest the road that bore no route.
Mapped be the path to travel forward,
As is blown the path to travel home.
Left to sight the bridge when crossing
Weeps the widow of her son.

Underneath the tree that bore no leaves,
Slept a man who bore no name.
Naked be the branch that sheltered naked shoulder,
And gave light to dark upon the set of day.

Urban Living is Terribly Bleak...

Through the metal that binds the river to lake,
Rests shore upon the arms that giants built
And with trembling hands does the cool hand shake
The tools of rising, stone-worked gait
That shook the earth with fire and black.
It was this time that I walked the serpent aisle,
Down the paths that led from park to church.

It was a labour too late in the low beats of love.

Past sentry, a pole, stark in fleeting yellow
Glides the death that is written, by evening
And with seeping sores, did the sore man bellow
The laugh of noxious, reaped, slumber
That parts the doorway of our gate.
To sleep goes silent, a lost weeping angel
An angel to sleep through silent murder.

And alone in night’s trembling vision, is lit the candle
That slows the passing from dream to terror.

When dawn breaks, red fire bleeds from the hills hunch-back
Dream-dipped in sunlight that pours from heaven
And with singing sirens the cool breeze breaks
About aging spirit, drowning in the lake
Mirrored to sky, by the light of day.
Pitted still by the gray wandering Sirens,
That wander, gray, in a private pleasure.

No curfew curdles the breaking light that saps the life from the day.

As the ceiling is lit, by center sun, burning
Chariot, red, driven by that celestial horse
The church bell shall ring, twelve times, cold yearning
For a saint, city bound by divine rapture
That awakes the worms from a cold grave.
And as twelve rings, one shall soon follow
One bell sounding, in the life-less meadow.

Poem #1

I'm a sucker for women - first and foremost my girlfriend.

The ocean of a smile set,
Entwines the green of an eye
Upon the breadth of tender silence
Whipped to froth by passing ice –
Broke loose by budding, rosy, tide.

The sun of flower growing,
Moves to earth, as sky moves down
Trapped by the ghost, turned to wonder
Of that pulling, falling heaven
That rests upon nitid, fulgurous crown.

Violent be your curtained tides,
That break upon voice and gaze
Thirsting-not the silent wind-song
That plays the lovebed of the world
A world of love, left to play
In the waters of an eye.

As the gaze dries to silence,
Past the lid, that tombs the sea
In blackening colour, painting wilds
That strike the brush to rosy canvas
And rose shall canvas not
Silent trappings of the heart.

Where to start?

Why don't you tell me?