This is where we balance
On this heavy thread
Our days, under pressure
Our nights, encrypted hands
This is what we choose
This is what we hold

Diamonds dipped in gold

We are riding reckless
With no blink wasted
Quick sand, are we sinking
Quick sand, are we rising
This is what we take
This is what we hold

Diamonds dipped in gold

We wear no crown of thorns
Our thoughts form one line
Our hearts, straight into fire
Our charms, petrified luck
This is what we carry
This is what we hold


Previously published in
From Montreal, A La Spezia
Chapbook, 2018

Labels: artform, book, material, poetry, writing

Childhood demands simple truths, we all should be so lucky to reach them.

Empty eyes crossed and rolled over our honest bones, without speech.

These views, thrown my way, of malice or not, are complicated.

Here is a book of all the looks I have collected through this parade: Download PDF

Labels: book, poetry, tmaol, writing

Hello hello,

This is your tiny poet speaking to you from the bottom of your mason jar. This mission is almost over. A few days to go and I will be hanging my hammock between two bamboo shoots, near the big window. Apologies to all who have been following the trail to a video archive instead of proper blog publications. There is no better way, I suppose, to hint at personal currents than a good old screen bean.

Soon enough, I'll be growing into my shoes again and will have some tasty news to share. For now, all I can offer is a picture of printed word papers stapled together.

Labels: artform, book, material, montreal, poetry, words, writing

Labels: appearance, book, tmaol

Dear readers, here is some news about that red deluxe book. I will produce The Mere Appearance Of Living for the third and last time with a special added extra. Those of you who have the original hard copy have seen image anchors on a few of the pages. Those of you who have downloaded the digital version, either from my site or iTunes, have been able to click on these markers to view a Monocular image, until now.

There is no more online gallery and in the not so distant future there will no longer be a digital book to download. The Mere Appearance Of Living PX is a limited edition run and will be colourful and glossy. Most of the previous poems will remain, such as “My First Suicide Note” and “The Wolf” but I will also slip in some new angles.

New site and order button, coming soon. Thanks for being here.

P.
Xox

Labels: appearance, artform, book, print, red, tmaol

I SEE A CIRCLE IN A SQUARE
OR SUSAN, IT SEEMS YOU LIED TO ME

Here appears another heart
With another name
With a different meaning
For the same thing.

This is my tragic romantic poetry.

[ Buy ]

Labels: artform, book, From Obscure Light, poetry

It's 1:31 am in the morning and I can't sleep. There is no ball of yarn spinning in my stomach. There is no fan spinning in the back of my mind. There is not even a particle of gun powder around the sparks of my heart to signal some kind of do or die moment in this deserted night. All lights are off.

This is what it feels like to live in your shadow. Through all the familiar roads and the once sweet smells of breakfast I waste with every fresh step of regrets. There is no world without Verona walls. There is no north to guide me home. There is no biting cold to signal some kind of do or die moment in this aimless mind.

Walking from nothing to less than nothing, I am crushed by all these books on my back. I carry dictionaries of apologies everywhere I go, to make right by you if given the chance. The twelfth and final chance to prove how sorry I am. I was a dusty picture on a wall. I was the rust in the braids of your crown. You will always be the golden heart wrapped in the body of a simple girl and I, a miner wrapped in explosives lines. Not one word will bring you near. I am dust now. You are a tear I keep in the freezer. You’re forever free, rocked by the wild waves of an ocean of pearls, the way you've always wanted to be.

Labels: artform, book, echo, suspicious activity here

Labels: artwork, book, pictures

Fundamentally I could have certainly formulated some objections, for example the fact that nonpossessive love only seemed conceivable if you yourself lived in an atmosphere saturated with delights, from which all fear was absent, particularly fear of abandonment and death, and that it implied at the very least, and among other things, eternity; in short the conditions for it were not reality.

Michel Houellebecq : The Possibility Of An Island : Daniel1, 14


And however ugly, perverse, deformed or stupid this human being might be
The dog loves him, the dog loves him

Iggy Pop : Préliminaires : A Machine for Loving

Labels: book, jargon, music

Labels: artform, book, Primessa, tmaol

Henry Rollins appeared on stage Monday night at Montreal’s Le National with his big smiling mouth. As the crowd applauded the speaker into a comforting welcome, he slowly wrapped the wire of his microphone around his left hand, firmly planted his right foot in front of him and began to recount his day spent in the village. As the globetrotting messenger spoke of his day off he slowly pulled the audience into his potential driven brain.

When such an experienced traveller, writer, musician, observer comes to your town, you sit and listen to what he has to say. His stories, ranging from the mundane trip to the gym to the invisible car race in Riyadh, are all threaded with what every human being with world wide milage has gathered as basic social skills and the golden rules of empowerment. He lives to squeeze every possibility out of every passing minute. Henry Rollins manifests his moral strength by visiting the obscure corners of the world map and psyche, by shaking hands with gods and insects, by eating another man’s home cooked meal and feeding a child with a hard drive’s worth of music. He revisits these stories in his books and on stages across continents to encourage other great minds to broaden their world perspective, encouraging us to “own this century” and to give the finger to the man that dares starve any part of the global community.

At the end of the show, you understand that mileage and knowledge work best together than apart. The audience was obviously more than satisfied with the spoken word evening but unfortunately wasn’t given the chance to interact with him for a short Q+A session at the end of his fascinating discourse. It’s a shame.

Labels: alarming truthness, book, montreal, social

My face for a jar of ink is a hip replacement.

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

Charles Bukowski
(Factotum)

Labels: book, echo, theory

Surprise me. That’s what my imaginary T-shit says. Not “Did it” or “Tony Hillfiber” . . . mine says, if you’re looking at me for a reason, the jokes on you.

The greatest things in life are unexpected. That’s what my imaginary tombstone says.

“It was funny, I thought it was him but it wasn’t. Then later on, lo and behold! There he appeared.” That’s what my friend said. Or something along those lines.

I can’t say that all surprises are the good kind. But in the end (Or just before the end.), isn’t it all good to know?

Discovering . . .

the lack of openness between the door and the frame upon exit time, due to a broken(x2) knob that was once repaired by the rent eater

the sweet hereafter taste of my favourite daily hot drink is now lost to an oversensitive vital organ

an expozine is not limited to zines

the =Big Mouth= book, that for months now has been left unstricken on my GOOD TO READ, HARD TO GET list, is on a table, an arm length away, waiting there for me to take it away to my nook

when enjoying a nice walk under a light snowfall, my vital organ has magically produced symptoms that are quite the drag

just around the corner, a not so majestic 80's style banner sign, heralds some kind of =Solutions To All Your Ailments For A Price= shop (Travel size galore.)

an opus is not my only ticket for a bus ride, thanks to a woman standing in front of me, talking to the ticket master

my wallet is a few bills short of a monthly magnetic transit pass

the bag I am holding contains a few bills worth of zines and one odd book

my habit of reading the last phrase of a book in order to judge it’s buying/borrow value finally pays off:

“And then he died.”

Labels: book

I have recently heard, for the first time in my life, the voice of Farley Mowat, the storyteller, on CBC radio. I was so intrigued, I kept a few of his quotes in my pocket to remind myself to look him up.

Then:




Not so then:

Labels: book, discovery, video

When I look back, it's no real surprise to me that I have turned out the way I have.

An excerpt from a book that my uncle offered me maybe ten years ago...

His voice, though powerful, was mild. Voice of a dead thing, calm as dry sticks and ice when the wind blows over them. He had a strange face that, little by litte, grew unsettling to me: it was a face, or so it seemed for an instant, from a dream I had almost forgotten. The eyes slanted downward, never blinking, unfeeling as a snake's. He had no more beard than a fish. He smiled as he spoke, but it was as if the gentle voice, the childlike yet faintly ironic smile were holding something back, some magician-power that could blast stone cliffs to ashes as lighting blasts trees.

Grendel is a 1971 novel by John Gardner. It retells Beowulf from Grendel's point of view.

Labels: book, grendel

Labels: book, passages

Labels: book, echo, experiment, music, smile

Labels: artform, book, craft, experiment

Around the heart
the shadows danced
with names of lost battles
and running gags.

-The Mere Appearance Of Living

Labels: artform, book