The Artist (Fragments)

There is something impossible to convey in it. The simple and pure act of creation. I’ve heard some describe it as a tsunami yet I’m not sure it really explains the intensity of it, the unrelenting focus of it.

It is as if time itself stops to exist, every lines just replaces it, their need to exist, their need to become more, their need to expand beyond one’s own body, beyond the hands, the eyes, the tip of the fingers and onto canvas, onto paper.

It is as if a quartier inch aside would completely destroy it, vanish its beauty, defeat it’s purpose, render it useless. It is as if the wrong tone could deface it entirely.It becomes that necessary to get it right, make sense of it, let it carry you where it needs to go yet keep it where you wanted it as well. A balancing of power and abnegation that know no equal and have given  us every piece of art worth remembering to this day.

There is no vanity in the act, not true art, not true creation. It cannot exist out of a will to please but only can exist out of a will to be.

There is absolutely nothing in the world that compares to it. It truly is that rare.

Those who are aware of it, who’ve become through it, who dared because if, know, in silence perhaps, and alone, most likely, that it is a privilege to live such a moment.

I’ve heard some compare it to an orgasm. It is true, in a way; The separation from body and mind. But an orgasm lasts mere moments where a true creative drive can last you an hour. Both, I would say, are equally exhausting and exhilarating, each at it’s different pace, should you carry through the way it was meant to be lived.

And then there are those you manage to have that one such creative drive during sex and if that is not tantric, then I don’t know what is.

There is simplicity in it, strangely enough. How can one inexplicably speak of simple terms about something that is so rare and sough after by fools running fools errands for millennia.

How can one such goal that drove so many to madness or love or death can be spoken of as « simple. »

Yet it is true and I shall stand by that statement.

In it simplest form, it is nothing else but the disappearance of oneself into something greater for no other purpose at all than to simply live it and feel the entirety of existence become into purpose.

I don’t know if words can really describe it. You have to live it to understand how strong it can be. The madness of it, the genius of it, the way the pen or the brush or the razor blade appears to move by itself as you merely become a vessel to emotion.

Ten thousand pages later I’m still trying to get it just right. And here I find myself typing about it once more perhaps our of ego, in vain, probably, trying to give it it’s proper respect.

And yet, the only thing I can find to say about, again, is that nothing else than the beauty of the woman you love should ever be the object of any greater focus.

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Set me Free (Song)

*I’m pretty much done with my stoner phase but this would have made a killer stoner metal song.

Set me Free (song)

So here I go
Again
Heart on my sleeve
In vain
Dug inside my ribs
Too much on this one

So here I go
Again
I gave myself
In vain
I know I
Dragged it
Way too far for myself

(Chorus)
Say what you want from me
Or go on and set me free
I never thought I’d bleed out for you
I waited out to see
Waited for my heart to breathe
I never though I’d bleed out for you

It seems I wrote you a thousand times before
And still I don’t know where I stand at all
I poured my heart on paper
And in chords
And still I don’t know where I’m headed now

(Bridge)
(It’s getting old.)
Say what you want from me.
(It’s getting old)
Or go on and set me free.

(Solo)

And still I stand around
My heart just won’t give up ground
And I can’t believe how long that I’ve crawled

So

Say what you want from me
Or go on and set me free
I never thought I’d bleed out for you.
I waited out to see
Waited for my heart to breathe

I’d never wanted to give up on you.

Of Living in the Future (Poem)

Of Living in the Future (Poem)

*because I can even write poetry about a market “correction”…. Bref…voilà!* I’m not sure I care at this point.

I am watching
The S&P 500
Join the Nasdaq
Into correction
I am watching
Titans
Lose billions
By the hundreds
(If not thousands)

Half of it
Pension funds

I am watching it
In real time
Through
Four data streams
And
I want to say
I told you so
I want to say
I called it
I want to feel good
For being right

But I don’t

This is the same old story
Over and over again
This is Icarus
And Sysiphus
And I’m surprised
It took that long

Even if
Things picked up
Right now
The damage is done
Lines have been crossed
Support has disolved
Money will be rare soon
Industries will dissipate
Supply chains will be wrecked
The daily lives
Or ordinary men and women
Will be tossed into the fray
Again

A mere 10 years after the last one

I want to say
I told you so
I want to say
Paul Tudor Jones
Told you so
I want to say
Bernanke told you so

But the words are bitter
The taste is foul.
I take now joy in this
I did for a second
But the initial pride
Of being accurate
(And now much richer)
Has disolved
Into the pure
And
Un-abstract
Knowledge
Of the consequences
Of this.

I have been cursed
By living in the future
Cursed
By the taste of foresight
And the lack of power
To trully act on it

I am resting a bit easier
Knowing my own is safe
But I can’t help but feel
Right now
How so many people
Are going to feel

When the calls
And the letters
The payments
And the cutbacks
Start coming in
In the spring.

The daily lives
Of millions
With no responsibility
Or say in this
Will feel it

As sharks
And snake oil merchants
Walk away
Again.

And we will let the
Because our minds
Will be focused
On next week’s meal
And payment

I have no solution to offer
No easy one that hasn’t been
Offered before
By people a lot smarter than me

It’s too late for that now

So,

Hold your loved ones
If you have one
Keep her close
Smell her hair
And kiss her

Make the most
Of christmas
This year.

Next one one won’t be so easy.

Search and Destroy (Poem)

There is this kid
on the bus
Teenager
Long hair
Skateboard look
About himself
He looks at my hand tattoos
Just a glance
And I notice
He looks at my shoes
Wonders about
The band on my hoodie too

(Madball)

He’s got the vans
And the element board
(As those things
Have made a comeback)

Then I have this idea
In the back of my head

I want
To just hand him my headphones
And say
“Here.”
Iggy Pop
Search and Destroy

And change his life forever

The Veracity of the Heart (Poem)

The Veracity of the Heart (Poem)

I climb

The way

I write

The way

I paint

The way

I love

And fuck

And care

For the world

As it shows

Me who I am

But also

Who I can be

And why I should care

(Because I do)

I have been

Blessed and cursed

At times

By this fire in my heart

That won’t let me rest

Until I’ve lived fully

Taken risks

Owed my mistakes

And made amends

Only to try again

Differently

This time

Just enough

To make a

Difference

In myself

And in the world.

But it happens

Sometimes,

When the winds

Become harsh

And the snow starts

To fill the ground

Around me,

I fool myself

(Just like anybody else)

That I could live

Any differently

Than to live

Fully

Every single moment

Every emotion

Every waking moment

Of Every day

I hide at times,

As it is necessary

To lick my scars,

Pick at my scabs

And grumble

For a while

But the bruises heal

(Some, it’s true,

more easily

Than others)

And I always

Come back

For more

There never was

Any other way

Not for me,

At least

Than

To carry on

So that now

The scars

Of times past

That mar

My heart

And my skin

And my soul

Will show,

I hope

Not only

That I dared to lived

But most of all

That I dared to live

Free

A Seven Hour Road (Poetry)

There is a special kind of darkness
That only exists
In the great white north

And the empty road
You find yourself upon again
A constant reminder
That
You now had
Seven hours of it
(All of it)
Ahead of you
Before getting anywhere
And that getting dumped
In Saguenay
Was a very bad idea to start with

This was made worse
(Of course)
By the knowledge
That your
(Very limited)
Playlist

Of hearbreak songs
Would play
Over and over again
As the radio waves
Have no reach here.

You are desperate
For a drink
Or a cigarette
As the endless space
Ahead of you
Knows only a rare
Set of headlights
Coming in the opposite direction

To remind you
That you are not in limbo
Just yet
Or perhaps
(And even worse)
That
Limbo
may not be a place
Where you find yourself
All alone
After all.

Eight million
Square miles
Of pure
And empty space
In Northern Canada
And only one person
That matters
Right now

The road takes a curve
Up ahead
Where
The black spruce
That grow here
(And only here)
Know how to make it
So dark
And silent
It feels like hell

Another set
Of yellow lines
Dissapear
Quickly
Underneath you

Again.

And there are
Six hours more
Before civilisation

Switch songs
And press on the gas

You sigh and silently wish
For a deer
Or a moose
To be crossing the street
And smash itself

Into your dashboard

As you’d give
anyting
For anything
to happen
Right now.

Canadian Poetry (poem)

Diligently cut
The vegetables
Zucchinis
Tomatoes
Peppers
Of different colours
Crack some eggs
Add
Some salt
And spices
To whatever cheeze you had left
Put on some music
And kick off the frying pan

Beanie hat on
And a hoodie
Inside too
We’ve reached that point
Again

When
The
Small
Daily rituals
That keep the body fit
Also keep the mind afloat
Until your next move
Is finally upon you
A few weeks from now.

It’s a waiting game at this point

So
You pour the coffee
Have a sip
Cringe
As it
Needs sugar
And cream

Look out the window
The frost is already
Spreading against the edges.
Cold sneaking in against cracks
When
The winds are fierce
And you
Know very well
This place
Will be hell
In only a matter of weeks.

The Short Stories of the Marred (Poem)

The Short Stories of the Marred (Poem)

 

For the longest time,

It seems,

 

The broken

The bastards

And forgotten

Of the world

 

Have come to me

Unasked

(and I still don’t know why)

To tell me

Of their deepest hardships

And the most

Private aspects

Of their lives

 

I have heard

In great details

Through conversations

Only a minute long

(With absolute strangers)

 

Of crack babies

And their times

As a whore

 

Of past relationships

That left scars

Too deep to heal

 

I have heard

Of

Their time in prison

(and prison tattoos)

Juvy halls

Foster homes

And alcohol abuse

 

They simply come up to me

As I walk on the street

Or on my break by the corner

Simple as that

(It’s true)

 

Perhaps

They have heard

Through some cosmic energy

And the power of the universe

 

That I am merely a witness

To the world

And have

Neither judgement

Nor answer

To give them

 

Perhaps

(and probably)

This the reason why

Isn’t it ?

 

It would make sense

In a way.

 

Maybe They Just

Wanted

Their Stories

Heard

 

So here,

Consider

Your stories

Told.

Le poème le plus honnête au monde. (Joual)

J’ai écrit vraiment beaucoup de shit les 12 derniers mois que j’ai gardé pour moi que je me permet de sortir asteure parce que why the fuck not?

Mon travail le plus honnête de ste période là est tellement sorti en joual, ça pourrait etre une toune folk qui passe à CHOQ uqam.

Voici,

Le poême le plus honnête au monde.

Yé 3h du matin
Encore
Et j’la trouve pu drole…
Chu un fucking kid
Encore
T’es dans ma tête
Osti

J’mennuie de ta face
J’mennuie de toi
C’est physique
Osti
T’es belle criss
J’taime, fuck
(Ok. J’ai emprunté ces deux lignes la!)

Sacrament,
j’me crée plus
J’écoutes
La meme osti
D’ toune
Punk
Acoustique
En loop
Encore
J’ai 16 ans osti

J’ai 16 ans!
Voila!
C’est faite
J’l’avoues

C’est faite

R’viens a Montréal, Babe
Yé temps, là
On s’trouve une place
Juste à toi p’is moi
(Pis a personne d’autres)
Une place qu’eck pars
Ou on s’fait pas trop chier
On met tout squi nous tente s’é murs
Pis on laisse juste rentrer
Le monde qu’on aime vraiment
Vraiment

On s’batit un chez nous
Juste a nous
On met un chien dedans
Pis des p’tits
En m’ent d’né

Enwoueille
Fuck toute
Juste toi pis moi
(Pis les filles la!)
On s’colle su’l divan
Que j’puisse me glisser entre tes pattes

Osti’ j’mennuie de tes pattes.

A Women Of Very Kind Eyes (poem)

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
I was wearing shorts in the fall
And though or myself
To be cleverly
Canadian on that one

She asked
“Aren’t you cold?”
Again
And I looked up
To find a women
I could never call a whore
Even though it was her business

To sell skin
And hope
And despair
Here at this corner
Underneath the shade of
L’Allemand
Where truckers stop
On their way to the 20
And then home
To their kids
To their dogs
To their wives
To ValleyField
Laval,
Or Halifax

I looked up to find a women
Of very kind eyes
And even kinder traits
Under the pockmarked skin
Of a 20 something
Who just wanted to be loved

Once

I felt in her expression
A legitimate concern
About me and my freezing limbs
And her willingnes
To overlook
Her own short
(Short) skirt
And the biting winds
Swirling around her own legs

I looked at her round face
and blonde hair
With nother other intention

In mind
Than to smile and say
“I’m good, thanks!
I hope
You have a good day.”