I Was Done Fucking (Poem)

I Was Done Fucking (Poem)


I knew everything

I needed to know about sex.

All of it

I knew how to charm,

I knew how to please.

I knew how to make them cum

But I had forgotten

What it was like to be loved.

To simply be held

And at peace


And that’s what I needed right now.


The bodies moved

And it was good

While it lasted

Plenty of sex

And flesh

And orgasms

But then she wrapped up her shit

And went home

Every time


The door


Behind her

Left a silence

I didn’t miss


I lay in bed



To Billie Holiday



Where my heart was

What it deserved

What it needed


It certainly

Wanted more

Than three

Used condoms

And an empty



The Forgotten Ways of Love and Sex (poem)

It seemed to me ,
Dawned upon me
That is was as if
An entire generation
Had forgotten
How to fuck.

The smell of it
The taste of it
The sweat of it
How to make the body prance
And the legs shiver
Into glorious

It seemed to me
That an entire generation
Was lulled into
the boredom
Of porn
And fake fetishism

That any of it
Had to do
With the physical
At all.

We have lowered
To cheap tricks
Meant for adrenaline junkies
Nothing more
And nothing less
(And no one else)

A jolt to the body
But a stab to the soul.
The sadness of it
Made me wander
For months

How did we forget.
That the power
That the fire
That the path
To love
And sex
Rested in her eyes.

Every shiver
Of the body
Every curve
Every time
The lips came to
Her breast
And thighs
Her hips
And lips

Was meant as a message
To the gods
That we are well
And alive
Here on earth

Bodies crave
And then bodies cave
As we breathe ourselves
Into each other’s skins
‘Till nothing exists
But her and I
Laying there
In the purest
Of silence
And nothingness

There is nothing

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
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)

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)
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
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
Underneath you


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
For anything
to happen
Right now.

The Quivering of the Voice (Poem)

It’s a special kind of broken out there.

People are on thin ice,


And on edge.


Maybe we’ve all been pouring our hearts


A couple times too many.

It’s a special kind of hell out there.

Where living up

To your online self

Becomes a nightmare

Of past mistakes


And that image you’ve created

That never seems to dissapear

That cathes up to you in ways

That make you hate yourself

In wonder

Who exactly

Is that series of posts

You don’t really see yourself in

At all anymore ?


Is that your life ?

Who you are ?

Who you were ?

Who you want to be ?


There’s a special kind of hurt out there.


Loneliness, the existential kind.


And it feels like everyone’s poured their hearts


One time too many

To no avail

To no results

to ever dare do it

Once more.


I thought I knew pain before,


The jobs,

The fights,

The man…


But I never imagined

I could witness so many


Loving humans,


And extraordinary people

Wrecked inside

Like you can’t imagine.


It shows up in the small details,

In the desire to simply be held,

In the quivering voice.


It’s the quivering voice that always gets to me.

Just hits me right in the guts.


That inevitable moment

When the pain comes up

In spite of everyone’s best efforts

To say everything is fine.


So you casual it out,

No judgement,

No risk,

No rewards either

But at least you don’t have

To pick yourself back up

For the fifteenth time this year.


We’ve all been chruning relationships like it didn’t matter.


Fucking at fast pace

Open couples

And love is just a swipe away,

Isn’t it ?
But then it catches up to you.

It did matter.

Churning through relationships

A bit to fast for anyone to really handle

Catches up to you in your thirties.


There are only so many scars

Any heart can bear…

Beautiful Losers At Night (Poem)

I am looking for love
In the silent aisles
Of a downtown bookstore at night
After the storm faded
And I have wept my past

I am looking for love
As I reconnect to the word again
In the endless pages

Of endless books
To find my way to poetry again
And that passion I had for
A good line
And the good fight
Of a novel
Or a play
Or a simple letter

To someone

I am looking for love
In the silent ailes
And it’s closing time

I am looking for love
The scent of paper
In the air
Of coffee

In the distance.
And the soft perfume
Of a tall brunette

Near where Cohen stands
In the art
And letters section