A Poem to my Daughter

I don’t write about you.
I wrote an entire book about you
But I don’t write you.
Not this way
Not lately
Not in way too long.

You have your mother’s eyes.
And the other one is a perfect
Picture of her grandmother

The celtic is strong in that one
But you got the french in us
You really did

You have the attitude
And that sharpness to you
It’s how I can’t hide a damn thing
And you see right through me
Makes if hard to be a dad
(Sometimes
Little white lies makes it easier
To govern)

But you don’t let me get away with these
Not anymore
I need to up my game
And explain to you
The harder thruths of life
And share my love
In better ways
In more hugs
And simpler words
I need to learn
Quickly
To enjoy the tickle fights
That still make you laugh
Before you become a full teenager

You are asleep now

And the house is silent

I heard your book drop to the floor

As your still tiny hands

Let go of it while you faded into sleep.

And I smiled.

Advertisements

Love In the Year of the Dog (poem)

I stand in the snow

In wonder

 

At how

It all went

That way

 

At how

It all became

That way

 

At how

It all stumbled

That way

 

I stand in the snow

In wonder

At how quickly

We all went

From

 

I want to be happy

To

I want to be comfortable

To

I just can’t take another punch right now

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

Closing

Behind her

Left a silence

I didn’t miss

So

I lay in bed

Again

Listening

To Billie Holiday

Again

Wondering

Where my heart was

What it deserved

What it needed

 

It certainly

Wanted more

Than three

Used condoms

And an empty

Bed.

The Last Wolf of Womankind (Poem)

There was that stare in her eyes.
I used to know it very well.
And I had suspected.
It had gone instinct.
I had suspected
It had vanished.
Under occupation
After occupation
Riot squads
Overwork
And daily struggles
Like paying the rent
And food
And mistakes

There was that fire in her eyes.
From the days of riots.
Not so long ago.
(Six years at most.)

As the last time
The youth took
To the street.
Against infamy.
Idiocy
And common
Simple
Stupidity
Against
A world gone mad.
On hatred
Debt
And amphetamines

It all has gone silent now
The streets are quiet
But I remembered
When I looked at her
Of my own days
As an anarchist.

There was a fire in her eyes.
Only matched
By her beauty.
It’s true.
There have been many
Gorgeous women
Who walked the earth.
But rarely with that
Fire of hers.

It was not
A hateful
Rage
But a caring
Rage.
The rarest of
Rages.
The best of
Rage.
I’ve known it once.
For a good decade
I’d say
The purest of
Rage

Mine had grown
Deeper.
Deeper.
But silent.

I was ready

For the aftermath
She was still
Fighting it.
So,
I stared at my ceiling
And wondered if
I was a romantic
Or a coward
An idiot
Or a simple
(Ageing)
Realist

There was beauty in her
Beauty

It was true

Beauty I could not explain.
Let alone grasp.
I don’t know
If any men
Ever will.
I looked at her
And almost saw Spain
Barcelona

The red and black

Days of 36

I know I took my chips
Off the table
Simple as that
I folded

Without even a shot

She was most definitely a wolf
I was most definitely not.

To the Fool Who Had Stopped Looking (Poem)

“Does he know he’s in trouble?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?”
Was her answer.

“You got new boots,
New hair,
New beanie,
Eyeliner and
you’re fucking
dressed to kill.”

She hadn’t even noticed.

Or maybe she had
And it was just nice
To have someone
Tell you
To have someone
See you
Again

She smiled
And for a second
There was happiness in her eyes

I hadn’t seen that
In a while
And it was good

“But it’s not even that,” I continued
“What is it?” she insisted

“There’s that glare in your eye
Like you’re tired
Of being invisible
To someone
Who’s taking you
For granted
And
And being taken
For granted
Is a terrible
Terrible
Thing to feel
Like

So you decided
You had enough
And decided
You deserve
To exist
Again
Fuck him.
You gave enough
And you’re right.”

She smiled
And laughed
That single burst
That just comes out
When you haven’t
Laughed in too long
And it was good

I looked at where
He might
Or might
Not be
Out by the front door
Or drowning in the river
It didn’t matter much right now.

“If he doesn’t notice he’s losing you,” I said.
He’s a fucking idiot.”

And he was a fucking idiot.

The Forgotten Ways of Love and Sex (poem)

It seemed to me ,
Dawned upon me
Really,
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
Oblivion

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

Fooled,
Tricked,
Conned,
(really)
That any of it
Had to do
With the physical
At all.

We have lowered
Ourselves
Stooped
And
Bowed
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.
And
That

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

The Pursuit (Poem)

I am sitting

Again

In a café

At the corner of my world

Sipping on the bitter drink

As I am listening

Again

To mogwai

While looking at the way

The wind pushes snow

Into the sheltered faces

Of people passing

By my window

 

I am thinking

Of the word

Of women

Of the world

I am thinking of passion

And projects

As I seem

To be out of a struggle

Right now

 

There’s a part of me

That started looking for a mess

Another one

A day or two ago

Something

To stick my feet in

And see if there’s something there

Something

Worth digging in for

Something

Worth writing for

Something

Worth living for

But most of all

(and yes, it’s true)

Something worth

Loving for

 

It’s out there

That is a certainty

There’s no shortage

Of anything

And everything

Going on in the world

And I am ready to find it

 

Just about now

The Last Saints of Sainte-Claire (Poem)

As I am saying goodbye
To Sainte-Claire
I realized
There was
a subltle
Kind of poverty here
A silent kind of poverty
An uneventfull kind of poverty

You see it in details
Like the guy next door
Pushing 60
And always drunk
Not mean drunk
But always a little wobbly
Smiling just a bit
You see it in his eyes
As he makes his way
To the corner store
And walks back
With a tall one

I had never seen him sober
Until this morning
5h30 AM
And the bus is full
He’s there
In his blue dickies
Lunch box and all
Sharp as a whistle

I am leaving this town
In a week
This may be the last time
I ever write it.

So let me make a statement

The refineries long dissapeared
But the alcoholics of the past
Have aged

With nowhere else to go.