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

Advertisements

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 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.

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.

The Artist (fragment)

*for the first time since The Factory Line I want to write without a plan.

Fragments of something :

“Yeah well that seems to be my pattern,” I was saying. “I stick tight for people who’d rather be elsewhere.”

It was cold now.

October was kicking in and the breaks were getting shorter. We instinctively stayed closer to the door, waiting for that cold breeze to snap at us one time too many.
She lit up a smoke and asked.
“Did she ask you to wait?”
I sat on the cold cement and leaned against the window. I looked at the cigarette in her hand and though about having one. Now seemed like a very legitimate time to get a filthy habit going.
“No. But she knew,” I said.
“You’re the idiot then.”
I almost replied, “tell me about it.” but I had to hold my ground on this one.
“You know the same people who say they like me because I do things differently are now giving me shit for doing things differently. Nobody else would have waited.”
“Why did you wait?”
There was a long answer to that and then a short answer to that.
“My heart wanted it,” I said, going for the short one. “I just had to.”
“Simple as that?”
“Does it have to be complicated?”

She took a drag and smiled. Had that sharp, “told you so weeks ago,” look in her eyes.
“I’m glad to hear it’s not gender related,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Usually it’s the girl who chases after an asshole.” She paused and took another drag. Maybe it wasn’t what I needed to hear right now. “It’s a nice role reversal is all.”
I nodded and swallowed, then said,
“Always glad I get to break well established social norms for you.”
The chatter died into a brief silence. Bypassers going back and forth around us. College students on their way to class and hospital staff headed back to Saint-Luc down the street.
The need for a cigarette (or a drink) was dissipating. I had enough sense not to do it and good enough friends not to toss one my way at a time like this.
“You loved her?” she asked even if she knew the answer.
“You know I do.”
“Did she love you back?”
The answer to that was straightforward, “yes.”
I didn’t care what anybody thought. I knew that emotion to be true even if I was the last person alive to know it.
“How can you be so sure?”
I shook my head twice, slowly as I remembered that summer night not so long ago, the dangling lights in that hochelaga backyard.
“The way she held me, man. I can’t explain it. Bodies can’t lie like that. She just held my hands and it just screamed “don’t go.” I know it sounds crazy. I know I’m a fucking idiot. But I swear to god thats what I felt and I kinda need my friends to believe me.”

She took another drag and gave it to me.
“I believe you.”

Whether she meant it or not was of little importance so I said, “Thanks.”

“Yeah!”
“Doesn’t change the situation though, does it?”
She didn’t answer to that. I was glad she didn’t.
This was one of many times I wished I smoked. I would’ve taken that one last drag to time the end of this discussion perfectly. I would have tossed it to the curb as I’d grab the door handle and walk back inside. Nothing more to say and looking for something to do.
But I didn’t smoke. There was plenty to say and little to do.
I looked at my phone without a purpose. 3 minutes left to the break. An hour and a half to the shift.
Nothing to do but wait. And in a way maybe that was fine just as well.

Tomorrow is Pub Day for Down with The Underdogs

Tomorrow is Pub Day for Down with the Underdogs.

I ain’t one to beg for you to buy my book. I will say this is my best work so far. Straight up noir, true working class.

DWTU Latest version

Links are on Down and Out’s website (or get it direct from your indie publisher)

https://downandoutbooks.com/bookstore/truman-down-underdogs/

Take care,

 

Ian

My new book ending ritual. (Thanks and praises to Montreal)

I take my spot at the edge of the belvedere.

Hallelujah in the ipod, live at london, of course.

I pop open a can of perrier and look at the distance as the music takes over me.

There is no end to the love I feel for this city.

I simply stand in awe of it. The canyon of Peel ahead of me, the flags of McGill and then at Leonard himself , standing tall on that building.

I salute him, one Montreal writer to another, then praise yhwh for such a moment worth living for.

I look at Concordia next to the mural, hall bulding right in front of me and I feel it: The underdog frenchie from the east end just penned his 10th book in seven years.

I watch to the west, where the green of trees mark the beggining of the south-west.

Beyond downtown, down from the hill. Two books about that place.

I look at the river below it.

Sip of perrier.

I look to the east. Theres a tall new building there with an edge of the colour red.

It stands at the corner of Saint-Laurent and Maisonneuve.

My playground for almost 20 years. Too many pages to keep count.

I look the the river beyond it, those islands in front of hochelaga and I think of every place I love that I can’t see from here.

“It’s a very lonely hallelujah!” leonard sings. It hits me to the heart..

I take a sip and give a moment of thought for someone in particular then look at the city again. The wind is good and the sun began its descent on the other side of Mont-Royal.

Can is near empty. Song goes to its final stretch.

I look at Leonard again and thank him.

The city, the trees, the people. I look at dorm rooms and write the life of a student there. I look at the south west and see Sean Cullens’ next move.

I look at centre-sud and see Balkon fucking around the way he does.

I am this city, I live this city, I write this city tenth book about it and I am only getting started.

The song ends to applause.

I tank the perrier.

Tourists left and right, smiling and taking selfies and I stand alone in a crowd living my seven minutes of bliss.

Time for your final thanks, so thank you Montreal.

Grab my bag and one last glance. Then simply walk away.

Leonard will still be there for the next one.

Don’t be a Writer (Poem)

Don’t be a Writer

 

Don’t do it.

Don’t put yourself through this

You deserve better than this

Hear me now

Or you’ll find yourself

Up at five in the morning

Digging into yourself

Into your guts

In impossible ways

While the world

Is still asleep

 

Don’t be a writer

Don’t do this to yourself

Bukowski told you

Roth had warned you

Everyone warned you

Experience doesn’t add up

No two books are the same

It never gets easier

So save yourself the hurt

 

Be something else

Be an accountant

Be a gardener

Be a carpenter

Be something else

Anything else

Except a writer

 

And if you found yourself

laughing at this

Smiling at this,

Shaking your head lightly

Then you weren’t meant for it.

It’s fine

It’s good.

Get out now

Leave the room

This wasn’t meant for you

 

But if my words sparked an anger in you

A fire in you

A daring need to prove me wrong

That unnerving urge

To get on the page

To scream at me

Laugh at me

Lurch towards me

In defiance

Of all the gods

And men

Or simple me

Standing here

With such apparent vitriol

 

Then congratulations

 

You are it

You’ve done it

You are there for it

You will live

And die by it

You will lose your mind

And find your soul

One way or another

Until you know

The full meaning

Of the warning

 

“Don’t do it.”

 

Yet

When the years have come

Gone

And passed by

You and I

May know a moment

Of peace together

Over coffee

In a city somewhere

Lost in time

As the world

Has gone somewhere else

 

And

We will stand there

Alone

In the universe

 

Laughing.

The Equation of Life

Work
And art
And lattés
Cafés
Street side poetry
And back alley
Gardening
Get in the jeep
Lets go north
For a weekend
Away from the everyday
Then back to it
In the city
I can’t live without it
Yoga
Climb
And
Eat
Sleep
Fuck
Then do it
All over again
You and me
Texting
And
Flirting
A few good selfies
With some skin
In the evening
Netflix on the front porch
And a drink at the corner
The salty taste of sweat
On your skin out
In the summer
Winter campfires
And snowboarding
Till the warmth comes back
Family life in the alley
Girls playing and laughing
Me cooking in the kitchen
The smell of tofu
And spices
And coffee is nice
And then some free time
every other week.
For you and me
Time enough
For the
Slouching
And the couching
Sex
Love
Pankakes
The occasional spaking
And going down
on you
in the morning.
And then sex in the shower
On the counter
Doesn’t matter
Grab a bite
And sip a quick sip
Make it just in time
To work
With the smell of you still all over.
Thats the equation life.
My life.
I look outside.
And 10 weeks
Feels like a lifetime
But it’s right there in the sky.