lost ironies

© dm gillis and lost ironies, 2012 -2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to dm gillis and lost ironies with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Month: June, 2017

first day of summer

Pender Street Venus rising and a waning crescent moon. The sound of Mahjong tiles and Cantonese opera from open upper windows. Next to midnight, spots of pearl and yellow light. Poorly cast shadows. Her red lipstick was black.

She was there to meet the clayish smelling Ogden. The tall and gaunt. This his only time on the street. In the dark. He ate the dark. She’d seen it run wet down his chin.

“I have the thing,” he’d told her over the telephone, earlier in the evening. “The thing you wanted. You asked and I have it. I’m looking at it now. You were right. It shines.”

“We’ll meet then,” she said. The radio soft, the music. “You know where, when.” Her sad eyes. The sun and horizon from her apartment window. She rang-off without saying goodbye.

She drank coffee in a cafe until the time was near. Melancholy patrons. Cigarette smoke. An outcast’s lips moving sitting next to her saying nothing.

An hour later on Pender Ogden held the thing out in his bony hand. “Orbits,” he breathed. “Just listen. Shafts of light. The mud of beginning. Early birdsong dawnings. Noons and midnights. Pages. The dark paint of whispers. Listen. Leaves. Flowers on a path. The night.”

She took it from him. It fitting like a cup in the saucer of her palm. Midnights. A clock somewhere. “It’s your season now,” Ogden said. “But it will not last.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

sister somewhere

wall is something with a somewhere on the other side
guessed opposite at by its lonely sister somewhere who says
I am best so lonely that is being she’s a something that has read
her William Carlos Williams she thanks and admires
the graffiti tagged obstacle before her alone I am best alone
thus disconnected from other loner somewheres the wastes
grasslands the spines of continents cities the planets and stars each
their own somewhere exquisitely lonely a blessed lonely that
only really hurts on Saturday nights imparting the basic look in her eyes

________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

she would never be a planet

it was a Tuesday thought
she would never be a planet
no orbits for her no
place on a mystical chart
oh Emily Dickinson
where were you when she needed you
so suspiciously perfect your metre
(who were you trying to impress?)
and Gertrude Stein
your verse so blank
so serviceable before its time
and Sylvia so self-deadly we found you lost
and wept the
poets were useless
and she’d never be a planet
______________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

making photographs

don’t look into the lens you Sylvia Plath you
there be monsters there
where I live too keeping fiasco rooms
faces protests and frank poverty
but I bar nature at the door
nature don’t even knock don’t
let me hear you in the dark hall
snacking on the sunlight in your pockets

don’t look into the lens this ain’t no portrait
no one will look into your eyes your smile is meaningless
it’s your misery people want to see that’s right
look over there where you figure there might be an out
so you won’t have to look at me in the direction
you were looking when I found you yeah it’s cruel
but it’s also art it’s art baby don’t fuck with my art

___________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

shame wheel

the shame wheel spins
only slowing round shift change, the fentanyl dawn
after doing the graveyard
handing out rigs at the door and listening to plights
having to be tough at times
down here where no one backs down
no, no bread tonight no sandwiches
yeah, I got socks no razors
yer right, I don’t know what it’s like
fuck me, another OD in the men’s room
as the neighbourhood tilts into daytime
throwing its own mercury switch
naloxone doesn’t always work it’s all about timing
sirens ambulance and fire the cops stay away
we’re good Samaritans after all
though none of us has heard of the Samaritan Pentateuch
it was Eric he had a bed in the sanctuary
did he have family?
the Mayor calls it a bloodbath
then has an organic lunch
the shame wheel spins

___________________________________________________________________________