Category: poetry

I was born in a pocket of night — a small, safe darkthat felt like forever. Movement told me I existed:warm, resistant matter folded close on every side. Then a sudden white light found me. Fingers, large and soft,closed too firmly; I slid between two warm plains that shut like petals. A spark cracked the … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Life of a Smoke, v.3

I lie in the dark that feels like forever.I know I am because movement answers me,solid matter pressing all around. Sudden light. Hands take me—a hard, soft squeeze. I slipbetween two warm surfaces that close. A sharp crack, a white flash; it comes close,then touches. Air rips through me.I burn. Energy becomes pain when the … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Life of a Smoke, v.2

Have you read Irving Layton—so loud they praise him?They say he’s fantastic, yet what lingers is small: his smile,an imprint on the mind like a detached fly-wing—a pale shard of motion, exact and obscene. Have you listened to Whitman, the city’s long breath?Do you find him lavish—spilling clauses like summer light? Have you read Rod … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Have you read the poet?, V.4

Have you read Irving Layton?They say he’s fantastic—but only his smile leaves marks,like a detached fly-wing: small, precise, obscene. Have you listened to Whitman?Do you find him lavish with his breath? Have you read Rod McKuen?They say he moves crowds,but only with a single-minded achefor men and women—like a moth circling a candle: predictable, hungry. … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Have you read the poet?, V.3

Have you read Irving Layton?They say he’s fantastic,but only his smile leaves indelible marks—like a detached fly-wing: small, precise, obscene. Have you listened to Whitman?Do you find him lavish with his breath,sprawling praise across the city’s shoulders? Have you read Rod McKuen?They say he moves crowds—but only with a single-minded achefor men and women,like a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Have you read the poet?, V.2

From the river's throat a dock-less spine of earth juts up,moonlight stitching the reed-edges with a thin bright wire.Windows turn inward like closed mouths; a rowboat hangs idle,three small shirts looped over its oar — flags for nobody. Old men on the wharf barter the same two words: “Once.”The word folds into the nets and … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Creepy Island, v.5

From the river's murk an island rises,a lantern on a stump that never burns.Three small shirts hang where no footprints go.Rumour skims the water like spilled oil. Men on the bank point with cigarette hands;dogs halt, ears pricked; shutters draw their teeth.Night settles with a bone-cold quiet.Only one reed argues with the dark. Footprints sink. … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Creepy Island, v.4

From the river’s throat a dock-less spine of earthjuts—an island stitched to rumour.Moonlight stitches the reed-edges with wire,and the black water stitches back, slow and smooth. Windows that never lit keep their dark,a rowboat hung with three small shirts like flags.At the wharf, old men trade the same two words:“Once,” and then the silence swallows … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Creepy Island, v.3

An island rises from the black river,its shoreline a gravel throat the current keeps.A single lantern, unused, rocks on a stump;mattress springs tangle with reeds like ribs. People along the bank point and look away,their voices small and sharpened by the cold.Rumour skims the water like oil — thin, iridescent —and children’s names come and … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Creepy Island, v.2