cornichons rhymes with bouchon
some people enlarge us/others shrink us
they say a photograph steals one's soul (hahaha how does one write 'laugh'?)
what then does a poem do? ___ offers portal to better places __ at best the line(s) of flight creating bypassed and roads to better head (and naturually body places) the body places |
music , on the other hand,is a pile of shit| when it disgraces us with its false routes out to the song ' of death and self destruction| so many hundreds of so called songs are blasted with self induced malaise, miserable nostalgia, and the music buries the feeling, it wipes it across 'guitar' chords. where the intesnity of an emotion and its greatness comes from something, if it's worthwhile at all, that cannot be buried. im saying this as i just heard some awful gush on france culture and elsewhere today .
i shut it off .
a voice speaking in the margins
mais les marginaux sont quoi?
re: Montreal __ the memory of a city . . no . it's time for me to go. i hate what's been done to it, it's not the place I knew and loved,
it's become a small retracted place definging itself by the petty race of langauge 'laws' the death of culture and not its celebration
the hundred or more 'festivals' contain many imagitive and wonderous things however, they are in my view also a burial site of what's not said
of what's erased daily hourly the loss of street names,
forcing immigrants to speak the so caled majority language all of it is typical of the
yes that's an incomplete sentence
so what of it?
(phone note to self)
a man with a sore back/ & broken teeth does the whirl
around with a woman from across the sea
what has been done to our city?
the good/ bad
the spoken/ written
retraction or /and flight and creation
who are we?
d reams yesterday night a city i am lost
where am I?
does the i become I? as happiness might be found?
who are the song of green and winter?
there are greater cities in the world
where art pours off the buildings and steams off the street. what sacrifices were made.
i am or i've spent so much of my life living on the fear or at the sense that an act of violence is coming
my nerves jump /my back
's ready for the hit
a tense machine waiting for hurt
. writing often provided a way out / if it doesnt ill give it up
stand on my head
go piss on the waves
of the nearby 'lake' or estuary
-------------------- but writing is not a god.