torn labels

                                    - for was

love me suck me you cant do nothing but sleep baby
to yr disturbd midnight at least i got to say
good bi
to yr sister
while were you sleeping
                cant remember
                was drunk

bad luck is pale and it was bad luck to celebrate so soon
so a bunch of us and i was drinking
b/c I mist you lots
then we all went back to my basement
then we all listend to yr records
then we all calld you
and i think you were mad
                you soundd
                hopeless or stoned
                blamed me
                that you were always on top

sheer volume I desperately said that i was a door
you already opend but please and already in love
w/ th whoa of yr words

that’s a clap-trap
don’t try and paint me
you said
you know what today was
                it was our anniversary
                and we were once cool holy shit

# posted by hardyf : 09:55  0 comments

 
do not judge me by th color of my leaves [for we are all wooden inside 

# posted by hardyf : 11:30  1 comments

a villain steals in th dusk
red apples
from th orchard of my mind

seems to me like th seams of th scarecrow
are coming undone as if
he could tell

and a maiden is fingered behind a curtained window
( blamed

sh went into th sea never to be seen
sh was always sick
sick on leave

as I followed her through my dreams of autumn rot
sh was loathe to love
anyone but th villain                    in his black blue fields    [and along came roland

burningly in               sodium light  explosions        & w/ ease                    his flight
                                                                                                                     upto th tower

as th crowbaby  in me was like wait

at dawn     roland sweats       in th thick stream of white sun / roland sweats

and I quietly hunt
my stolen apples 

# posted by hardyf : 08:40  0 comments

that
death cab
from grey seattle
            up skyscrapers in neon rain
is so
suck
and babe

yet it drives me to sleep           still
way above in th cliffs
of this tiny mtn town

                                                     ( golden retriever sleeps on th carpet
                                                        in th white glow of an iPod

# posted by hardyf : 16:10  0 comments

th hardest part is this mtn time zone
               when love has no boundary / no time

it’s only 630 there -
I’m watching th weather channel and th forecast is hard

new jacob sweater – but just don’t feel like it
photocopy me instead
                        and send me
                        in satellite images
                        , oh you are sleeping right now
                        w/ all yr blankets
                        around yr head
                                                you look serene…

            i subscribe to Russian satellite images of yr bedroom window

have nice dreams of th blowjob
I never quite gave you
                        sorry abt that
                        but you can get them over the phone w/ a credit card
                        ( if yr mom lends you hers

            or maybe
            you are at th park
            you are so bad abt sunscreen
                        but it is winter
                        and I miss th little things
                        like threats of skin cancer
    
yr scratchy record player goes
baby sure loves to ball

over and over in my head

th rocky
mtn

trench
is burning  /  over and over in my head           

             but i cant get past     

            th precious frostbite                         –of learn by heart

# posted by hardyf : 14:39  3 comments

French monster on
French monster

Eden at night
Beaujolais in cafes    is
a tempting place
         th sidewalk busy w/ lights
         and hungry women

off a plane and already hustling b/w her legs

(i can only warn you, not teach you

that is if you hesitate
she will strike
         even w/ her head
         turned

and you will rain
as would a city of gods
in suffering

be it pleasure
or pain

perfectly broken
or fixed

                        th taste of a crop’s first grape
                        is once
                        never
                        and is when

# posted by hardyf : 16:11  1 comments

do not know how
they feel so sexy            in th painting

           hand
           in my pants
                             like
                             something real

# posted by hardyf : 20:07  0 comments

hungry black lips / hungry white skin

# posted by hardyf : 14:01  0 comments

            if I am a stranger
           then this is th best you will see
           iris through th window of a limousine
           while you sleep                                   

skytrain to th theaters
of departure – out of sight, thou art a love
unpracticed;

where hearts run down
avenues
            she raises me an alley
            each time

to a younger garden
w/ perfect neighbors
that I cannot begin to step
carefully enough through

            and all th different ppl were there
            not in color
            but in spice         , and I saw hope

got through her hotel tears
when I couldn’t be looked at directly
she looked at th sunrise
it burnt my eyes too
             I saw orange
             n th vancouver hotel room
             w/ a parking lot view

early to her sleepy head
is a blonde pillow storm

            her little heart
            in an overnight bag

and black hooker boots that are so becoming
way passed checkout time
            th modern lovers grab their baggage
            but have not left yet

when Picasso unveils across th street–
a secret meeting of blue bookstores

his paintings are a map of th eye
that ends at delicate retinas
in my sea of vitreous humor

# posted by hardyf : 23:06  1 comments

winter
glass domes glow
golden
            in th wood night
            dark
                                                   Bond elements

                                                   a black car
                                                   a troika

pulls up
                                                   a hand

th st petersburg ballet company gets out
as snowflakes

and th students kept cold ~
           something abt a princess
           who is turned into a swan by a magician
           and then rescued at th stroke of midnight
           by a prince

sounds of
ice vodka
from a dark office

           belvedere

revolutions hunched on shelves

shots      in th dark                              a shot away
she held my hand

stalin on th mantle
she stared
sh   said                          sh loves to dance  /   but never has

           of her family
           escaping is a dance
                                      th weather in st petersburg was ded

mirror image ::        killer / beggar

balalaika soundtrack

th sickle is in th stars
field of hay
and frozen blood
stumbling out to find her

           once walking these halls
           a russian doll
           opened 10,000 times            , sh said

# posted by hardyf : 13:04  2 comments

my night is wool
so i took th storm windows down                                      , my dear then

                                          how could I know
                                          how cold

th lamb froze
deep in th night                   for to you          th night is bones

                                                and how could I know
                                                when you went to coldplay
                                                you went in wolfskin

i sent
white roses, 

                                               you walk’d th lamb
                                               into th fire

time smokes
compassion a burning cigarette
   in cafes
   in ashes
                   oxygen ignites so quickly ,
                time is l’essance

“do u like paint’d toes on me,
                                                                                    does it turn you on?”
have we changed     
                                  barrels of oil in an arctic field                                               
                                                                               …   we have changed

8

am not convinc'd                                    am not currently wrapt in wolfskin

                             will stand here as (nothing wrong  
gasoline drips from yr petals
just wanting to say

that it is our anniversary                         /superstition

when fuel fills up my eyes
and th flood explodes in th streets
you will not be convinc’d
and you are not convinc’d

# posted by hardyf : 10:21  0 comments

ol’ jack keeps saying:: everything is nothing, nothing at all -
                empty mountaintop pray pray to no desolation.
but for all this suicide – is nothing jack?
                no?

                we are th generation distract                             w/o a war to call a war      :

# posted by hardyf : 22:05  0 comments

lighthouses taught native
communities that we are big houses
along wilderness reservations

walking south
with th devil’s club
down ropes and over starbucks –
ded wood on th ground
curses th drift

          clean drinking water is right
          is clean drinking water a right
          is drinking water clean

          four hundred years on foot
          is apparently not
          progress

what now – it takes courage
on our part
to even glance 

away we go run
away   

what we call th courage
to loaf
where there need not be courage
at all
where th drinking water is so quiet

cut and scrape along th stainless
of our souls
            th american standard
we pour buckets of water over our head
and listen to th drop by drop

# posted by hardyf : 10:33  0 comments

 names on th shor 
they waves
erase

if she was afraid and aged
in an oak cask
until morning ;
she woke on th sea
by a city
and surrounded was my    body
that waited for some          body

hear th young girl’s cry
     drum
     wonder
who is in th lighthouse
and drinking th channel beside her
away
which has never been enough either/
or

     hell hell hell hell hall hell
     is where th tips of her soul
     dip and row

and you           memorabilia
                        a ship in a ditch

walking slowly on
th same wave as th night before

     cup of coffee goes down like a snowflake

buried as if
in a cold seaside motel –
where we’d go th night before

no matter
there is no ponder
     and I wonder if she dreams
     don’t drown
     or has fallen back asleep
     or just stares                         at arguments
                                                  about time
                                                  come so often 

# posted by hardyf : 09:51  0 comments

An intense sleepheadedness
of church ceremonies and
step mothers on jungle islands riding around in flame-painted jeeps-
must have been th chicken & th wine.

                        ( awake
                          in a lake
                          of sky

To be    cloudy
            cold and windy
            clear clear blue
at th speed of birds
as far as an eye
my little corneas hit daffodils.

            gardening / old blue jeans / bright sunchunk of morning
            get up to
            afternoon tents of beer

I will miss you
and yr scathing way.

I am so conscious
right now
of weird guilt issues            /mood

am determined not to be affected by that gene pool )

what th sleep do we know ; heartlock

just know that you are mist                                 and that is all.

# posted by hardyf : 09:53  0 comments

i just got home
into it for th first time
and was fine         ( when memories are tied
until i turned onto Jarvis

i pulled off
and wanted to go to sleep
but didnt wanna wake up
not
not to you

fcuk

looking for head
in my consolation

honey give me up softly
like snow and oxygen

kisses make
frowns

it sounds weird there-
i have no idea
of where you came from

home again is a mis
          i tried so hard
          so hard

lovehurtsnow
lovehurtswell

# posted by hardyf : 15:42  0 comments

plain writing on pulp is boring
realize

better is a headache                                                  a helicopter of ink jet

this velvet whiskey                  farewell                    is too fckn easy

but that’s alright
cuz easy is a good friend of mine

# posted by hardyf : 18:57  0 comments

fell in love w/ a working woman,
she made me faces
and furnish’d my freedom; she
spoke of my beauty as if it belong'd to
me, finally.  and she was there
in th canals.  we lost our time,
and chas'd th safaris off our skin.

an aggressive moth came to light
one night                                                          (for there will be many hands
she only silently shut
th screen door, and return'd to me
by     fire, said                                                   no lover came        to quiet

# posted by hardyf : 09:13  0 comments

mountains like me                 will go on rising
in san fransisco                  dream sequences

and daughters of                  low pressure
will be set upon                  shelves of albion ice

alice in my Arms
like a mountain of snow
around and everything avalanche…

pickt th flower frozen
and stood there til spring
in mourning

***

in a coffee bar
of golden smog

                                                bound to the bean / teeth stains
                                                downtown toronto never ends
                                                in legs

( darkness                  morality           city)

be glad th flower was pickt
for those are some heavy boots, man

            see th calendar
            and scruffy ondaatje

our scruffy ondaatje
and his sandoz eyes
our best mind is not five minutes
from th bloor street bridge
where it died

he has his mountain calendar under
his arm and seismically
waves

            to no one
            or
            in a coffeeshop  

# posted by hardyf : 12:18  0 comments

                                                                  mindchanger clouds grabbed early
                                                                  th thunder sunrise and from ocean tip
                                                                  my canoe was taken into an image of th sky
                                                                  that couldn’t be looked directly at

on a woodsy patagonia sleeve
I was a young child of no lineage
in sex dream
w/ an austrian goddess ( heavy cream breasts
and not much to eat but
killer whale figurines

while my father was locked out of th cabin
I saw angels hold back th gods on foggy coastlines

death was much to big to cure
by way I went to see him
            or how she died
            on a bed of ocean salt
            while I held my breath

                        sleep dead
                        to th youth
                        imagin

                               nation
                               of
naked
                               her

sleep
trembles
                               in breath supernovas

gallows from
th laughs of a husband
and a father in th throws of nature

shooting rapids         in golden canoes

thought of a wedding    in white water

th Austrian wife and I
sent to th cabin
in th dark she asked me questions
from her sleeping bag across th floor
I watched her breasts in th moonlight
while th men drank when I was 9                    

# posted by hardyf : 22:29  0 comments

Asking you to know me
my hell
wife

Never been to th city &
left my
sight

# posted by hardyf : 20:56  0 comments