Snow,
A drive-in,
Soft glowing street lamps,
Softer lips,
Abrasions to the lips and jaw,
Sharing a Mortlach in a freight train yard.

What use will any of my poetry be?
When they further expand the city
into this freight train yard.
The containers where the

Disconsolate seek love
Will grow into deconstructivist skyscrapers.
and all the love housed in those warehouses
Will get folded, and folded, and folded
and then smeared into the alcoves.

​

We are all someone's baby.
Some mother held us near,
No, these sentiments do not matter
These are just pretty words on parchment paper.

​

In the New World Order,
Tiny vessels carry
CRTs, with technicoloured girls on them.
and in the Tavern, they built
Where your house to be,
Now exclusively plays
French House music
and sales
Alcohol fueled hubris
and Visions of our tryst
at the freight train yard.

Visions of a time,
When everything in me
Was crimped up and
Nothing inside me was
Worth writing about.

​

By the end of it
I am grasping onto
Your hand
I cannot see anything beyond it.

​

The vision every time ends with you saying,
“Even if we did not want to be either
We have both been the ones to leave and who are being left”.

Comme ci, comme ça, that your memories come and go,
in between the visions and the hits of hallucinogens.
I clench my fists
and I turn to my verses.
Even though I have made a living
out-of-writing worlds rosier than mine,
I can never live in a world like that.
I am unaccustomed
With things this tender.

​

In the end,
When the laissez-faire economics has
Preempted all over
I will have to choose between
Dying as the human you loved
or keep on living as a lonely god,
Being kept alive by hallucinogens.

The freight train yard and CRT TVs
The VCRs that holds the account of how
We both had fallen (in love, we found).

​

None of it is lost,
All of it and the city
The possibilities
and the new world order
is still what it all could be
With you.