Accidental Nap

Weird Poetry

I fell asleep on the couch


My head was crushing my hands

Into crabby claws.

Was I clawing at something, someone?

They were so sore upon waking

From having slept them into a contorted wood-like gnarl.

Not all contortion is painful though….

When I looked at my small wrist

Who even looks at their wrist except on the dark days?

I saw a pulsation

Heard it screaming in my ears

Beneath the silken surface of my skin

Beneath two barely-there freckles, a splotch of pink dye,

Beneath those delicate string-like tendons that I can see and feel under the sheath of me.

Why can’t I hear my own heartbeat

This cacophonously

At any other time than after waking from an accidental nap

On the couch?

There is always this panic tied up in the chords of my voice

And a waking sleepful dream

Still caught in my chest,

On my chest like that creepy demon in that painting…

And the booming of my bloodstream makes me wish

I could accidentally fall back asleep

Just to escape the sound.




*** The Nightmare (Henry Fuseli, 1791) ***

Photo credit: Googley Googley Googley Google

Cannibalistic Merging

Weird Poetry

Seared flesh —

Caramelized on the outside,

Leaving my center juicy and still bloody,

The blood pooling under the mass of glistening muscle,

Still throbbing and twitching.

Scored skin —

Cross-hatched in my lust,

Slicing into all of my lost senses,

Lost yesterday,

Or an hour ago,

Or millennia ago,

Or not yet but soon.

Scarred sheath of hissing hot skin —

Marked in my carnal urges,

Inviting tooth and nail and tongue and groans,

And more devouring,

And slow slow savouring.

This edible parchment of mine is scratched

And seared and scored and scarred

In ink and blood

Not all mine

But yours too.

My succulent veins on skin paper

Waiting for your bone-cutting teeth

And sharp pen.

My blood burning lines across the pages of your chest,

Burning new whorls into the skin of your fingertips,

Pouring verse like cutting acid through your supple delectable flesh,

Cooking us up like a rapacious feast,

A feast of scorched words, crashed sentences, burnt pages and cannibalistic merging.




*** When you said you were a failure at being a vegan, you weren’t bullshitting, were you, Sugar Plum? ***

*** Nope. No B.S. My cravings for raw oysters and human flesh proved too strong to resist… alas…. ***

*** Honestly… it feels like I ate too much food tonight…. Not sure where any of this came from but what fun! ***

Some of my leaves are you-coloured

Weird Poetry

You ushered in the end

(the beginning, or a wave breaking on a beach, then receding to rebuild)

When I showed you all of the colours and the textures of my leaves —

The light and the dark ones,

The skeletal and the plump ones,

The ones parched of chlorophyll,

The ones left hanging on the wind,

And the ones doing somersaults along the increasingly contrasting gradients in between my dark and light…

And maybe in between yours as well.

But you were long gone the moment I showed you

Which leaf was


When you stopped seeing it

(Or decided to turn your cheek)

It faded

And bleached from exposure to the second sun.




*** Still complaining, eh, Sweet Cheeks? ***

*** Nah… I wrote this a couple of months ago on a PMS day, and completely forgot about it lol ***

*** I still have traces of chlorophyll in my blood. The fading will un-fade, fallen leaves always regrow, flowers continue to blossom. I feel like a flower in full bloom these days. ***

Other People’s Poetry: Tara Caribou’s “four”


I recently purchased a copy of Tara Caribou’s latest poetry collection, four. This collection is built around the concept of the number four as represented by the four seasons (the four main chapters), and four phases of the moon, four times of day, the four elements, and four different kinds of love.

I hope I didn’t completely botch that explanation….

It was a pleasure to read. Each chapter begins with a photo or two, also created by Tara. In all honesty, I couldn’t choose just one or two… they are all stunning. If you are into nature photography as I am (though I am an amateur, and know shit all about photography), her photos will not disappoint. The final photo right at the very end of the book sums up the feral and mysterious nature of love and self. I couldn’t think of a better visual analogy than the ravenous truly unknowable sea.

Onto the words now….

I have many favourites poems, especially the number/geometry-related ones. I won’t be sharing her poems here — as you really need to buy this book, but I will tell you which poems I loved the most:

Order of Operations features a very interesting spin on repetition, and being someone who finds math intriguing despite potentially having dyscalcula, I found this poem quite pleasing.

System Failure is a clever play on error codes. I enjoyed the high emotion of the first part of the poem. Subsequently, how it decomposes into error messages and binary code is just brilliant.

I Am Fractal… because fractals. If you know anything about me, you will know that I have an obsessive fascination with fractals so this one jumped out at me. The following stanza just made me smile so hard:

My mind is painted as such:

I’m all Euclidean lines and perfect graphs

There’s Order of Operations and square roots

I’m totally into dodecahedrons and trigonometry

Me too, Tara. Me too. I have always fancied myself an irregular nonagon….

Little Robin just made me feel all warm and fuzzy because I have a thing for birds, and robins always make me smile. Wild things that we know we can never keep are always such captivating muses. Nature gives constantly in the realm of senses and inspiration.

Minerals and Vibrations contains such a sense of rootedness to earth and to depth, I felt like I was reduced to an earthworm as I read it, and I swear I could taste the soil in every word.

There are so many dog-earred pages in my copy, so many more poems of loving, longing, losing and regaining in this book. Do get yourself and someone you love a copy of this poetry collection. It will move your heart and soul, and give you a new appreciation for numbers and geometry.

Well done, Tara!




Infinite fractals under your shirt

Weird Poetry

I’m like these infinite little fractals


Under your shirt

Burrowing into you

And growing more complex

The deeper I go.

Just repeating

And getting closer and closer to

The non-end of my infinite comfort.

A Mandelbrot set embedded in you

Under your shirt

Under your skin

Etched in your bones

And your own equally infinitely fractaled soul.





erotic poetry

Sometimes I wonder

What it would be like

To be gifted to you

Wearing a big red bow

And your tender bite marks.

I wonder

What it would be like

To lie beneath your fever kisses

And feel the tracks of broken skin (that you gifted right back to me) down my back

From your nails

And your insatiable pangs of thirsty.

I want the heaving of your chest against my own,

And the lick of your sweet honey suckle mouth on my chewed up lips.

I know you equally want

(Don’t deny it… you want it bad…)

My aching love-punched heart

Pulsating through my crazing skin —

And yours —

As you crush your teeth into my ripe flesh

And make all of my parts yours to swallow.

I wonder (I wonder so so much)

What it would be like

To exhale your moans through my own red parted lips

As my hands travel beneath the elastic band at my waist —


I exhale

And the breath and sensual sounds that exit me

Are not only my own…

Not anymore.




*** Well, hopefully whoever it is whose breath you are exhaling doesn’t have halitosis, Angel Eyes…. ***

*** Yeah… I totally didn’t think of that…. Ew. ***

Spiritual Awakening

Weird Poetry

After the darkest night of all

Eternities of the fucking things, actually

I unearthed single-second solipsisms

And solar systems

And holy soliloquys

Scattered about beneath the soil of my skin

By seismic stuttering

In my solitary soul

Now shattered by stupid synchronicities.




***Brought to you by the letter ‘S’. ***

*** 🙄 And spiritual awakenings… which are so silently violent…. ***

*** The most annoying part of a spiritual awakening is the fucking numbers… everywhere. ***


Weird Poetry

If you take a porous pumice stone

And hold it under water

At bath time,

You will notice tiny bubbles squiddling up to the surface.

When you lift it from its aqueous submergence,

You can hear little drips and drops,

And thread-thin streams of water

Twisting through the craters and crevasses inside the humble hand-held stone.

In slow succession,

Each drop of water patiently exits the bottom of the stone,

Pulled by gravity and belonging

To the liquid mother-store.


*** I smell a recent tryst with a thesaurus, Buttercup…. ***

*** And it was a sopping wet affair…. ***

Finger Bones

Weird Poetry

I feel your glossy gleaming granite finger bones

With their clattering phalanges

Encircle my frigid heartstone

Hard on hard

Nothing to melt

Nothing to thaw

Because cold things can’t make other cold things warm up.




*** Having a “Bah humbug” moment, Sugar Tits? ***

** Nah. It’s just that kind of damp cold that crawls inside your bones and moans out shivers through your pores. I wish I could curl up inside my bonfire.***

Paradoxical Insomnia

Weird Poetry

I thought I was sleeping last night,

But all of my eyes were open behind my two lids

And I could see and feel the room around me.

I could taste the cold tea in the chipped porcelain cup that I left on the book shelf;

I could sense the damp cold air slipping in through the open window,

And swaddle me like a blanket of wet gauze on my goose-bumped flesh (this happens when you are pulled out from under your sheets by unparalyzed writhing);

And I could smell the ashes of a spent joint and a scorched stick of frankincense.

My dreams were populated with moments of sleep just like this in which I wasn’t asleep

Or entirely awake.

Just an odd case of sleep state misperception,

Of obsessive wakeful mentation

About which state of sleep or wakefulness I am inhabiting.

Maybe sleep will become my waking life,

Or my waking life will be my new sleep.

Not sure if I will want to know

What’s up and what’s down

And either or which every neither way,

Just as long as I get to actually sleep

At some point.




*** Regulate your sleep patterns, Sweet Cheeks. That way you don’t have to write poetry about having weird sleeping situations. Man… you poem-writers create your own problems just so you can write about them. SMH…. ***

*** I would rather create my own problems than give that honour to someone else. I’m just being proactive. ***

*** Zzzzz… ***

Under Skin

Weird Poetry

I drew you in crowned moonlight and overcast sky

That night you slipped into my skin.

You painted me in swirling stars and ghostly auroras

That night I slipped out of your skin.

You moulded me from scalding ice and shattering fire

That night you bit into my skin.

I wrote you into my dreams of rusted earth and copper branches

That night I slept under your skin.




*** I was thinking so randomly about subdermal implants… like of shapes… to make raised designs on the skin. I don’t know why. Then started to think about if I could shrink myself and could burrow into a person. Then images, words, editing/revising, and the moon happened. Imagination is the only true freedom. ***

*** There is something very Silence of the Lambs-sy about this. ***

Poets Need Hecklers

Weird Poetry

Poets need more hecklers…

Or hecklers… period.

With baskets of rotten tomatoes

And scathing acid-kissed quips and truth-telling insults —

Like a Waldorf and Statler for our own pockets (that’s where I keep my own little hecklers… for humility’s sake).

Comedians and thespians shouldn’t have exclusive rights to being heckled in public.

I don’t say this because I dislike poetry —

I say this because

I love it.

And I love poets —

For all their visions and self-pitying compositions of lettered misery,

And for all of their (seemingly) unguarded hearts and souls.

But the air gets a little stuffy up here in the rafters of spontaneous overflow

And expression of heightened (often lunatic) emotions.

And the arrangement of feeling into an impossible but bravely attempted translation.

There is far too much solemnity in poetry,

And not nearly enough fun

And self-mockery

And downright tricksterism (there is an ambition… a trickster poet…).

This is why I feature my own set of hecklers at the bottom of almost every poem

In italics.

Because if I take myself too seriously,


And everyone else,

Will die of boredom.




*** So, is this my cue to continue making fun of you and your “poems”, Toots? ***

*** Whatever floats your boat or untangles your bodangles, old man! It’s open season for poet heckling. ***

All curled up….

Weird Poetry

Can you feel me

All curled up

Like a little fetal leaf not yet unfurled

Tucked away in the cozy dark of your shirt pocket,

The one directly over your heart?

Can you feel me

Wrapped tightly around your neck like a choker of blood-kissed rubies,

Rubies the colour of my lust mixed with yours,

And of double-sun-beating soul hauntings?

Can you feel me cached away in those labyrinthine chambers of echo,

Nuzzled deeply in the delicate helix of your outer ear…

The sweet little left one… the one spoken into by angels (maybe… you never know…)?

If you listen closely,

You will hear me audibly lick into your curls of cartilage

Last night’s de-worded choir of symphonic moans.




Heart Throb

Weird Poetry

When I press my fingers

Into my chest,

I can feel my heart

Right there,

A little ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum,

Right there

Beneath a layer of tissue thin skin.

I feel that area


Swelling like the salted sea

Almost imperceptibly

Like little ocean blooms under a new moon.

If I am quiet and still

I can feel my honey blood



Blazing (like the colour of red amber)

Through my cushioned veins.

I can feel

Its current

Its flow

Its effervescence

And I feel it going exactly where it needs to go

To find its purpose.

If I massage that place in my chest —

That place of raw pounding

Where once there was stabbing crimson ache,

I can feel my arteries expanding and contracting

Once again

With a full range of motion and freedom it never knew


Before this moment.




*** You’ll look for any excuse to fondle your own breasts, and say you’re touching your heart, wontcha, Sweet Cheeks? ***

*** Heart… breasts… all a part of the same me so… same difference either way, old man. ***

Superfluous Veins

Weird Poetry

It’s strange —

I used to think I needed you

Like my veins need blood to have purpose.

It took bleeding myself

To realize that I perhaps need you the way a body needs a second set of veins,

Superfluous veins

It doesn’t.




*** You sound bitchy, Little Missy. ***

*** I know. I don’t feel bitchy though. I feel kinda light. I know we all need people but why? Why can’t we want rather than need? I don’t want need. ***

Under the Stupid Bed

Weird Poetry

Some people wake up on the wrong side of the bed

Some mornings.

I have — too many times to count.

But today,

I woke up under my bed

Which has no frame;

The mattresses are one on top of the other,

Directly on the floor.

I never liked the bed frame concept; the floor is much more solid.


I woke up under that.

Feels like it at least.


My head is pounding,

My vision is blurry,

My womb is bleeding with weeping profusion

As my oceanic eyes well up with tears that fall straight down to my feet;

They aren’t about meandering or cascading today.

My eyelids are fighting to shutter out the world

As a pain swells and recedes within my chest like a little asshole wave that the moon will not release from its pull.

That pain…

I’m sure it originated in my heart,

And I can’t stop palpating the strained muscle beneath my skin.


I may have well awoken alone beneath my skin on a desolate planet in an alien solar system

Rather than under my frameless bed….

But in all honesty,

There is no damn difference.




*** You tired, Sweetums? That’s an impressive list of grievances… even for you. ***

*** [weeps] ***

*** I will be fine. I always am… in time. ***

Blood Dreams

Weird Poetry

My womb dreams

Of careening crimson ribbons,

Of bleeding ripe petals,

Of sloughing and sighing,

Of meandering streams of melodic melancholy.

My womb,

That sacred stitched space of fecund shadow and halcyon hell,

Dreams of shedding its skin of memory

And its gauzy forgettings.




*** Be careful with all of that blood loss, Angel Eyes.***

*** I never worry about blood loss…. ***