L’Amour Est Confinement





Your heart is a cage.

Your love is ripped

From a page,

On the Art of Confinement.


Inside my globe of glass,

I cut and scratch

Captive long songs for you.


Pulling my purple stockings up,

Plucking my hair just like a harp,

I sing for you in the dark.


The curtain rises from the stage.

I’m to perform for your wage.

It’s time for the show:

Le Grand Mentir et son Belle Oiseau!


Your fingers snap.

I arch my back.

“Ne Me Quitte Pas,”

I sing.

And all eyes fall

On my long legs dangling

From the golden swing.


The song before the strut.

The strut before the strip.


There goes my corset.


“Le Osieau!”

An Exquisite tease

Meant to please.


There are shouts of applause,

and loud hurrahs.

Up from their seats men jump

Praising the tassels and bumps.

I roll my hips,

Seeing bills of green drip

Out from their money clips.


The crowd is blind

They cannot see

Your anger and envy.


I bend and strut.

You storm off.

And the show is cut.

The crowd will leave

Very displeased

Not to have seen

The full tease.


Through the bars

Of my gilded cage,

You pass lemons, poppy seeds,

And drops of Dramamine.

Now I yawn instead of sing,

And with clumsy legs

I wish for wings.


A la semaine prochaine:

I find myself, chained

To the Ponts des Arts.


19 Padlocks/Cadenas D’Amour.

Each one carved:

“L’amour est Confinement.”


On my knees,

I beg and plead,

but you laugh,

And throw the keys

Into the River Seine.





Lost Girl

Loving you, is like getting sober.

The worst forty-eight hours of my life.

I am enclosed.

I am encaptured.

For you are the one,

Who brings me that soft,

Sweet rapture.

Loving you, is like

an on-going morning-after.

You press me,

You press me


You’re pressing on a ripe bruise.

Ain’t that the worst news?

A case of the worst blues?

Ever I swallowed.

Loving you, is like gaining sobriety.

Two weeks later,

I’m dry-heaving

the table scraps you’ve left

behind for me.

The memories are distant,

But, the sound of your voice

Was So Persistent

In swearing that you loved me.

Two bottles later –

I will be on my knees

For just one ampule

Of your sweetness

I will plead.

A few drops and I stick you in

Under my skin

Ah – there it is.

But in a split second,

You’re gone.

Not a simple single word.

Not a simple single gesture.

There are the rough cut circles in my fence.

We started from the top.

So now it’s bottom’s up,

Until I find

The right replacement

For You.


Rue Saint-Dominique, Plateau Montreal 2004

On hot summer nights the apartment was empty.

Amis au club.

J’etais seule.

We lived: careless, reckless and random back then.

Youth is Always Wasted On The Young.


Leaning against our small stove,

My ears glad to hear the sharp sound of the kettle boiling.

The steam rises to my face,

And spreads across my bare breasts.

I always went topless in the heat.

The front door crashes open

And in you fall in:

Tall, blonde, and terribly handsome boy.

You stand up casually.

Despite the crash landing,

you are high and drunk on confidence.

Tight blue jeans, Stussy tank, no shoes?

C’est Montreal.

A thin smile and you are looking at me something fierce.

It will happen again:

Boys woke up randomly in my bed that summer.

Their heads buried between in my breasts,

Eager to leave, and I encouraged them.

No hint of desperation.

Never urging them to stay,

Despite how empty I felt after.

With shots of rum burning down our throats,

And the Femmes in background –

We laugh together.

“Violent beats…I stain my sheets….”

Within a second your big hands wrap around my waist.

I collapse against your thin frame and you grind against me.

I feel your mouth next to my ear.

Whispers of hot breath –

“I am going fuck You, good and right.”

I laugh softly,

Drawing my fingers down the line

Of coarse blond hair to your belt.

“Hold on a sec,  Babe…”

You carve a line through the snow,

And then snort if off my tits.

Let the games begin.

You are tugging and pulling at my hair.

My Bonne Belle lips part with expectation.

Your zipper slowly opens,

And I flick my tongue  lightly.

Your cock head jumps up.

A key bump for me –

Then you have me on my knees.

You slide right into my mouth,

And gasp at how warm and wet it feels.

The rush is more than decent:

You are pumping hard and slow in and out.

It feels like you could conquer the world.

I beg you to murder my pussy.

As we bite down, lick and claw at each other:

Music blasts in the background.

When you cum, it feels like bolts of liquid lightening inside of me.

Your thighs shake and your calves are slick with sweat,

Just like a long day of kickturns.

With another breath and with chemical strength,

You flip me over and drive into me

Over and over again.

I feel your mouth press up against my ear while you

are cumming again.

I choke inside when you call me another girl’s name.

We spend the night slumped on the couch;

Your long boy-arms locked across my chest.

I lay awake feeling sore between my legs.

When you finally wake, it’s awkward:Sexy Ink

Another “Hey You. ”

I feel your hand across the top of my head,

Before you leave,

Like you were petting a Saint Bernard.

I spend the morning staring at the ceiling,

While I wonder which parts of me are still whole.

I fixed you; You broke me.

you broke me


“It’s not so easy,” you say.

“Keeping your hands to yourself.”

You spend your days

Adding pretty trophies

To your bedroom shelf.


Cracking your fists in cement,

You’re unwilling to repent,

For each glace you shot,

Whether I liked it or not

At girls dressed in gowns

As thin as parchment paper.


You lied your way into adulthood;

Stealing from the heavy pockets of rich men,

While filling up their wives

With your own brand of adrenalin.


You’re a romantic felon,

Who steals from the hearts of vulnerable girls.

I am a bright burning star,

Who longs for pink cashmere and vanilla pearls.


When we met,

A tornado hit the Church.

For a brief pause,

You thought you could stop the search,

For a full-bodied wine,

When your tongue hit mine.


We took to each other,

Like monkeys bathing in gin.

But you can’t stand my parents,

And the way that you lie,

Makes my head spin.


When we fell,

We fell hard.


We fell into fighting:

Instead of sending hate text,

We started having hate sex.


You come home late,

And don’t really appreciate,

That I vacuum in heels for you.


I keep the flowers watered.

I pick the socks up from the floor.

I am doing my best,

While you’re off chasing

Your next conquest.


You’ve stepped out on me

Three times already.

Three uninspired flings

And I am the bird,

Who refuses to see.

My head is buried so deep

In my wings.


At some point this has to give.

I will won’t take your tales.

Because if I really wanted to torture myself,

I would work in retail.


You’ve played the hell out of me.

But I pretend I do not know any of it

And none of it knows me.


When it ended,

It ended sadly.


You said,

“The thing about you?

The things you want to see

Change the most about me?”


“Well they most probably never will.

The universe knows,

That is just the case with me.”


Now you’re in bed

With the misery of vacancy.

Now you can you see,

That all the things

You swore you would never do,

Have finally caught up with you.


And me?

I will remain your lesson learned:

The thighs of vulnerable girls

Do not compare to a bright burning star

Who dreams of cashmere and pearls.



Her Name Is Splendour

stone armThere is a maze of blueberry bushes and silver yews that exists somewhere south of the imagination.

It requires walking an uncertain path where the brown cobblestone is chipped and rocks jut of corners. If you bypass the potential dangers of falls or a concussion you will turn a corner into a brilliant rush of green ferns.

You have arrived.

Here, you will find the site of the event in which things take their shape.

Brushing aside fronds, you find yourself in a field of violently purple violets. With soft foot falls you wander among the flowers for what seems like hours. The sun’s heat pours across your skin and the thirst grows inside of you.

Up ahead of you, there is a dark line of trees. Standing like soldiers, they guard the Forest. As you pass by their enormous trunks, some part of you knows they are ancient. As a gift of welcome, they drop heirloom pears into your palm. The fruit has a hard reddish-green skin, but when you bite in, it is like they are ripening in your mouth. The crisp taste is one of the purest pleasures you can remember. With this sweet taste in your mouth, you spread yourself across the grass. Looking up into the white down of the pear leaves, their moisture drops on your forehead.  The slow rhythm pulls you into a deep sleep.

You dream of canaries and poetry. Soft words are whispered sweetly into your ear and they come from the wind. They speak of unsurpassed aching and temptations that are known only to you.

You are unsure of even the hour or the day of when you wake.  But when you finally stir, you are looking up into the petals of her eyelids. She stands six-foot tall and has been crafted out of white stone. She has a comeliness that startles the birds out of trees.

A thick mists drifts down from the sky, creating a soft haze across your eyes. You have found the Forest’s daughter. Even though her arms are solid, you imagine a soft embrace. You imagine a cherry taste to her stone mouth.

Her arms are carved reaching up, as if she could touch the sky. The sun pours hot and molten across her palms. You can’t help yourself and press up against the statue. It feels like your whole body is burning bright with fire. The sky melts in strips of tangerine and orange above as you wraps your arms around her stone figure. Your embrace is like molten fire, exploding from a volcano. You have merged and united. This is a kiss where you almost forget where you start and she begins.

This is the event. This kiss has shattered every logical rule there is.

Suddenly you know her name and it is Splendor. Her arms push free from their stone confines and the warmth of her flesh spreads across your skin. Hair in dark waves of silk unfold across your shoulders. It smells like damp cinnamon.  As you grip at each other, thick vines of ivy shoot up from the Forest floor and wrap across your feet. You are tied to her. the ivy winding tight around you. The leaves crawl across your chest and up your neck, trying to take your last breath.

Struggling against the pull of vines , she can feel your desire to escape from her. Splendor whispers the Secrets of the Forest into your ears. You are privy to how the seeds were delicately placed into the soil, the sins of the trees and the long-forgotten names of foxes and toads. This forbidden knowledge is a seduction and it merges the two of you together even deeper.  It is knowledge that angers the skies. Thunder shudders over you and bolts of lightening pierce your feet.

It grows silent and dark. Under a canopy of stars, Splendor’s skin begins to shine. Clumsy birds fall from the sky into the dark green grass below. It is almost a wonder. How very exhausting it must be to be a bird!

In the pool of silent wings at your feet, a small wren struggles to fly. He works through the night, pecking at the vines tied tight to your body.

Thanks to his tireless work, your hands eventually find their freedom from the ivied handcuffs. With the release, you wrench the twines from your body. The feeling is incredible, you are naked and free.

But remaining still – there is Splendor. Her dewy skin and dark eyes give you a gaze screaming of sadness. Looking deep, you are almost lost to her again. A white alabaster arm reaches out. Her palm offers you a dark green and red fruit. You shake your head, but her arm pushes forward. With that familiar sweet taste in your mouth, you turn with regret from her.  The pear provides you with strength and you race from the site of sin towards home.

By the time you find the field of violets, your legs drop and you swoon into the grass. Whether it is only moments or ages that pass while you sleep, only the old trees of the Forest know.

You wake in your bed with a heavy fog in your head.  For some reason you feel confused, and exhausted.  There is a desperate need inside you to remember last night’s dream.  When you close your eyes and try to recall it, all you can see is the black of eyelids.  There’s a small scratching beside you.  Turning over in your bed you see a small tiny brown bird.  He seems to be struggling with tired wings.  Placing him in your palm, you walk him to the window and whisper old words in a language you do not recall. Their sound is strange but familiar.  The bird’s wings flutter with strength.  Opening your bedroom window you watch as he flies towards a dark line of green up ahead.  A small smile escapes your lips as you know he carries a message of regret to her.













So You Want to be a Writer?




Deciding the milieu in which you want to write

If you are taking your pen to the page for the first time and cannot decide whether to write fiction or poetry this guide will help you.

The Differences Between Poetry and Pose:

You need to have at least two strings to your bow.  In other words, make sure you have more than one talent.  As a poet, your primary task is to ask yourself: How Am I Going to Harness the Power of Words?  In asking yourself whether your work is a poem or a piece of fiction you need to consider the differences between poetry and fiction.   Narrative is purely about entertainment and its purpose in the end is to keep the reader awake and turning the page.  The function of stories is to answer the question of what happens next?  The writer’s responsibility is to take the reader on a thrilling ride. The poet on the other hand, is required to draw the reader to the ride. Your primary responsibility is to ask who your audience is.

Poetry is a bit more passive in that the author wants to describe and evade. The poet is not asked to provide any conclusions.  In contrast, the fiction writer is required to describe and explain. Another major difference between poetry and prose is the use of metaphor. Poets use metaphor, which is the replacement of one thing for another.  Poets use metaphor, in order to express experiences which are close to the human condition.  When considering the literal meaning of verse, which means to twist and turn, a poet needs to consider the image of the poem or how the reader will see the poem. Whereas narrative is rather literal and close to everyday life, poetry is able perhaps even more powerful.  Regardless of the subject matter, the difference in the poet and the narrative author is in the way they express themselves.


If you haven’t take tried writing poetry there is a simple exercise you may want to try. First try writing a “snap” poem.  What are all the objects you can associate with a verb such as snap?  An elastic, a barrette, a polaroid camera?

Once you have written your poem, you are just as responsible for editing it the same way an author must revise his/her own story.  The poet will want to approach the editing process in two ways.  First, as poetry is a visual medium in the sense that the reader not only “reads” the poem but looks at the way the words are displayed on the page.  Therefore the poet will want to stand back at and look at the way his/her chosen words flow across the page.  How will the readers’ eyes graze across the page?

Secondly, the poet must consider that the poem needs to have a beginning, a middle and an end as much as a traditional novel is required to.  Although a lot of effort is put into hooking the reader with the first line of a poem, the poet will want to ask himself or herself whether he or she has a great middle to his or her poem.  Why?  Because it is in the middle of a poem where you are most likely to lose your reader.


Sometimes writer’s block may just be the need to process your experience.  Years may go by without you physically writing something, but if you feed your creativity every day somehow you will reach a point again where you are writing again.  Engaging with creativity means being curious everyday.  Engage with media, read everyday, dream journal and make sure you collect an endless amount of objects which will keep you inspired.

Writing is like exercise, if you do not do it everyday, you might as not bother.  Just as your daily run will not be pleasurable everyday and sometimes it will be tiring and shitty, there will be times when writing will feel like you are almost flying.

Birth and Death of A Wave

Today, I caressed the Pale Seashore.

My bare feet were punctured quick

By a thousand tiny white shells.

I could feel the sting, but no blood fell.


Against the backdrop of sun; I placed myself in exile.

Hoping to learn comfort and ease

And to make a friend of myself for a while.

I  saw white-breasted gulls

Slice across the cloud-crusted sky.

I called one down to be witness

To every salt-filled tear drop I could cry.


He led me to a black crest on the beach

And as heavy rains fell across my skin,

I listened to him preach

“You need to cast your sins, if you want to be free.”


I looked away from his brown beating wings

and towards the violent seas.


As I watched the new born waves swirl;

I whispered my secrets into the cold wind.

My regrets were no more,

As the dying waves hit the Pale Seashore.







I always wanted a lion,

To hold me and watch over me,

As I sleep.


It is Tuesday Night:

We’re at the bar,

Drinking lemon drop shots.


Lion tells me dirty jokes,

And farts terribly.

We give to each other:

Our worst tales.


How it was on

My way to Paris,

I got lost,

Then abducted,

By an Eleveur de Moutons.

He tied my ankles to his plough,

And made love to me like a bear.


Lion tells me of sleepy grasslands,

Along the Ruaha.

A good life ‘til his enemies came.

With long legs and thick black mane,

He tore off in chase,

At a bounding pace.

His Lady Love,

Devoured whole.


We commiserate and cry together.

This is how we fight our War.


Lion takes me home,

And puts me to bed.

Soft velvet paws across my sleepy eyes

“You will fall down sometimes,”

He warns

“Just don`t stay there.”


‘Til next Tuesday:


My Lion.

My Prophet.

My friend.