"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



On Wednesday at 3  a sledgehammer hit me  after

lifting the dried-out remnants of a fucking Poinsettia

In stunned spasmagoria I lurched to a drugstore  down on

King West   It was there that I found a blue+black truss  with

a velcro ice pocket for 17bucks


One brother called me Trussy  while another reminded me

about his favourite doll:  Tressy   circa 1963    She with a spool of

golden tresses  un-coiling from her fontanel    He took up serpents

+headed for Nashville   where he’s considered to be quite a catch


Most of his metaphysical secrets  bestowed by an uncle  of regal

demeanour   who prowled our suburban street wielding a golf club

In flannel pajamas  most days


Now in my lair at U of  T  somewhat recovered from Poinsettia purgatory

a guy with a Stussy hoodie+bedroom eyes  approaches me   As I stifle a spasm

my deep-purple lips emit a loud HISS    +Stussyboy swoons like a slender reed

along the shore   causing small excitements up+down my scoliotic spine   Sordid

+supine      I cry:   more  more     MORE!





February 2016




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