the worst castles
are the best castles
they stand tall & proud
on the shoulders & backs
of the iconoclasts who built them

i’m not talking ’bout no
that grotesque teabag sideshow act

this is for the remnant ruminants
this is for those who are
on the hook
castled with
a scottish rook
en passant by the duke of earl of sandwich board Lord Hoard
strung up and down and out
dangling feet
from a tapestry cord
you are free to go my lord
dismissed with a
pacifist fist
a pitchfork in the mist and smoke
of a torch that lights the way,
if I may,
to a mutual
versive submission
supine cursive subjugate geishas
cut-rate prostrate nerf serfs
carried by a sinusoidal wave of
volatile volition
no solution
no end to your troubles
just because you flipped the table
did your chore
spun the revolving power door
(redblackredblackredblack red  black   red    black     red      black       red        black)
to even out the illusory score
one more time, we gotta celebrate
for plus ça change, plus ça―
nihil novi sub sole
nothing new under the sun, son
no need to fuss, gus
your are the food chain, boss
you are what you eat
one day you’re a jerk
one day you’re a molé
one day you’re a beast
and one day you’re full of pollack-sole
on the dole
fresh from a boxcar
(like) cheaply picked fruit
low hanging
easy pickings for charles dickens
in a panty twist of olive fate we call

you put the con in congress
it’s all about cheap labour, you see
the more the merrier
the merrier the more
as long as you keep poppin’ out
desperate masses
into the lower classes
you will be the pope’s dope
and the rich man’s one and only hope
that you’ll break your back
and cough and hack
and lift and stack
line the rack
stretched from commonwealth sea
to shining commonwealth sea
you’re so gonna need the CPR
you the ever-patient patient
etherized upon your Emily Carr tableau
upon your Canadian Shield flatbed
gallopping over cardiac expansion joints

the empire buck starts and stops here
at these extreme points, you see
gets snuffed out (like)
a cracked downtown east side olympic torch here
here, in terminal city

but the castles start… here
in your chessboard’s corner
the desperation here so thick it’s sick
bad cologne of lonely hearts
without a club
or a rubber-sole band
you are free to take a hike
to snap
to beat
to bleed
to rag
to stop
a perfect strike
use pins
to drag
to slug
to trail
through sand
by hand
homeric stone bowling ball after ball
for the edifice hall o’
the exalted pharaoh master blaster
(whose barter-garter disposition’s never quite sunny, ya dig?)

but his overcast royal
alabaster dour
smug smog mug
has got your goat
he’s got you by your throat
and he’s got you by your money, honey
so get busy, bee
no time to rant, ant
you have no voice
no choice
in the matter
move your feet
pitter patter!
pater noster
our father, who ain’t even here…

meanwhile, you… your life
is but a hail mary pass
do not pass
do not collect
any intellect
at your own risk
tisk, tisk, tisk, this is not a board game
this is not over yet!
stay tuned!
subscribe to our low-ball offer
of your common dream
for mere pennies on the dollar ninety-nine!
all you have to do is reach out and
touch faith
fatten up for the slaughter
of your incense
get buffet buff
chow down on the supersized bod of zombie jesus
with corn-syrup bunny ears
and everything will be all right
this is not your life anyway
yours is the next one
this one’s for the human gods
in their safety pods
we call castles

there’s dragons in them tarred moats
no feathery light trebuchet speed boats
can cross it in time
the harder they come
the more apple wagon
rockers get vexed, hexed
the doctor will see you now
about the lash gashes that zebra your back
back to work!
we have wind whistles to blow
we have castles to build
with the eternal, shifting flows of sands of time
through saharan eras
across peon aeons

it’ll be the best of castles
it’ll be the worst of castles

but you…

you will not be remembered.

a few too few fleeting, melting moments of joy necessitate a Facebook status change:

Martin can’t sleep… late night minds filled with wide-open raven eyes, and the deafening sound of freshly fallen snow. 12:35am

…then the MSN starts talking to me…

MAGENTA: beautiful fluffy diamonds falling from the sky

MARTIN: doing silent clink clink clink on my eardrums

MAGENTA: cold heat crunching under my soles

MARTIN: crispy crunch wheetabix flake blanket

MAGENTA: touches my tongue all sweet like

MARTIN: honey comb
all same
all different
tongue tingle

MAGENTA: tastes like vanilla but not
more like lemon with sugar—white sugar

MARTIN: the squeak of icing sugar underfoot
the taste of watermelon icecubes on the tongue

MAGENTA: lovely when it goes like that, she says
hum in my ear again

MARTIN: mmmm-mmmmm
the breath freezes into icicle notes
and the warm womb of an avalanche

MAGENTA: i like that song, walk more more

MARTIN: the feather foot thumps a powdery rhythm
gliding along a silent side street
lit by reflection alone

MAGENTA: your hand on my neck gives rest and i kiss your mouth
taste snow
and walk your reflection home

MARTIN: perchance to sleep
under cover
blood-filled lips mouthing words
of tender tales
and sweet dreams


Leaves In The River by Sea Wolf lyrics say it much better than the whole original post below them did:

I met a girl on halloween
well she was lost and i was drunk
and it was dark and cold out when we left
and as we walked the rain started
the leaves I’ve felt
with every step and all around around us
people slept alone with their dreams

the wind came down from out the planes
and blew the leaves out through the streets
I wondered how far leaves could realy fly
would they rest in several yards
or make it to the city
or would they end up in the river just to float away

she pointed to a small brick house
and said it was where she grew up
the lights were out
she asked if we could stop for a while
her hair was still just getting wet
water running down her neck
collecting in the hand printed cement beneath her feet

apparently there had been a death
someone close had nothing left
because she hadn’t left him in the end

I saw her blush when I asked
if she always talked like that
she said it only happened when she drank
and later on I felt her hand slipping into my cold fist
she promised me a kiss as soon as we got home
her costume had begun to tear
she ran ahead and turned to me
her laughter echoed through the empty streets



some nihilist, non-sequitur lines from some other time (clearly a time that sucked ass).

i think these lines need rearranging into a different order to make sense. read on and experience the inevitable nausea. (yay for uncontrollable nausea!)

i crossed that street some 3000 times last night,
curb to curb,
a caged, thrashing street rat-tat-tat (it’s not you, it’s me. i’m the cause of my own pain.)
pacing inside the winding, suffocating cuisinart haste-haste-haste

of ghoulish thoughts. of insiduous intent.
hang on tightly…

from star-search to soul-search.

if you knew even half the madness in the maze,
it would curdle your blood, fry your synapses.

nothing can give me what i need and want.
it doesn’t exist.
so i belong to it.
i belong to nothing.

i want nothing. sweet dreamful embrace of nothing.

you are like me, nothing,

belonging to nothing.

belonging to none.

i don’t want to catch mono again,

but here comes another hallowe’en mask
……………….running raw in the rain
perfectly fabulous outfit ruined.

a beautiful blonde dreadlocked drunk
angel appears out of the blue

and gives me an embrace.

another perfect timing ruined.

from nowhere and for nothing.

reading the ‘morning lovers’ coos
uttered right before the revelation
is the most painful thing.

and that ironic-more-ironic message sent

As It Happens

bushed, asleep on a salty pillow, eyes burning, witching hour.


i think this needs to go up on an LJ page or something. with some deviantArt thrown in to match. blech.

like a child overwhelmed
by the incense
flowers and devotion
emotion, wondering about
touching feeling
the marble’s cold gravity
the slabs of flowers
old tattered
new fresh, but dead anyway
narrow paths to negotiate
and understand

barely under stood
bare under ground
bare souls torn apart
love tears
per se and from each other
to a person is
to a place
must not let the reel run out
must not let the celluloid fade
must not let it fa
must not le
must no
a sentimental Polish romance film in a minor key

At 12, I walk
elsewhere now
—ggage in tow
a faint trailing accent
invisible minority
heavy guilt of disconnectedness
something dear now far

I fear I no longer comprise
a part
of the homogenous
40+ million
98% Catholic
99% Polish
a tourist brochure

like a child left to discover
the beauty of non-attachment
her heart never able
to reassemble
to recapture the moment
to attach self to past

citizen of all nations
member of none

too many belongings

to no one
not even myself

to no notions
not even nothing

to no nations
not even the mother/father land
home range

to nothing
to no one
too many

Around the corner, along the rough and tumble
cobblestone bike route,
a woman is pushed out of
the passenger door
of a Kenworth truck—
—so hard that she misses all the steps on the way down.
Her body slams the sidewalk with a hollow thump,
concrete on concrete.

The truck drives off in a huff,
the clanging of the rapidly-shifted gears
evoking the metallic taste of hunger.

Around the corner, a block down,
a little Asian girl is running down the street,
on a cellphone,
chased by two slightly older boys, her entourage.

Around the corner,
the meatiest of meat restaurants
shares a wall
with a most enlightened,
higher-state-of-consciousness teahouse.

shakti and memphis blues, together at last

Around the corner, in a lengthy line at th’ deli
desperate throngs long
to relive
It’s their chance to take home
in a fancy bright orange bag
a chunk of mortadella,
(a fizzy 15% fruit juice beverage in a nostalgic bottle)
and a piece of bread resembling a flattened penis of a camel
or some other such mammal.

Around the corner, across the street,
gino mammoni
warn each other sternly:
“hey, you betta watcha your house, huh!”
And crusty old men
mamma mia!
at the passing lipstick lesbians.

Around the corner, downhill,
starving-artist whores
bend themselves over a splintered soapbox—
—and pour their heart out, trying to score.
(It’s tricky, but the break-neck quickie brings them over the edge each and every time.)

Around the corner, on the other side of the hill,
the best jug band in the world
plies the drowning Liquor Store patrons
with the creakiest licks of sorrow.

Around the corner from there,
in an alley,
a found note:

To the dude in need of a helmet,
I can’t seem to find one for you,
I guess they’re pretty scarce
what with the construction boom and all.
Try Tradeworks.
Also, Dick’s Lumber on Gilmore is hiring.

The note has a rough drawing of a cute lil pink helmet.

Around the corner from where I live,
a stylish woman in her 30s
emerges from an unkempt Vancouver Special,
yelling back at the occupants:

Thanks Joanna, some friend you are!
I’ll just go and see Chris, give him head.
Hopefully he’ll have some dope.

Around the corner, by the docks, seagulls mingle with cranes.

The other day, I was biking to work,
doing my bit
to save the world
when I almost got run off the road
whirled onto the curb
spun off, blinged,
by this giant beast of a vehicle

on giant tires
better fit for a children’s swing

on giant rims that induce nausea
the way they start and stop
all random-like,

with bumpers the size of futons,
all lowered to the ground ghetto-stylez.
a “utility” hay wagon.

It was taking up an entire lane
spewing its soot out of filthy exhaust pipes
the size of sewer lines.

Thanks, asshole,
I have to breathe this second-hand smoke shit.
You’re killing me and Mother Earth.

The windows were all masked-like,
voyeur eyes wide shut
they were kind of like curtains, separating the haves
and the have-nots,

But you could see all the yahoos on board anyway
everybody crammed into El Escaladór
as if it were going out of style,
sliding around on what were probably fake-leather seats,
yakety-yaking on their cellphones…
perhaps…to each other?

The turbine whine
and the clack-clack-clatter
of the I saw, I conquered, I Cummins
diesel engine block
barely concealing the banal
on their lil leukemia glocks

everyone giving the performance of their life
their own lil
Truman Show
high society
of Le Grand Spectacle

(‘cause everything has so much more pathos when it’s lived like a French movie, Steve)

“i’m flossin’ down the avenuhuhuhu…”

they were all waxing
in their own lil
giving innocent bystanders the ENTIRE contents
of half of it,
and saving
none of it
for their momma.

The driver too was on a celly,
frontin’, feelin’ it, lovin’ it
one hand nonchalantly resting
on the ridiculous Ferris steering wheel,

bling clanging,
swing low sweet chariot
ready for a drive-by bumpin’
ready to kill
(if merely through not paying attention to the road)

I swear the only thing missing from this Beastur was a magnetic ribbon slapped on for the super troopers, supporting them with millions
no billions
of its electrons,
like a yellow Band-Aid

But at least I’m glad someone else spent a ridiculous amount of money on this behemoth,

And that someone else is paying the stupid tax
by having to front cash they probably don’t have
for all that gas being guzzled

Even though
I’m the one who’s left
who’s behind
by the sunset-soot
That I’m breathing in
like there’s no more air left to breathe.

You loser.
You and your fucking cruiser
should stop your fallutin’
cease your pollutin’
of my air,
and my land.

I really hate it when buses cut me off in traffic.

they’re dancing heroes
in a beautiful coordinated dance
at the temple
in lockstep
smoking marlboros
a thick cloud
near Japantown
the 100% pure white
lined up
unfurling their linen
at the new dodson day market
bringing the fight
shoring up competition
to its much less dynamic
white dust
nighttime version
au roaring glaze du demi-
monde “riche”
beside the blue box

makes sense to keep it going this way, don’t it?
don’t kill ’em, just keep ’em desperate
they’ll thank you for it.

now imagine: a shuttered-down starbucks

Phase 2

shuttered down starbucks

sales sales sales
buy now before shit gets any cheaper!
sails sails sails
of restless
homeless hoodoo guru tarps adding
local colour
ew! ew! ew!
masts and sails
adding them to the blown masts
of the cranes
raising hell
like a titanic
to the breathless breathalyzer circus side-show paradise
that itself leaks green tarp
closer to the centre-ville
the white sheet
twister mat
blotted blotto
covering up a shopping cart
mechanical turk
sleeping it off in the place that will keep ’em safest during the earth’s rapture
in a doorway
click-click-click… FUCK this moneyshot canon!
please change batteries AGAIN?
the russian-roulette roll spins in its tight-grip housing grave
robson & granville
in front of the 7-11
(never forget)
the street smells like pinball
a pinch of head-to-toe
antimatter black
gosurori finally swirled into the tilt-a-whirl harajuku kimchi fruit-jambalaya
no wide-eyed-hero hook, no extended visa
catch of the day
red #10
catch of the day
keep going west, life is peaceful there…
bus stops
is that breast cancer thing over yet?
magnetic ribbons
on rent-a-copcars
spelling out pervasive vishnu wishful thinking like
“i like and wholeheartedly support ribbons”
“bring back moustaches”
“somewhere over a rainbow”
junkies nervously lining up at
the shoppers drug mart checkout
to get their sharp quills
to blot their page with ink
to dot their Is with pig offal
on their pasty white cellulose skin
before the epiphany fleets
flitting to/fro sketch artists gorging
capturing the zen that never rests
jacking their bodies
davie croquet
the beaver is dead, jim.
(while i wrote this, everything that wasn’t screwed and bolted on my bike behind me
got gold-teeth t’ieved
at least they’ll dine on the finest hommus and poppy seed squares this city has to offer
in front of the long skewer
in front of stephos)

et maintenant, au retour au grande ville
ceviche derviche
dans la boîte de nuit
de Don Diego de la Bodega
the pious incense billows out in nebulous circles
like a billiard ball cigarillo loco (jamais/ka/rabbinical)
out of the debased, raw, sly dancehall
there’s an operetta on every street corner
a concert in every car
you have to send out search parties
just to find the signal in the scratchy noise
you might have to get a vanity licence plate
liv lfe gif
all roads lead to budget
under the collosseum
all roads lead to...
you must live
in concord
in concert
in peace
in the balmy climbs
of españa–it’s not just for fascists anymore
up up up up the tinseltown twister of all four caterpillar pillars
don’t get me wrong
i love the beautiful birds–white & yellow & red & brown
hopping to reach the scotch sky on one leg,
then on the other
craning their slender necks in the wind
perfectly balanced on the edge of collapse
at the terminal end of common good
past the white down pillow
the half-erased chessboard
on the north side of the disco ball
with a lone bmx BK knight
and two empresses-in-waiting in yellow
taking turns on the phallic playground slide
“it’s science”
(you wouldn’t understand)
the disposable heroes
the disposable joints
under the viaduct…sometime
(just) can’t get enough
the pirouettes of the sandpaper snowboarder
follow the path of his own disease
tapping the syrup from the maple
have you seen him?
a shell of a graffitoed veeped gurney
sans patricks
fenced and graffitoed police van
man, i have to piss!
will i ever get home?
i don’t want to keep adding to this ambient smell of garbage.

all right, i’m getting used to it…
onwards onwards onwards
around the corner
the overpass suites
the S.O.L. rooms
the gong
show must go on
weathered asian skin doing
on a tarp
beside a tent
adanac ho…!!!!!
wait, something’s backwards here
something’s really wrong…

forced-occupancy real-estate nowhere to be found
except in the walkable jjacobsean neighbourhoods of hades
past the cerberus
of downtown, of east side
one year, i moved to the butt-bra canton of kits
(whoa, dude, this is not the res anymore)
and apart from the staple of safeway
i was like, where did the misery go?
meanwhile, here lies
the deserted trail of breadcrumbs and lucky marbled starch beef sashimi
it’s like the brown sugar oregon trail
except you don’t die of dysentery
well, ok, some might
i need to wash the breakbeat shivers
off my spinal column
turn off the tap
the blood red alley welcomes you
with arms wide open
fold into it at 440 rpm
the supply here is measured in units of
miles per hour
just another few warehouses
just a few more intersection joins
a few pretty pretty street unions
180 more degrees of freedom
a few more creamy A-line cones
hold that pitchfork perfect
while dancing on the reggae rooftop edge
of art and tech
rooftop party view 1
one night it’s leo leo leo leo leo, the victorious and the nevada-bound
another night it’s too many M&M&M&M&Ms
listless and fish-flavoured, of course
just keep going
just put your head down
just hold tight
just tie it in a knot
one day it’ll happen
one day
one day
it’ll all come true

i unfurl the linen gate open
plunge headspun-headlong into a brand new flooded basement.
with a dog named Roxy.
i’m home again.

partial view from front porch

so i’m posting it, one of my favourite love poems ever, for the world to read.

by Nora, God of Thunder.

I Could



When I first met you,

in the hot dark by the blue river,

I felt I could read my future in the spaces of your speech.

I felt I could speak you poems built of math

because that is the only language I know

that can encompass the kind of perfection

I need to describe you.

I could write anthologies to you

across my naked breasts

walk across this country topless

knowing that of all the elicited stares

maybe someone would read and know

the history of your beauty.

I could steal my neighbor’s manicured car

camouflage it with the dust of my life

when I leave this city behind to find myself in yours.

-and I know I‘m poor, I have just enough

for a three quarter tank if I‘m lucky-

but I will drive until the car chokes and dies

on that dust.

I will walk ’til I fall

I will crawl if I must

and still sing songs of heat-wave meetings.

I could stretch my hide over a framework of logs,

let the sun harden it to leather,

and then chew it soft

and on it paint your face from memory.

I could give up entirely.

Lay my frame down

and while forests grow between my bones

the curling white fingers of my ribcage

will point to the space left by my heart and say,

This is where love was.

And the trees fed by the body that was me

will grow murmuring leaves

each one whispering,

I love you.

I could be satisfied to be buried beside you,

Or spread on the same wind

So our ashes to ashes

Can have chance collisions

Among these galaxies of bodies.

I might never see you again

But I‘d still devote my words to you

My every day filled

With the soft sad tracings

Of dust and ash on the breath

Of someone saying,

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.”


sorry, using the prodding of a new friend to put everything i have here in vancouver up all at once… she says, hey, put up a poem or something, so i can read it. so what does martin do? he types in the entire contents of his notebook. such a freakin’ nerd. the contents of Apocrypha (my other collection) will go up in about a month.

i wrote this one kind of as a pastiche of drive-by observation whippet-snippets while driving down the length of santa monica boulevard in the midde of the night about a year ago… which is a semi-surreal experience i’d highly recommend to anyone…


405 lively but flowing free
like a river it paved
the way
santa monica blvd wide open

temple bar–billie jean

zanzibar–nice beats, too many dress-too-impress types, moving on
took smb all the way to sunset

little temple–closed–milling outside, graph, sales.

before that, midnight tacos–busy

before that, smb @ ?–PACKED with cleancut drunken hordes, and a few men embracing not in a drunken way

suddenly, pawn shop. then “nude adult” joints. this is where it changes.
salvadorean cuisine. everything falling apart
with many small businesses stuck in the cracks

outside little temple–looks like a “residential” area. just enough so i feel i shouldn’t piss in a corner here.
the smell of urine hangs over the whole neighbourhood. perfect level of seediness, with the replete old guy with headphones cliché, a shopping cart on the move here and there.

it took roughly a half hour to get from wilshire & 10th to here. the cool sketchy area’s been going for a while. seemed like it could just keep going in any arbitrary direction. but as soon as i turned the corner onto sunset, the giant robot store told me the funk begins and ends here.

steepest slope ever–

Next Page »