microsoft paint says, "pride is coming!" 3:22 p.m.

tricky blue: a poem to the sound of mozart's requiem - XIII 4:54 p.m.

the place is dark, carpeted with latex,
walls painted red with blood. enter to
staircases and ominous hallways
which widen and narrow like the
hot, fleshy throat of a swallowing beast.

there is an escape from the smell of sticky
love consumption - the swimming pool. it is out
of doors: a severe concrete rectangle filled with tepid,
tricky water which appears blue but isn't. women
are collapsed supinely on wobbly plastic chairs.
folds of them inhabit gloriously temporary furniture.

they splash about in the infancy of their freedom:
breasts are on display, creases and folds of skin
barely towelled press them for exposure.

and there is music. a decided beat eminating
from behind half-closed doors finds silhouettes
dancing to a different rhythm. and what

could i say to her? she smiles with her entire
face, this one. white skin taught around her soft
stomach, she walks like a boy. has a serious jaw bone.
swim trunks and beautiful breasts above them.
i see her dip beneath the water's surface and watch
as she shakes her hair free of tricky blue water.
she is no boy. and as she swims toward another
body i notice that's it's no boy she's kissing, either.

half-assed attempt at lesbian fiction 9:33 p.m.

she was thin, short. skin the colour of french pastry, as though she'd brushed with a thin coat of egg whites, milk, and had been left to bake in a warm oven. she was golden. her eyes were dark, glistening. her hair was darker, pinned half-up with short tendrils flirting with her forehead. she paced nervously, had great bones. katherine.

brett was taller, heavier. greasy hair brushed back into a lazy braid. she glowed, floated through the room, gave out smiles like business cards. smelled of beer and french perfume. smoked incessantly. chewed on her cuticles. they met in the bathroom.

katherine emerged from the bathroom stall to find brett bent over the bathroom counter. they shared a brief, nervous conversation, a few lines. spent an hour apart and reconvened. katherine sat on the counter swinging her legs. brett stepped up to her, smiled. katherine lowered her eyes, blushed. they struck up a conversation.

after several minutes and a few smiles brett nudged her way a little closer, leaning in to whisper, pretending the music to be too loud. hello, she said, barely audible, breathing on her neck. katherine sat up. louder this time, she asked, are you here alone? katherine, who'd been nursing a plastic cup of draught stopped and stared...tbc

let's dance 8:11 p.m.

your naked body lanky limbs tangled
with mine in a song of sweat humming
the melody soundtrack of a hundred nights
soothing your fingers wet your breath
heavy your penis erect and quiet always
quiet my boy the runoff from my dreams
reduced to puddles on a pillowcase sprawled
across the sheets the two of us ensconced in
some nocturnal waltz and on that starlit
stage accompanied by the sound of sirens
and the crinkling of a certain plastic bag
you forgave me my faults loved them even
i have not forgotten

her gentle jawbone and that damn smile (or) words from a wasted morning 3:28 p.m.

It was cold outside, I think.
Cold when I first met you.
It was a month of steam-thick words
and slow fingers. St-Clair was slippery
as hell. Early on there was talk of Israel,
as I recall. But my mind often betrays me
on the details, so I can’t be certain.
Spring of that year was sloppy, wet
and remains buried somewhere
beneath the dark sequined particles of time
that keep me wondering nervously
what I might’ve said. To you, at least.

Longer days found me writing messy
and far-too-frequent emails. That much
I remember because of the paper trail
that led me to wonder if I might escape
with you to New York and never return.
It was a cold Canadian summer spent scribbling
half-finished sentences in many places:
sweaty subway cars, badly-lit bedrooms
and siren-filled streets. I took you home
once in September, to my bachelor apartment
in that neighbourhood I’d rather forget.
You left in a taxi, I think.
You often leave in taxis, I think.

There was the bathhouse.
There was your birthday.
There was that election.
Sangria, martinis, Thursdays turned Wednesdays
and all of the dirty bathrooms in between.
And after having spent a morning contemplating
these lost but not forgotten moments
there are a few things I’d like to share:
I detest seeing you pinned up against
walls by other women, hate the way
the night ends when they’d like it to,
am angered by your had-a-great time
phone calls and loathe being reminded

Of how electric you are, whatever the occasion.