My First Pony

The plan was to start writing as best I could
I spun a tale about my hood
For reasons that I can I could
Beat my problems back with a hunk of wood

The race was – well – my heart was a clock
I couldn’t exist in heavens or hells above
One couldn’t live an afterlife just on love
Death had me in shock
My door is always locked
And when the knock knocked
I was fucked

Perhaps killed by disease, an accident, another, or myself
Perhaps not in the best of mind, or health
And when
I asked for help
It was politely withheld

Outstanding Liar

You are an outstanding liar, she said
Her octopus face and armchair philosophy
Her deep wound of affection and unfulfilled desire and rejection
And you are a paradox
You are a dream
And a taunt.
A taunt of what? I ask
You know the truth but you intentionally distort it
But I am a poet
You are nothing of the sort
Look at yourself

Many Hats

Many hats many queer eyes for the psychological imperative
Many cars, trucks, ski doos, lemons and a dungeon of ideas
Many hats, many governing doctrines, rules and scruples
Kicking in the wind
Many hats
Many voices many people many friends and a sea of enmity
Many hats, many deals
Many pies and twisted fingers coming out of wedlock
Many steals
And doors
And folding tables
Many hats many wet brain ideological scarecrows to bitch about night terror
Many falls, many resurrections
Many deaths
Many following and leading and dipping and not breathing

Notwithstanding Death

Notwithstanding death
Demanding breath
And depth
Demanding source, code and flaunt
Like a sparrows face
A cheeky taunt
Notwithstanding life
Riddled with overreaching
And might
Sold like a million rivers
For a million songs
And then cutting out like an engine
And gone

A Seizure

Frenzied tit he went forward and vomited
A gullible coward
Shining in ignorance
With spit enough for everyone
Frothing from his soapy lips
Lifting higher and higher
I drew an impossible breath
He sorted in and out of minds
And time
He danced like a thousand selves
His eyes lit and died
Their dimming squinting forgiveness
Frozen solid like a cows

Toned Impossible

Toned impossible
A turn for the worst
Every decent killing 
His first
Like a devil he haunted
Whipped invisible
Like a voice
Done to death
His dream ten thousand enemies long


Nothing but a bare arse
And ear for the comical
She went winded
Went whining
Went wall to wall in trees
I for one could not live
In this discretion
And blurted out
Not whether to mask my own
But to uncover hers
And off times we could hear
Our hearts beating
Different directions


His eyes ferocious
And mean
He was better at everything
Standing alone
No one could beat him
Though many tried
He grew hard in expression
Hard in body
Keeping a tight reign on his chariot
He went crashing
Through computers
And men
Like butter
And tumbling to his death
He died


I was in a daze as one gets on a bus to Marpoole where I lived when I saw a young man who looked like Stephen King. I knew it wasn’t Stephen King but nonetheless the name stuck in my head as who else could he have looked like? Not that I was obsessed with everyone who got on the bus but the appearance of Stephen King awoke me, such that I was on my guard, nervous and excited into an anxious moment by moment experience when previously was in the delightful state of mental repose. For some reason, I was afraid of the young man who looked like Stephen King. I didn’t have any reason to fear him, though Stephen Kings novels and short stories had an effect on me, this was not Stephen King and had nothing to do with that.
But then maybe it did. At least at a subconscious level. Stephen King indeed, wrote mainly horror. Oddly enough though I had never met Stephen King or seen him cameo in many films or pictures of him. I just thought this guy, who was for sure younger than the horror author, resembled him. Not even exactly. For perhaps the picture I was thinking of was black and white on the back of a novel. Certainly this young man had the features of Stephen King but is that all it took to alert one and have one entertaining such ideas, then what weak creatures we are!
At some point on the bus ride I lost interest, turned on my music, looked out the window and tried in vain to go back to mental repose. And when it came nearer to my neighbourhood I briefly looked at Stephen King and saw him reaching for the bell at my stop. He rang it. Once again I was nervous and didn’t know why. What about this young man, this “Stephen King” was making me guarded, uncomfortable and even a bit resentful?
I did not know. At the stop I went out the back doors and did not look back or say thank you to the driver or glance again at Stephen King until we got to the light on the pedestrian walk and there he was standing there waiting to cross the same way as me. I think I made some joke to myself at the time. A little jest that maybe Stephen King besides looking like the real Stephen King was also following me.
The light turned walk and I crossed ahead of Stephen King walking quickly. I thought of shooting down an alley and taking a strange turn to lose him but then thought maybe he turned but when I looked back he was not far behind walking the same direction. I got to Osler, the street I lived and thought I had lost him, but I crossed the street and there he was walking towards me. I paid no mind as one is apt to do though I shuddered inside. Was he following me?
At the building my hand was shaking as I pulled out the key and put it into the lock. Was he behind me? I opened the door and turned to look and he was waiting behind me. I went in and he followed. I went up the first stairwell and Stephen King went up the other. When I got to the third floor he was coming out of the second stairwell as I came out the first and walked towards me.
I nervously went to my door and got out my keys. Stephen King walked towards me? I waited to hear if he was still walking towards me. I looked and indeed he was walking towards me. My mind did a summersault. Why was he following me? What did Stephen King want with me? I fell into a reverie staring at my door. My vision blurred and thought of a short story, a dream overtook me and I flooded with imagination. Without looking up I opened my apartment door and pushed my way inside turning to catch a shadow move past me and into my apartment. Did he just come in my apartment? No. I didn’t believe it. I locked the door and turned on the lights. No one. I went into the bedroom and breathed a sigh of relief. No Stephen King. Not even one of his novels. I went to the bathroom to relieve myself and to my great concern the door was locked. Inside I could hear someone shuffling around.
My heart leapt into my chest. Stephen King was inside my bathroom.
“Hey” I said “get out of my place”
No answer.
“Hey” I said “what are you doing in my bathroom? I know it’s you. You were on the bus no?”
I heard the toilet flush.
The door opened and Stephen King came out.
Something of his face had changed. A kind of glow came over him. And for a minute I really believed it was Stephen King. He walked past me into my living room and sat.
In the bathroom some remnants of a needle use was there at first I thought was diabetic but realized quickly it was heroin or something Stephen King had done in my bathroom. After peeing I went out to confront him.
“Please leave” I said walking into the living room and was stunned to see Stephen King naked on my couch appearing to begin to pass out.
“What are you doing Stephen! Get out of my place.”
I picked his clothes off the floor and threw it at him “you can’t come in here and use in my bathroom and then pass out naked. It’s not cool Stephen”
The man on my couch rolled over and looked sick.
“Are you overdosing? Are you overdosing? Stephen!”
I went to the kitchen to call someone. But when I got there I paused. Call who? The police? What would they think? Would they believe me? The landlord? Would he help? I decided to phone a neighbour and ask what to do since it was entirely odd but I stopped myself. What if the neighbour didn’t believe me?
I decided to handle it myself. There was one way really to get rid of a naked and high man on your couch. Force. I threw the phone down. Slammed my fists and roared. “Get the fuck out of my apartment! Ahhhhhhhh” I screamed and ran into the living room to confront the still undressed Stephen King. I grabbed him by the shoulder and lifted him. I pulled him without getting too close and watching he didn’t take a swing at me. He didn’t. I dragged him off the couch and he plunked on the floor.
“Get your fucking clothes on” I said and threw him his pants.
Stephen King looked at me forlornly and sheepish as if just waking up. He slowly set about putting on his pants.
“What happened?”
“What happened?” I replied “what happened? You came in here, did heroin in my bathroom and passed out naked on my couch. And” I added muttering to myself mostly “you no longer make my top ten writers”
“What?” he said and his eyes sort of looked around confused.
“Just get dressed and get out”
He pulled up his pants and stood up to put on his shirt.
“Why was I naked?”
“That’s what I was wondering”
Stephen King put on his shirt. He put on his shoes.
Suddenly I found myself back to the door of my apartment, my head in a fog, putting the key in. How did I get here? Did I just have a seizure? I shoved the key and turned it and someone walked by me. And I looked over and at the adjacent apartment the guy who looked like Stephen King was also opening an apartment with a key. It was my new neighbour.
I opened my door, went in and locked it. I turned on the light. Silence. I sighed.