Bury me on the poppy blanketed hill they used to call Makeout Point
where they do the same honours to the liquorice twisted steel car wrecks
of teeny boppers who died at the wheel.

Since my heart no longer beats, no longer roars like engines, no longer kicks up daybreak’s dust no longer races for rebellious honour no longer slams on ribcage dashboard no longer carries snapshots of James Dean–

That Cinderella hour, there will still be orange-red lens flares off the farewell-ing blooms,
Your senses wading in sangria shallows,
Blistering in the air before your doe eyes, sleep heavy lids.

Pleading irises like the old creek, mirror slick.
Comb teeth through sticky sweet pomade slick.
Arm around her shoulders, black and white drive-in, celluloid slick.

We were this beautiful once, when the good ol’ boys came back with scars
But before they had trench mazes for minds–
In the rolling slope of summer’s lower back
With the tire swing promise ring and tangled fingers like boy scout knots.

Crossing your heart,
Stand, motorcycle boots planted on my new sky and drink up the city lights in survivor’s gulps.
See the sun lie down with the horizon through a glass bottle
Sprinkle my ashes on a soda fountain sundae afternoon
Spill honours with your tongue.

Swallow to the memory of our blueprint clubhouse,
And plant a climbing tree over me
To look after those lonely poppies.


We’re All A Little Coleridge Sometimes



 This is Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Romantic poet of renown, laudanum addict and one time best friend of William Wordsworth. In my Romantic Literature class we recently dedicated a lot of time to Mister Coleridge and his writings, and it led me to a conclusion. Pouring over the pages of unfinished poems, hearing about his unrequited love and his hi-jinks to escape himself, it hit me. I’m Coleridge. You’re Coleridge. In fact, we’re all a little bit Coleridge sometimes. 

#1.  Coleridge suffered from fear of poetic failure, and also, literal poetic failure.
Some of his most iconic works, such as “Kubla Khan” and “Christabel” are actually unfinished. He just straight up said “fuck it” and put them out there as is, which is pretty much a point anyone who has ever written an essay, EVER, can relate to. Struggling with composition, hitting the wall and deciding to hand it in, hell, high water or suffering GPA be damned.

In the case of Kubla Khan, he dreamt the whole poem, the entire thing, from start to finish. Upon waking, he scrambled to write it down, only to be interrupted mid transcription and forget the whole thing. I’m not sure why he never finished Christabel, but I imagine he lost momentum somewhere in the middle, looked down at the paper, shrugged like, “Eh.” And wandered off to go spelunking. (Let me explain. Later.)

Twice (TWICE!) he started up a newspaper of his own, only to have it fail on him. One time when I was a kid, I decided that I was going to run a cat fan club, and it lasted about a year. Pretty much the same thing.

#2. Coleridge does stupid things in the name of mending his heart. 

When a girl he was in love with by the name of Mary Evans rejected him, what did a young Coleridge do? Did he sit down and write a poem about it? NO, he manned up and joined the cavalry… Which is hilarious when you realize that he had never been on a horse before. This was a personal revelation he ALSO had, but not before he had scrambled up onto his first horse ever, only to fall off of it. Needless to say his career there was short lived.

Basically he went on a militant inspired heartbreak bender, and who hasn’t decided to choose horseback riding over rationally dealing with their own feelings at some point? LET’SBEHONEST. He, or rather the pseudonym he signed up under, “S. T. Comberbache” was discharged from the cavalry 4 months later, cited as “insane.”

#3. He also does stupid things in the name of making his art.
According to my English professor, Wordsworth used to think of his poems while wandering down a tidy garden lane, while Coleridge was out traversing the wild terrain of the country, trying to find words while tackling hills and possibly rabid sheep, which was totally a major problem in England at the time.

According to Wikipedia, “In 1802, Coleridge took a nine-day walking holiday in the fells of the Lake District. He made an ascent of Scafell Pike.” A) It was the first recorded climb of the pike B) He kind of sort of invented rock climbing? C) He picked a really dangerous route because he’s Coleridge and that’s just how he do.

"Hm. I think I'll go for a stroll."

“Hm. I think I’ll go for a stroll.”

Any artist knows that to get to good art, sometimes you have to go to some lengths to improve your work. Coleridge just decided to do it without safety equipment, or you know, a clue.

#4. He’s got vices.

Coleridge spent the majority of his life addicted to laudanum. Now maybe you don’t have a taste for the opium, but you might be a dirty liar (or a Mormon) if you haven’t at least tried the other half of that equation, alcohol and liked it… And if you’re one of those “straight edge” people who doesn’t drink, just substitute laudanum for Facebook, coffee, or Breaking Bad.

#5. He has confidence issues too, bro. 

Once upon a time, S.T. Coleridge was married to a woman named Sara Fricker, only to fall head over heels in love for a DIFFERENT woman, also named Sara. Being the Romantic poet that he was, he obviously manned up and divorced his wife, wrote Sara 2 a million beautiful poems, (“O Lady! we receive but what we give / And in our life alone does Nature live), won her heart, and they lived happily ever after in pastoral, spelunking paradise, right?

Wrong. Coleridge never so much as even SPOKE a word to Sara 2 about it, loving her only from afar and staying with his original wife, despite increasing marital issues. Why? Because he received what he gave, which was NOTHIN’. He pined from afar, the way you do for that barista who makes your coffee every morning, or for those powdered doughnuts you pass at the grocery store on the way to buy kale. Damn.

#6. He doesn’t always fight with his friends, but when he does, it’s over something stupid. 

Think about the last argument you had with your best friend. Was if over something serious? Or were you two trying to discern which type of Doritos were the superior flavour, only to end up locked in an angrier than intended battle of wits?

Coleridge and his BFF Wordsworth both went to Cambridge, but met and became friends AFTER their graduation. They were tight for a long time, even publishing their book, Lyrical Ballads together. However, eventually they had a fight which tore their poetic bromance asunder. The cause of this fight? Theories on poetic diction. That’s right. The two canonical sweethearts parted ways in their friendship because of IDEAS about HOW things should be said in poetry, and overall creative differences.

When Wordsworth convinced Coleridge they ought to leave out “Christabel” from Lyrical Ballads, it was only because, you know, he wanted poems that were finished to be published. Coleridge was just not down with silly things like FINISHING his masterpieces, got way butthurt over it, and their friendship never recovered.   (Also, just saying, Jalapeno Doritos are OBVIOUSLY superior.)

#7. He geeks out.

So you know how there’s been a literal baby boom in people naming their kids Sherlock? Well, this is no doubt because BBC’s Sherlock has generated hundreds of crazy super fans who now have all decided they love Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s creation (or maybe just Benedict Cumberbatch) SO MUCH that they’re literally creating a generation of Baker Street babies.

Well, Coleridge basically did the same thing. He was such a huge fan of philosopher David Hartley, that he named his first born son “Hartley”, in honour of the man and his theories. Either way, I think young Hartley was just lucky enough he dodged being named something like Peeta or Draco.

Don’t Study This

A quick scribble I put together while I was busy not studying for my poetry exam (in 20 minutes).
For fucksake–

Back away from the textbook.

This is not a memorization exercise. This is not a dissection.
This is not something to be quantified by tallying the vowels and  the bearing that a well penned metaphor has on your–

This is a poem.
This is a poem, it’s written in the blood of your ancestors, the ink of your redwood veins
On the mausoleum of your heart, murals of the walls of your history, your thoughts
A reunion of words, some that you’ve known from the time your toes learned the living room carpet
Some who you only met yesterday, but schooled you in love on sight–

But don’t study this.

The cracking glass cores of poets
From centuries in the past are fury filled
I bet you William Blake would be annoyed to know we value experience
The swooning for the flawless surface of his work destroyed, innocence be damned

To know we fret upon each phrase
Struggle to memorize titles
That the life of the student
Hunts that of the artist, a tiger with an “i”
And not a “Y.”

Don’t study this.
Live this.

Push. 1st draft.

Based off of a coffee conversation with Jocelyn yesterday, as well as “Direct Order”,  by Anis Mojgani, a favourite slam piece of mine. If I want anything for this piece, it’s for more. More everything.

Push – First Draft.

When your blood is stopped up in curds of fear. 

Because every walk will explode into a run when the time is right.

Pen across page.

To the front of the wolf pack,
aren’t you fucking hungry?

Like you want to say “I love you” and the train is pulling away.

And be pushed.

Push yourself,
Your friends
Your loves.

your haters to the brink.

The “abort self destruct sequence button” and save us all with ten seconds to live.

Like your on the 9th out of 10 kilometres and you see your mom at the finish line.

to be open,  to being pushed, because there are worlds enough inside of you,
it’s true,
but they deserve to be shared.

with continuous, circular, momentum of joy’s pedals
the moment they let the handlebars go
and you rolled solo, no training wheels for that first time

Your voice out of your mouth
Because she needs to hear it,
And depression doesn’t deserve the time of day from you.

Because I don’t care how small you feel right now
once, you were a TITAN
your mother bawling harder to bring you here than you did on your own arrival.




Sonnet #1

Shots cracked the marble night
Flint scrape, and muzzle spark
The resistance wasted to dirt, not flight
Eyes of dawn, set in faces of the dark.

The captain checked his cold timepiece
The squad, shaken, ambered brandy poured
And marked the second the romantics ceased
For bullet holes in flesh, they had seared and scored.

The squad, fresh trigger fingers trembling,
Hearing last words which could have been their own
Memories as tattoos for many nights fought, battles unending
When a war is civil, is it not fought alone?

They buried the rebels in their colours, the end of a new start
And spent the night regaling, battle of the Mind and Heart.