Monday, December 8, 2008
If only I could sleep through the night.
Glazed pottery,
Bisque-fired ceramics and vivid, electric blue.
Swirling dust.
Neon dreams and a black and white life.
Money and quartz crystals pouring down from the clear indigo sky.
Mauve coloured pencils skimming across bumpy, expensive rag paper.
Gorgeous tapestries draped across the pale walls
Of a trendy, renovated hotel.
Talking with strangers and snotty babies giving attitude.
Pornography is a poor substitute for wet, animalistic sex.
Screaming kittens dumped at the Humane Society.
Good friends turning into nasty, bitchy monsters.
Gardens blooming in yellow, red and green.
Orchids attached to the side of Billie Holiday hairdos.
Judy Garland pounding out a vibrato high note,
Right in my ear,
Sending me into minor ecstasy.
The white ocean waves slapping and lapping outside my bedroom window.
It’s only a fantasy and a Dan Gibson CD.
David Amram’s sombre score for “Splendour in the Grass”.
Odetta dying only a few weeks after she played Toronto.
Too many tears pulling me into the pit of Hell.
Wanting to kiss my young co-star but probably never getting the chance.
His turquoise eyes staring so innocently into mine.
The brilliance of John Cassavetes’ movies.
And never enough money.
Pushing the heavy wheel up a steep, dense cliff.
Psychedelic music played by old friends
In a crowded café on the Danforth.
Waiting endlessly for crowded streetcars.
Violins soothing my fears and torment.
Purple, mauve, lavender and violet dancing all around me,
In every nook and cranny.
All the actresses I adore sitting in piled-up boxes and on my shelves.
Optimism and helplessness sparring and wrestling with each other,
Like the romantic dance of two sea horses.
Walking in the cold in brand new winter boots,
With a Dollarama budget and Tiffany tastes.
Amethyst smiling at me all over my apartment.
Drawing with coloured pencils in an acid-free notebook which arrived in a fancy gift bag.
I would enjoy these things,
To a greater extent,
If I could sleep right through the night.
Waking up gasping for breath with vivid dreams that seem like reality.
Judy Collins singing and talking on the radio.
Moonstone necklaces happily lying around my fat neck.
Books and paintings and precious knick-knacks
Always wanting to be dusted.
Not enough hours in the day.
A perfect sunrise outside my kitchen window
Framed like it was shot by Conrad Hall.
What good is a posthumous Oscar?
It makes your heirs happy, I suppose.
A long, leisurely sleep for 12 glorious hours
In a silent, dimly lit room.
Not enough hours in the day.
Not enough time at night.
We all end up in a body-bag, eventually,
Even if it’s 50 years down the road.
Ravishing beauty turns to dry dust.
2 comments:
nice
Thanks, Blizz.
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