At parties, she was the first on the dance floor and the last to leave; she just loved the freedom.
Her perfume was—in any event—overly inviting.
-s
At parties, she was the first on the dance floor and the last to leave; she just loved the freedom.
Her perfume was—in any event—overly inviting.
-s
She belonged to a tribe of French Lolitas.
Often felt vigorous when standing in front of her grandmother’s antique French Bacarrat ormolu.
She never believed in the word ‘nostalgia’.
Her name was, also, Vanessa.
– s
She was wearing a white satin suit by Marina Rinaldi. Never enjoyed shopping for clothes – unless they were for someone else. She liked second-hand bookshops and fishing-tackle stores.
She was a woman of substance.
Her name was Vanessa.
-s
It all started with a glimpse through the single lamp on the Atlantic side. Under the stillness of Altair, Mira, Sadr; above the Silence of the Lambs.
Woke up and slept with the same buzz; with the same initial typed at the end of each heart-rending note. Detested by those dreadful musty karaoke rooms, she rarely dared––with a shaky yet sensual voice––to sing along with Gloria’s ‘I Will Survive’; the glorious Gloria.
I read her lips every single time in slow motion:
And so you’re back
From
outer
space…
I never pitied her, but I did the ones who pitied her.
-s
Toronto, January 2023
He was sitting on the park bench up the Embankment, holding the goldfish bowl he had picked from the market. Full of the miseries of his own failures, which he had been carrying for the past fifty-odd days. His throat was sore. His heart too.
Sipping on her bottle of cheap sherry, the woman gave him a look and whispered a few words: sulfur, wings, warm, warmth.
The moon was a thin vertical arc that night. It was fucking splendid.
-s
Toronto, January 2023
Dead clock turns to parts;
Anguished faces,
Leering at smashed mirrors.
I think of time, ticking;
And the core, pounding.
And you; are you embarrassed?
There is never, never a word.
-s
Toronto, January 2023
She was untangling her dreadlocks with her tiny fingers before riding Bus 56. Last night, she threw up all her desires and glitters in the hazy solace of the corner.
River Lee was her final destination.
-s
Toronto, January 2023
Dreams; lack of dreams. Outrageous dreams. Sumptuous ones.
Tears; streaming down her cheeks just like A’s.
Lights; in layers. Never coloured. Back in days.
Time; self reproach. Melancholy chorus. Past tense.
Life. Life. Life.
-s
Toronto, December 2023
The shape of memories; are they aspirational or are they based on true tales of your most shameful thoughts?
To me, they were melodies of pitch black corridors and polka dotted papillons.
How did I know the melting days of the seventh month and how did they know me back? Did they or did I belong to anybody in that world of swirl?
Flame has always been with me; and I regret nothing.
-s
Toronto, December 2022
ANIMAL FUCKIN’ FARM!!!
George Orwell foresaw these days, when despots would fight tooth and nail and shed innocent blood just to hold on to power.
Woman, Life, Freedom.
-s