Category Archives: Poetry

Some of my recent writing

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I just realized I haven’t blogged yet today and I am running out of time but I am rather creatively tapped out so I will just share with you what I have been working on.

The last two days, I have done a bunch of writing for my final portfolio. Warning, some of it is poetry.

Like this one. I wrote this one in class.


Homage To My Body

This body is large
Big feet, big hips, big heart, big hands
Big head, big eyes, big ideas

This is the body that survived
That conquered winter
By eating like a bear and growing fat
To others, winter was a scourge
To this body, it was merely a diet

This is the body that met the modern age
Ill-equipped for endless feasting
Still hoarding calories
For a winter that never comes

This is the body now scorned
Treated as disgusting
Considered unfuckable, unlovable, and unworthy of pity
Because we “did it to ourselves”
By doing what we were born to do

But you don’t see me that way, do you love?
You see the beauty of my mind
You hear the wisdom in my voice
You feel the warmth of my soul
You taste the sweetness in my nature
And you smell the purity of my intentions

So let us leave this shallow world
Set sail under a big round moon
Find some place where the ocean is deep enough to hold us
Knowing that we are forever safe
Because fat, like hope, floats
And we know we will survive the winter

Epic stuff, I know. Then there’s this quick bit of doggerel, also written in class :


The Moment Before

Two dozen men in one swiftboat
Fear in their eyes, lumps in their throats
Sweating and shaking and trying to be brave
Ahead of them glory, dishonour, or grave
Cowards and heroes and all in between
All of them part of the great war machine
Doing the work of the people on high
For while nations may fight, it’s the people who die

I am thinking of submitting it to some Remembrance Day poetry contests, but I would have to change the bummer ending.

This is sometung I wrote yesterday. It’s the exact sort of poetry I find fun to write. Because I like messing with people’s heads.

Playfully, of course.

This Poem Is Terrible

No really, it is
It’s shallow, and trite, and completely cliche
It was written in haste by a lazy hack
Who didn’t even bother to make it rhyme
No decent person could like it
No decent publisher would publish it
And if a literary magazine published it
I’d cancel my subscription

So why are you still reading?
Aren’t you afraid to be associated with such trash?
Don’t you worry someone will think you have poor taste?
Or worse, no taste at all?

What would your friends think? Would they question your right to be among them?
What would your parents think? Would they think you are wasting your education?
What would your teachers think? Would they wonder why they bothered teaching you if you are going to go read drivel like this poem anyhow?

So why are you still reading it?
Could it be that you’re….. enjoying it?

So that’s the poetry section. If that was all, I would not be so tired.

But in lieu of the process journal I was never going to write, I was assigned 4 writing prompts and was told to do “fifteen minutes” on each.

Well I don’t measure my creative output in minutes, so I just worked on the things till they were done.

Here’s the first one, complete with the prompt that prompted it. Promptly.

Read this before I get carried away.


 One Day you come into work and find a cookie mysteriously placed on your desk. Grateful to whoever left this anonymous cookie, you eat it. The next morning find another cookie. This continues for months until one Day a different object is left—and this time there’s a note.

Barbara didn’t know who kept leaving a cookie on her desk every day, and she didn’t care. It had been happening for so long now that she completely took it for granted that every day when she came to work she would find a cookie of some sort – all different kinds, from delicate shortbread to thick oatmeal, from homey chocolate chip to exotically spiced cookies from the Far East, from tiny wafers to enormous cookies bigger than her hand – and, during her first coffee break, she would eat it.
And what’s more, she would enjoy it. The cookies were always of exquisite quality and despite their kaleidoscopic variations, every single time, she would find it to be delicious, and just the thing to go with her cup of Darjeeling tea.

So when she sat down that drowsy summer day to find that instead of a cookie there was an expensive looking ornate box, it was such a shock that at first she didn’t know what she was looking at. Her mind insisted in trying to see the box as a cookie for an embarrassingly long time. When she finally clued in, all the excitement she had felt when the cookies had first started to arrive came back to her, and it was with great ceremony she opened the box and looked inside.

Inside was a small but deadly looking gun with the name “Darrell Werther” neatly stencilled on the barrel. Beside the gun there was a note written in elegant calligraphy that read “For the cookies”.

Wait, thought Barbara. There was a Darrel Werther upstairs in Shipping. She knew that because they had been on the Red Cross committee together last year. He had made a snide remark about the dress she was wearing that day (her favourite) and everyone had laughed.

It was clear to Barbara (clearer than it ought to be, perhaps) that her mysterious benefactor was asking her to take the gun with his name on it and kill Darrel Werther.

And maybe it was in gratitude for all the wonderful cookies, or maybe it was because of the remark he’d made about her dress, or maybe there had been something in those cookies that freed Barbara from her usual moral constraints….

…but she kind of wanted to do it.

There’s three more, but that’s enough for today. I don’t want to overload people.

The other three will wait till either tomorrow or another day when, for whatever reason, I don’t have a better idea for a blog entry.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Wandering through the forest

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Wandering through the forest
Afraid and alone
No fire for comfort
No place to call home

No path to follow
No place I can rest
Just wandering, wandering
On unending quest

I walk all alone
In the darkness so green
Don’t know where I’m going
Don’t know where I’ve been

I have no destination
Though the hour grows late
But I cannot stop searching
The tension’s too great

In this endless unwinding
Of spider-thing thread
While it lasts, I will wander
When it ends, I’ll be dead


Bout time I actually wrote a damned poem.

See, it’s not unusual for my head to be full of fragments of poetry that come spilling out of my hyperactive and ever so fertile imagination, and often poems (or songs) will spontaneously begin in my mind, and sometimes develop quite a ways purely inside my skull.

The unusual part is that this time, I actually did something about it. I was pondering what to write about tonight, and the first stanza came to me, and I thought “You know what? For once, I will just go for it.”

And it feels good to get it out there. Usually a hell of a lot of creativity is bouncing around inside my skull looking for a way out that it never finds.

I am not sure why this is, although my theory that I use all these ideas of mine as a kind of hoarder’s insulation against the world deserves a good look.

But more broadly, I think I just compulsively keep everything in. At some point in my life, I became obsessively retentive. I buried nearly every emotion I had, and very little ever passed through the door between the world inside and the world without.

That creates a terrible tension inside because all those repressed emotions are still in there, trying to express themselves in the world, and as this awful energy potential grows, it takes more and more of your energy just to hold everything inside.

Hence, depression. It drains your energy to the point where even the basic mood maintenance routines that healthy people have to keep them up and going and interacting with the world fail, and your mood spirals downward until all you can do is give up on everything but the absolutely minimum required for survival and the few activities you can still manage to do without waking the raging, screaming demons inside.

It’s no way to live, but sometimes, it is all you have left.

As you might have guessed, I have been feeling a little down today. Still pouring the positiveness into myself as fast as I can, and still determined to push myself upwards with every ounce of my strength for as long as I can, and to never ever give up on myself again.

But today, I was feeling restless, bored, irritable, and just crappy in general. I think I am reaching another peak in my feelings of frustration and boredom with my sad little life, and that means another period of emotional crisis as all these latent energies strain and push against the thick (but thinning) clog made of dirty ice between my emotions and actual action.

Not to be gross, but it is a lot like constipation. Emotional constipation. And catharsis is like relief.

And to delicately continue this potentially very disgusting metaphor, I am not sure what it would be like to be emotionally regular. A certain amount of repression of emotion is normal and healthy and even necessary in order to be a civilized adult.

But it has to be matched by expression. That emotional debt must be paid regularly in one way or another. Those emotions must be regularly expressed, or you become very ill inside… even toxic.

And to go to the previous metaphor for what I swear will be the last time, odds are that you can’t become healthy until the blockage is cleared, along with all that was blocked.

And as much as part of me wishes I could just blow up the dam and let loose the entire flood all at once, the irritating truth is that it can only really be done a little at a time, all the time, with the occasional uptick to speed along the process.

So no big dam burst. Just opening the sluice gate wider for a while.

And I know there will be ups and downs in this process. There will be days when I feel like crap and the old demons will start clearing their throats and offering me their fell services once again.

But I am determined to keep the upward pressure constant and relentless. No retreat. No surrender.

And if the upward pressure is constant and relentless, and the downward pressure intermittent and variable, then the upward pressure has to win, especially as more and more of my mental resources are recovered and added to the power of the upward pressure.

So from this point onward, the only way to go is up. I might not rise in a straight line like a rocket (or maybe I will!), but I will rise, reach for the stars, and grow.

I am sick and tired of this cramped little life of mine. I am not a small person on any level. I am a big guy with a big brain, a big heart, and a big personality, who thinks big and loves the big picture.

I deserve so much more than this sad little life of mine. I have so much to contribute to the world once I fully evict the unwanted guest of depression from the premises, that at times it feels like I am going to burst from the sheer potential of it all.

It’s that, more than anything else, that makes patience so difficult. I have so much eager enthusiasm bottled up inside me, waiting for me to figure out how to harness it, that sometimes it is like waiting for a sneeze to finally happen.

Soon, I tell myself. Soon.

I am so very eager to bloom.

Ladies, own your cunts!

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Ladies, own your cunts!

That’s right, I said CUNTS!

Not your twats, your beavers, your vulvas, your vaginas, or your (ugh) slits!

It’s not a snatch… that’s a word for cowardly little boys who are afraid it will grab them up and eat them!

It’s not your “lady parts”… all your parts are lady parts!

It’s not your “down there”… what’s “down there” is your feet!

And it sure as hell isn’t your “front bottom”… what the hell is wrong with you, UK?

It’s your CUNT, god damn it! your CUNT!

Don’t fear it!

Don’t hide it!

Don’t treat it like it’s part of someone else!

Grab mirror, look it in the eye, and say HOWDY!

Glad you could make it!

Pleased to meet you!

How the hell are ya?

You need anything? Just ask, and it’s yours!

I’m so glad I have a CUNT like you!

Eve Ensler has it right… CUNT is equal to COCK, and that’s what gives its power.

And that power is what makes people afraid… afraid of both the word and the thing its

DON’T BUY INTO THE BULLSHIT!

What you have is every bit as good as the biggest cock in the world, and don’t let anyone tell you different!

Don’t listen to the crypto-fag homosocial gynophobic half-boys in grownup clothes who tell you it is dirty, shameful, ugly, disgusting, or wrong because they can’t handle it themselves!

That’s easy for a man to say…. we’re born loving ours!

Don’t listen to the nattering hens who want to use your fear of your own beautiful self as an excuse to peck you into shape and so feel better about their own shame

Don’t listen to the hypocritical heterosexist hounds who bay to use it but are afraid to even look at it!

In short, don’t let men define what a part of your body means… define it yourself!

And this is not just any part of your body…
This is the forge of life!
The gates of paradise!
The center of all womanhood!
The tree from which every one of us overripe fools dropped!

So let the cowards and the half-boys and the weak of mind and spirit fear it…. not you!

Walk where they fear to tread, and own it! OWN YOUR CUNT!

Look at your cunt!

Say hello to your cunt!

Accept your cunt!

Play with your cunt!

Use your cunt!

Abuse your cunt!

Embrace your cunt!

Love your cunt!

And if someone else can’t handle it…. tell them to GO TO HELL!

Because it’s your CUNT, CUNT, CUNT!

And it has nothing to be ashamed of!

Oh, and this shouldn’t be important, but… for those who want to know…

This poem was written by a fag. Interpret that however you like.