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DREAMVISION SONGBOOK 

(2019-2020)

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This is a collection of poetry inspired by late medieval French verse forms. I wrote the text for my Master's thesis composition. Five of the verses were set to music. Check out the score here

I.

 

i stood at the baleen sepulchered

basket of oil and fat collapsing

plastic lines dyed, coiling the stomach.

the cage of its body like a berth,

for the burn of the beast’s rotting scent

and the red wash of the waves over

the whale’s eye, drew me down, transfigured,

(just as the moon draws the heavy tide)

to sleep within its open belly

            and dream of these places and things

 

                                   

i stood at the baleen sepulchered

barrow of flesh, in spume anointed

bloated and shelled, preparing its bloom                                  

the dorsal erected like a stele

for the wind and blood-spray all around

and the white noise of an ailing sea

drew me down an alabaster grave

(just as the wave bends into its trough)

to sleep within its open belly

            and dream of these places and things

                                   

                                 

                                    

                                    

                                    

                               

                         

                                                

II.

 

o snake in the pail

a change and return of the year again

 

the clouds and fogs of the heart enveil,

o serpent in the pail

 

who left you there to bleed and shake?

your venom and blood mixed at the tail

 

o snake in the pail

a change and return of the year again

VII.

 

pluck and tear is the name of the reaping scythe

the deathly neck of the garbage dump vulture

in a landscape scaled to trash where toxins writhe,

the stork eats, incanting as the annealer

the darkness of landfill is bright with colour,

a deadening blanket that masks over blood

a dump of plenty that provides and devours

a prism shows everything as one in the flood

 

i call out the question to each living thing           

all are intent in the ground and in the air

in the silent waters an answer blooming,   

in the silent waters an answer blooming,   

in the body learning of great disrepair        

the arc of the moral universe is fair  

but bends toward a dark unknowing cloud   

a net, a jewel, a hologram of a tear, 

a prism shows everything as one in the flood

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the norn of fate distracts the mind from its meal

adrift in dust or stars and deep in the bind

our fleeting gaze upon lithic time reveals

suffering: an invisible paradigm

the beast has broken and poisoned the rind

and in the dark fruit a secret is folded

the people of the dump waiting for a sign

a prism shows everything as one in the flood

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UNTITLED w/ Faith Patrick

(2019)

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This was a collaboration with artist and writer Faith Patrick in which we were invited to do a reading at TAP, London ON, through London Open Mic Poetry. We sat in a darkened gallery and read from our phones.

Unlocking her office door is noisy, the brass plate on the key smacking the wood. Its an old door and she likes that about the office. Half of her hopes the other person who she shares the office with isn’t there, the other half hopes he is. When the door opens she is relieved that the office is empty.

 

The office is empty and almost as soon as she is there she feels like leaving.

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/

 

His car is parked on the street. A ticket is tucked under a windshield wiper for $30. He is not allowed to park here. Or rather he is allowed to park here but only between the hours of 6p.m. and 20 minutes ago. He will need to call an office about this or else hand over the $30 dollars. He puts the ticket on the dashboard so he remembers. This has happened before and it does not ruin his day. He makes the drive to the library at a very ordinary pace. He turns the volume on the radio. Global heat waves are damaging beetle sperm, and that could be bad news for the entire planet and tiny people have evolved in rainforests because its where tiny steps are better and you live in hell every day: the tragedy of forgetting your child in the car. He is not so focused with thoughts of the library that he can’t hear the radio warnings but he also feels that really what can a warning do. A warning cannot help him through the day or rest of the month or through till his next birthday or even through the time it takes him to get to the library. Not in any way. Much as there is a need for warnings, what can a warning do. READ MORE

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