| March 2008 |
All work copyright
the owner. No
reproduction
without consent.
the owner. No
reproduction
without consent.
they laugh at my broken mind
my soul shines yellow
like the skin on my two fingers
but this hippy girl keeps telling me
my aura is purple
“..i’m a false god
trying to fuck my way
back into the kingdom!”
i say.
unimpressed she
asks for a drag
so i lean in
reach under the table
to discover
she, naked and shorn around the miracle
is parting like
a curtain into the sun.
i collapse her cool facade
with a deep index stroke
and i stuff
the good Virginian
into her flaming lips.
she drags hard
and blows a thick plume of pure inbred hate.
she says;
“you have no idea
now
what you’ll pay
for that little taste.”
i assure her
that i do.
blessed damnation
(for R.S.)
meat hammer mentalities
pound good flesh into
pulpy hate machines.
its easier to go ugly
than to fight
to find
those tiny blessed specks
rays of sunshine
that blind the hate right outta me.
i rant
and rage
and shout on up
to a God i don’t quite believe
that i believe in
scream “hallelujah!”
as i fall
of the stool
and unto the hard floor
hard like truth
like hard people
in hard times.
there’s a fellow
down there, on the floor
who keeps telling me
that i need help
that its all been done before
so why do it again?
he can’t make a song
out of floor lint
or belly button residue
nor write a line
anyone would give a fuck about
so, i flick him away
before he jinxes the prayer
and the rush.
see, i respect the poolside illegality
of a truck grind
the cross bars’ nut crushing potential
of a slipped pedal.
i respect the hammer click
just before the bullet
pulls the plug
on a empty head.
i respect the gut-burn
of a 7 year drunk
the yellow glint
up off the chrome
as my madness
turns back to glee.
i respect the yellow-toothed
the yellowed mail that
i throw away, unopened.
i respect the strained asshole stretched
to max capacity
in male pornographic fantasy films
-an inevitable white-hot explosion, a tribute
to the great lie, a liquid
violation
of the lowest kind. i respect the dead cop
more than the live one
he provides fear
amonst his kin
and can do
no more harm.
i respect the sadness
of the flesh trade
on the street
on the cuff
on film
in a filmy glaze
’cause rapes’ rape
whether for violence
or finances
and violence keeps
the guns
chasing the money.
i respect the oil boom
the oil bust the real-estate crunch
the war on drugs
the war on drinks
i respect the knuckle bandage approach
to a slit throat.
i respect the slit throat
done from left
to right
across the jugular
of a decent human being.
i respect the last hard saints
roaming the streets, dirty
at night, and in the day
with no place to be
in the cities that despise them
sucking on shared wine bottle
or needle prick
filled with shit
my emptied pocket helped
to buy.
i respect the idiot infant
with his finger
in my woman
and his foot
on the gas
of the bad choice
that will snap his fucking neck
getting him off the map so
i can move back home
and sleep in the bed
that i bought.
i respect the fashion whore
the art whore
the book whore
and the word whore
-their intentions
are indentical.
i respect the common crook
the terminal junkie
the empty bottle
the empty balls
the empty head
and the empty fridge
my ringing head
the ringing phone
the cowards, the foxes
the snips and the whelps
they’re all alright with me.
but
what i cannot abide
is a stone-fake phoney
hiding in the ivy
up the tower
on the inside
telling me
i’ve got to get real.
he, and his kind
should all be damned
to pick up the tab
everytime
i remind them
how rich the tone can get
when playing
the Carlo Rossi
like a coronet
or trombone.
classless fucker
(for Luby)
i was sitting here
in the Ship
in this seat
5 years ago
when i met to tell her
that i was seeing someone new.
she was wearing
a billowing cashmere turtleneck
a pleated plaid skirt
and thigh-high
mucluks.
she was the most beautiful
version of herself
she’d ever been.
she said she didn’t care
that she just wanted
me to be happy
as long as we
could stay friends.
of course, it was a lie.
impossible.
i haven’t seen her since.
i must leave her alone
for i no more deserve her now
than i did
back then.
God bless you, Lube
the thought of you
still makes me smile.
false pony
the wing dips
into the sky-line
and i snatch
my scotch
before it can hit the floor.
i’m flying back
coming home
if this is home
not sure where i’ve been.
it was hard
and things went wrong
but the levee broke
and the ink flowed, so
i’m returning
back in the saddle
of this false pony
readied for war
and greatness.
tripping
bombing down the two-lane
secondary highway just
as the leaves start to turn
with the Angel.
two aluminum coffee mugs
tucked in between us
filled with lager
in a premium rental
we paid economy for
- big ‘ol Buick
with heaps of pull
and no notice
from the road pigs.
i’m bare chested
and shoeless
wearing only cord bell-bottoms
and a shit-eating grin
as i push the needle past 220
and flick my little brown cigarello
out the massive side window saying;
“..the newer pieces
have to find their way
into the final document.
this may be my only shot
so i gotta give
the most complete picture…”.
she smiles that incredible smile at me
and we both know it-
right now
we are the coolest motherfuckers
in the world
stealing back
this piece of time
and abusing all the rules
we’re supposed to live by.
Mission’s statement
he said
” people always ask me
were you ever homeless
a junkie
did you live out
on the street…?
well, you know i haven’t ever
been anyone
to live it
that hard, but
i understand them.
the junkie, the hooker
see, now that makes sense to me
a real reaction
to the brutal reality
of life.
all this violence
the under-fulfilled promises
of that phoney-
sexual revolution
the cancer of rock
and roll
the perverse infiltration
of porno
and heroin-chic.
sure, shit, why not?
sell death back to the dying.
it’s the straights that scare the shit outta me
i mean, man, how can they do it?
donning that fucking tie
tight hair
and bad ride
sucking up
kissing ass
and believing
above all things
that they can buy
forgiveness
from a god they created?
yeah, i’ve never been
down and out
but
i know the truth
when i get the clap
or score good smoke
off the street…”.
wish you were here
tonite i dance with you angel
across the electric violence
as the music
and the sunlight
beat down upon me
on my heart
i dance like a baffoon
(this you know)
and catch the words
right at the nipple
tearing up
i catch my reflection
in the stretched glass
and find myself a miracle-
how could such
a 70’s dip-shit
ever get
the heart
of the girl
i’m missing
so much
right now.
“…i wish you were here..”
indeed.
my soul shines yellow
like the skin on my two fingers
but this hippy girl keeps telling me
my aura is purple
“..i’m a false god
trying to fuck my way
back into the kingdom!”
i say.
unimpressed she
asks for a drag
so i lean in
reach under the table
to discover
she, naked and shorn around the miracle
is parting like
a curtain into the sun.
i collapse her cool facade
with a deep index stroke
and i stuff
the good Virginian
into her flaming lips.
she drags hard
and blows a thick plume of pure inbred hate.
she says;
“you have no idea
now
what you’ll pay
for that little taste.”
i assure her
that i do.
blessed damnation
(for R.S.)
meat hammer mentalities
pound good flesh into
pulpy hate machines.
its easier to go ugly
than to fight
to find
those tiny blessed specks
rays of sunshine
that blind the hate right outta me.
i rant
and rage
and shout on up
to a God i don’t quite believe
that i believe in
scream “hallelujah!”
as i fall
of the stool
and unto the hard floor
hard like truth
like hard people
in hard times.
there’s a fellow
down there, on the floor
who keeps telling me
that i need help
that its all been done before
so why do it again?
he can’t make a song
out of floor lint
or belly button residue
nor write a line
anyone would give a fuck about
so, i flick him away
before he jinxes the prayer
and the rush.
see, i respect the poolside illegality
of a truck grind
the cross bars’ nut crushing potential
of a slipped pedal.
i respect the hammer click
just before the bullet
pulls the plug
on a empty head.
i respect the gut-burn
of a 7 year drunk
the yellow glint
up off the chrome
as my madness
turns back to glee.
i respect the yellow-toothed
the yellowed mail that
i throw away, unopened.
i respect the strained asshole stretched
to max capacity
in male pornographic fantasy films
-an inevitable white-hot explosion, a tribute
to the great lie, a liquid
violation
of the lowest kind. i respect the dead cop
more than the live one
he provides fear
amonst his kin
and can do
no more harm.
i respect the sadness
of the flesh trade
on the street
on the cuff
on film
in a filmy glaze
’cause rapes’ rape
whether for violence
or finances
and violence keeps
the guns
chasing the money.
i respect the oil boom
the oil bust the real-estate crunch
the war on drugs
the war on drinks
i respect the knuckle bandage approach
to a slit throat.
i respect the slit throat
done from left
to right
across the jugular
of a decent human being.
i respect the last hard saints
roaming the streets, dirty
at night, and in the day
with no place to be
in the cities that despise them
sucking on shared wine bottle
or needle prick
filled with shit
my emptied pocket helped
to buy.
i respect the idiot infant
with his finger
in my woman
and his foot
on the gas
of the bad choice
that will snap his fucking neck
getting him off the map so
i can move back home
and sleep in the bed
that i bought.
i respect the fashion whore
the art whore
the book whore
and the word whore
-their intentions
are indentical.
i respect the common crook
the terminal junkie
the empty bottle
the empty balls
the empty head
and the empty fridge
my ringing head
the ringing phone
the cowards, the foxes
the snips and the whelps
they’re all alright with me.
but
what i cannot abide
is a stone-fake phoney
hiding in the ivy
up the tower
on the inside
telling me
i’ve got to get real.
he, and his kind
should all be damned
to pick up the tab
everytime
i remind them
how rich the tone can get
when playing
the Carlo Rossi
like a coronet
or trombone.
classless fucker
(for Luby)
i was sitting here
in the Ship
in this seat
5 years ago
when i met to tell her
that i was seeing someone new.
she was wearing
a billowing cashmere turtleneck
a pleated plaid skirt
and thigh-high
mucluks.
she was the most beautiful
version of herself
she’d ever been.
she said she didn’t care
that she just wanted
me to be happy
as long as we
could stay friends.
of course, it was a lie.
impossible.
i haven’t seen her since.
i must leave her alone
for i no more deserve her now
than i did
back then.
God bless you, Lube
the thought of you
still makes me smile.
false pony
the wing dips
into the sky-line
and i snatch
my scotch
before it can hit the floor.
i’m flying back
coming home
if this is home
not sure where i’ve been.
it was hard
and things went wrong
but the levee broke
and the ink flowed, so
i’m returning
back in the saddle
of this false pony
readied for war
and greatness.
tripping
bombing down the two-lane
secondary highway just
as the leaves start to turn
with the Angel.
two aluminum coffee mugs
tucked in between us
filled with lager
in a premium rental
we paid economy for
- big ‘ol Buick
with heaps of pull
and no notice
from the road pigs.
i’m bare chested
and shoeless
wearing only cord bell-bottoms
and a shit-eating grin
as i push the needle past 220
and flick my little brown cigarello
out the massive side window saying;
“..the newer pieces
have to find their way
into the final document.
this may be my only shot
so i gotta give
the most complete picture…”.
she smiles that incredible smile at me
and we both know it-
right now
we are the coolest motherfuckers
in the world
stealing back
this piece of time
and abusing all the rules
we’re supposed to live by.
Mission’s statement
he said
” people always ask me
were you ever homeless
a junkie
did you live out
on the street…?
well, you know i haven’t ever
been anyone
to live it
that hard, but
i understand them.
the junkie, the hooker
see, now that makes sense to me
a real reaction
to the brutal reality
of life.
all this violence
the under-fulfilled promises
of that phoney-
sexual revolution
the cancer of rock
and roll
the perverse infiltration
of porno
and heroin-chic.
sure, shit, why not?
sell death back to the dying.
it’s the straights that scare the shit outta me
i mean, man, how can they do it?
donning that fucking tie
tight hair
and bad ride
sucking up
kissing ass
and believing
above all things
that they can buy
forgiveness
from a god they created?
yeah, i’ve never been
down and out
but
i know the truth
when i get the clap
or score good smoke
off the street…”.
wish you were here
tonite i dance with you angel
across the electric violence
as the music
and the sunlight
beat down upon me
on my heart
i dance like a baffoon
(this you know)
and catch the words
right at the nipple
tearing up
i catch my reflection
in the stretched glass
and find myself a miracle-
how could such
a 70’s dip-shit
ever get
the heart
of the girl
i’m missing
so much
right now.
“…i wish you were here..”
indeed.
POEMS
Poems by j.fisher (Calgary)
Poems by j.fisher (Calgary)
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If you like the magazine, or any
content in particular, please take a few
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few monetary expenses that love on its
own does not pay for. Any small token
is greatly appreciated and will be put
towards good use.
If you like the magazine, or any
content in particular, please take a few
moments to share the link with your
friends.
Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
Facebook group.
