Christina Strigas
Don't Read MeWith one look
You will need many One for my eyes One for my lips One from my legs One for my ass One for my thighs One for my naked hips As your warm hands slide Up and down my curvy back And wait for me More than five seconds More than a drag of a cigarette Longer than the stop at the red light Turn your car around And find my keys Lost in the corners of my empty pockets When the song ends its riff Still no one can understand Show me how Tell me now What makes a good man good And a bad man an asshole Or both Keep on washing the dishes While I swell. To FollowIn the centre of my universe I found you awake
up past midnight as usual driving down highway 15 reaching centre ville and vinyl record stores on Bishop so I followed you all out of Bukowski again Twitter has made him popular he says stroking his beard I act like I don't know much I shrug my shoulder and smile don't know much about that I read him before indie before coffee and now I let him rest he's super tired with your young generation and your attention span you look familiar he says No I don't and I ignore him before he talks about car crashes National news superheroes and writers. I lost you on de la Montagne where hotels will become condos with shops and memories rubble. I wanted to follow you to a new uprising but the " manifestations" students banging pots took over the laureate prizes; when I was a student I banged other things, spoke about philosophy across from Concordia and made love with words like I always do. My hair touched my ass my poems well hidden and no one followed me. How things change yet still stay the same on this emotional ride lost on one way streets so far from your world order and parallel highways but I'll still follow you anywhere except in my dreams. FaithYou can say what you want
on this and that about the one and done philosophy I can do it all and still survive the day the words never stop I have to push them aside add butter or pepper while you feed the geese on park benches contemplating loneliness ping pong love affairs satisfaction never guaranteed long lovely ladies await you I will watch you from the best seat in Central Park with lost hope and empty cigarette packs it all means nothing in the end darkness calls my nickname pulls out dust from my pockets sails across St. Lawrence river excites me with dirty words and secret promises of unknown reasons we still have faith in silence and poetry. Faith In nothing but loneliness a place only writers visit and succumb to their Voices. You kept me company I thank you for that and so much more I could never tell you as I close my eyes to dream of you. ♢ |
The Last
You are the last of the Romantics
why have you forsaken me? Left me here to swallow other people’s pills I need your silence as much as your words Fly away please do not come back for me pass the laudanum circa 1880 you in a top hat long waist coat my long hair piled high a few loose ringlets you, a latter-day poet and I your muse. No blinds
Sleep while the sun hits
Your eyes so strongly You get up to read Gatsby What else is there to do At sunrise? The sun is blinding me I write a story about a girl With too many siblings She becomes lost in the tree Sun makes us think Do things we would not do in the dark At dusk. Sun has a power over us It makes me my cafe au lait merci, mon amour Compromise
No matter what expression I hide
you read my mind like a best-selling novel and highlight the parts of me that fall through your grasp. I am a Nicholas Sparks book you flip me on my stomach and leave me transient frozen on the word “but” you decide the weather is just perfect to plant tomatoes the ozone means pebbles to you. I concentrate on typing suddenly the loud French broadcaster argues about hockey players this echoes into my sentences I slam the door shut and shout lower the damn thing I wonder what is worse tomatoes that do not sprout or my life open on the kitchen table for everyone to read. My kitchen needs you
The smoke fills the room
the alcohol the soul my words are lined up like glass tiles in some sort of obscure pattern the grout is suffocating me and the cupboards are full of dust the angel is lit and glowing with radiance I see the beauty and ugliness in the china another angel is playing peekaboo with my topsy-turvy emotions the jam is covered with mold the pickles haven’t been touched in months the flowered tablecloth is putrid and the fridge has no space for my hors d’oeuvres enter my kitchen at your own risk fill up my spice rack with your kisses finish my recipes with your music tidy up my messy papers with your touch wash my dishes with your love Exit
You spin my world
my axis is in space at night it calls to me and my fingers are ready to speak to you tap tap tap alas, nothingness. Submitting is not enough surrendering is overrated taking me is hopeless claiming me a dream and so I will see you around Perhaps in my poems or not. Perchance on the streets Fate. In another life Wait That already happened. I wish I could remember you and your essence Dancing
In the night
in the day you haunt me water does not remove the skin tingling your skin on mine your eyes on mine solidifies our loneliness and once again we do that dance alone in the street. |
