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Christina Strigas


Don't Read Me

With 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 Follow

In 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.
​

Faith

You 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.


          ♢


Picture


​Christina Strigas' Profile

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.

Comments?

***

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