I put a flower in my pocket

I put a flower in my pocket
It may not have been the best
Place to keep it
Because it got crumpled and worn
And one time it went through
The washing machine


I put a flower in my pocket
I kept it there just for you
It was with me on the train
While I was waiting for you
At our meeting place
I think I lost some of the petals
But I’ll give it to you anyway

I put a flower in my pocket
So it was always close to me
It reminded me of you
Until one day you left me
And it was only after you left
That I found out that
You don’t even like flowers.

By: Juliana Chalifour

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The Sound of Silence

The Greeks used to start
their poems with prayer
but I haven’t seen my muse
for longer than I care
to remember,
even though her hair
wraps my mind in confusion
every night
the moment my head hits the pillow.

So what will you do,
will you say a prayer too?

I could try,
if you insist on seeing through
realities
that ought to be –
the catalysts and symbology –
the way we understand what we would see
even though gods don’t hang from trees

anymore

than we bother to light votive candles
amongst the stones of the ancient beliefs.

O, Muse!

These words are ordinary,
they seem so far
from the Bard’s eloquence
or the psalms of Man…

Sometimes I wonder if you understand who I really am…

You?

You’re just some kind of I am Sam.
The simplest kind of Sam I Am,
who does not like green eggs and ham
more or less
than other things that are given to us
by other people who tell us to love
them even though the stars above,
on the topic of their content,

are silent –

All things are the same…

What, is that a question?

No, a statement.
Or perhaps a Schrodinger’s statement,
because it is both void and meaning,
it’s just another stupid maxim teaming
like fish that hold memories
worse
than
some kind of Sam I Am –

But Sam,
I am,

and none of this makes any sense,
can’t you see the way I hope,

sort of,

for some kind of
Connection?
Sometimes it feels like I am becoming

less because of other people;

and so,
I will eat green eggs and ham
if you’ll
just speak to me
Sam I Am.

The Death Of Music

Is all good music gone?
Was it killed by a man in the still of the night
Kicked in the darkness till it bled daylight
Before I was full grown?

Or did it just ffffade away?
Into the darkness an old friend of mine
And though I said I would be I wont be fine.
I guess I’ll go my own way.

Will it ever return? I don’t know, I cant say.
I don’t like it but I guess things happen that way.
At least that’s what Johnny told me before he too went away
On a jet plane.

Music used to speak to me.
It was true like ice, true like fire
But even walls fall down; down to the wire
Let it be, Let it be.

The day that music died,
I had someone tell me not to cry
The circle would be unbroken by and by,
Just let your backbone slide.

But when music is gone, where does it go?
Is there an Afterlife for the songs I miss?
Or is music just a Reflektor of a kiss
That hits me as the chariots swing low?

Maybe just when you feel it you don’t,
And just when you find it, it’s gone.
Taken away with miss atomic bomb
In some dustland fairy-tale.

Or what if music is still there?
Like that girl with diamonds on the soles of her shoe
Or the wolves with eyes all Sinatra blue
If you’re bold enough to stare.

Perhaps it’s just in hiding
Swallowing its dreams with cans of regret
Or laying in wait with Benny and the Jets
To come up for the rising.

Maybe good music never really died
And we don’t need sympathy for the devil
In his rotten lair of evil beyond evil
With no tunes to ease his worried mind.

Oh music! I’ll write you a letter tomorrow
But tonight I can’t hold a pen to ink your name
Even though Amy told me Love is a Losing game
I’ll find some damn paper to borrow.

And tomorrow. I’ll write you.

I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder
if Achilles stood on his heels
at the doorstep of divinity
and wished he had digressed
to spend the rest
of his life with a kid and a wife,
fading into the obscure
background of a retrospectively halcyon world
instead of being destiny’s child…

But Achilles isn’t real,
his choice is a myth –

the truth is the vale of tears
where they make you suspend those fears
that are erected by women with painted faces.

Besides,
there are no Veronicas here.

But two becomes one
becomes something beautiful.
I donno, how’s that even possible?
It’s conjugal.
No. Comical!
Fill in the blanks….

But I can’t bring myself to finish
those lines that diminish myself.
Because aloneness
is hardly something to worry about.
Unfortunate for you
charity takes two,
or something else new.
A me and you too?

Or a you and you
without a me to be something in the way
of things that you can’t get for free.

But, can’t it just be the trinity?
That opposite of enmity,
tickled ivories and melodies
that aren’t from me,
but made by two,

maybe me and maybe you
to make a new end only through
merging melodies.

Sometime I wonder
if Achilles (who stood on his heels
at the doorstep of divinity)
had met the right one who’d have made him undone,
would he have stayed
till his very last day
in Grecian bliss
rather than sink into that immortal abyss?

Ask Paris.

Death in the Suburbs: The Remixed Remix

“Canadian dream, why are you so distant?
I cry to you from the balcony of my elephant…”

McDonald’s.
Shove my debit card in
And throw my dough in the bin.
Cause it’s what I eat
When I sit in defeat,
Staring at a pile of paper
That I got back after
Some underpaid man
With no future plan
Other than to sit on his ass
In some stuffy class
Read my shit
And let it hit
My overall grade.
B Minus.
Well, what happened to the Canadian dream?
Cause as far as I can see it sure as hell seems
That papa died for something
That sure as hell seems like nothing.
Worked his nine to five
To keep his family alive
But his nine to five
Sure hasn’t helped me survive
When men in suits
And hundred dollar boots
Take my money
And promise me
That school after school
Will take my inner fool
And make him a boss.
My loss.
“What a trap,” papa screams behind his grave.
But papa, you were brave.
Death in the suburbs.

By: Dominic Lindl

On the Day I Died

On the Day I Died,
“Mr. Brightside” played on the radio.
The lyrics rang through my head
As I took my last breath.

How ironic is that-
The Killers played
To the sputtering beats of my heart.

On the day I died,
It rained for hours.
Not a drizzle,
But not a downpour either.

Somewhere in the middle-
Just enough rain water
To wash the blood stains from the street.

On the day I died,
I kissed my mother goodbye,
But I forgot to say I love you.
My last farewell left unfinished.

I hope she knows
That I love her,
And my father too.

On the day I died,
People hustled to work,
Children passed notes in class,
Birds sang their morning hymn,

And cars drove past a little too fast,
Completely unaware
Of the life that was just lost.

By: Juliana Chalifour

Eyes (Dissipation of Grand Illusions, Part III)

You’ve seen me scared: empty, alone.
You’ve been there when I’m on my own.
You took my hands, moved them.
You took my plans, proved them
As false;
Futile.

I have to get back.

You stole my eyes, stole marriage’s surprise.
You took my mind, changed the kind
Of things I think of; I can never un-see
What you’ve shown me.
And some days I don’t want to.

I was a child, you a storm.
Made me wild, deformed.
You were a beast,
I was your feast;
Fed on me like a parasite.
Raped my eyes.

Porno, how you’ve got a hold on me.
Porno, you never told me
It would be this way.
Porno, I gave it all for you:
My time, my mind, my soul too.
Porno, what a real woman wants
Isn’t what you’ve shown me, but that haunts
My every thought.

I need to get back.

Every woman I meet
Is an object, something to defeat,
Something to abuse, something to use.
We treat them like toys.
It’s normal; boys will be boys.
Never men, because we’re boys.
But boys will one day die,
And have to look in the eyes
Of the women they objectified.
I’m terrified.

Porno, I’m never going back,
Am I?