He ashed his cigarette,
on his pants.
p; marie jane
November 9, 2009
Boredom brings back memories, also known as nostalgia.
You played Satie
I am redundant
It seemed familiar
But I had never payed attention
You saw details
I saw sequences of actions
You played satie,
But before, in your living room they were singing Bonnie and Clyde
And I have to admit I probably tried to recreate that,
a few times.
November 9, 2009
Entre Deux.
Reality is old, words are scarce and profoundly inaccurate.
My books rest on the floor its chaos here.
Feel free to add your chaos to mine fore a while.
seeking for something new, refreshing,
similar to snow,
a need to disconnect myself.
November 9, 2009
Longing for the first snow, before it gets old and grey and cold.
i follow you through the snow flakes
that melt on my lips and mix with the wine and smiles
of the night
i walk with you in through the silence of the last song
and wonder what your middle name is
i accidently lean on your doorbell
when we kiss at your front
door
you take
my hand
then my hands
and lead me in
Dutch S.
P ; Sam Coldy
November 9, 2009
Dad’s Hands
i remember his hands
washing dishes
under an unforgiving
flourescent light.
duran durans reo danced on the sand
as i sat.
my mother of a father
stewing
at his current
station.
those hands
a fathers
hands
are there any other hands
the yards blood
in the crevices of the knuckle
the yellow of the callouse
not found on any artist palette
that dirt that crept into the laugh lines and worry lines
and highlighted the 11 at the bridge of his nose
dark and deep
the boundries ran
and run
as children do
time may wash away your sin
but leaves lifes tab
engrained in your skin
and calgon just cant take it away
Dutch S.
November 7, 2009
Becaus I am drained of imagination, and I cannot seem to write.
nor talk for that matter
thank you, rosalie.
November 5, 2009
afterelectionparty.
Salut,
Voila un party qui celebre mes 100 ans à Montreal:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/event.php?eid=167579200892&ref=mf
Come come come
