Pauline Julien

Red Light District

Our lady,
Catherine of Alexandria,
in all sacrifice, crosses
yours truly Lawrence,
where blossoms voluptuous,
short lived, loves.

Our lady martyr,
miraculously found in year 800
had hair 800 years long.

Of her skin,
they extracted oils,
removed her fingers
and placed them in a glass.

Our Matron Catherine,
our virgin saint,
swore of her living,
to forsake.

Herself only,
to one wiser,
wealthier,
and more handsome
than herself, only 14.

Our lady,
Catherine of Alexandria
in all sacrifice, remains
near the foot of St Lawrence
where blossoms voluptuous
short lived loves, the same.

AND NOW WE BLOSSOM ON

[vimeo http://vimeo.com/39538421]

I wish I could say that Zoe K was a room 22 lovechild. Proudly holding her up for the world to see. Her little musical fingers and gorgeous voice putting all the other children to shame. Despite my deranged fantasy, I can happily say that Zoe is a good friend of 22 and an excellent musician. Beautifully damned be those who catch one of her rare sets in Montreal. Here lies a video to accompany her music. Its metamorphosized numerous times but i’m happy it’s finally settled. And with any luck we’ll collaborate on future projects strange and lovely.

 

The Holy Grail

At the heart of the river,

Lawrence, dearest,
in redistribution you
appointed riches to the needy.

At the heart of the river,

you certainly must have
swallowed more than one life,
while providing for masses.

At the heart of the river,

lies the jewels of Saint Lawrence.
Surely the church is truly rich,
far richer than your emperor.

Lawrence: the Martyrr

And as always, you narrow down,
Passus est! Assus est!*
And how they came in all their conquest,
And named the river yours, and made it compass

Dearest Lawrence,
you’ve had men race on logs, in your waves
and at this time of the year,
you’re ice up like a crème brulée!

*He suffered! He was roasted!

Our Lawrence

Of Arabia,
David Herber,
Saint Lawrence of Rome!

Ours, alive as ever,
does not foam,
nor scream,
nor yearn in ardent ebbs.

Lawrence, how docile!
How did you come to such silence?

Lawrence,  it seams
even the French have discarded you.

Water Lilies

January & its flames of wind, strikes.
But would you even recognize these blues & greys?
all ours, all hours, our lights of January.

I, engaged to silence.
In silence, our bodies succumb,
I swear, I could not grasp this warmth, even as it burns.

There is no light as that of January,
such greys only known to madness.

All, but lukewarm waters.

Father

There are dichotomies at work here,
our land is not ours.

Do you feel this invasion, as I?

I remain unsure if I am of those who invade
or the invaded.

In myself, a reconciliation of language
begins with forgiveness.

It is our hill after all, which bears a cross.

 

C-

Above all, I miss August & the necessity of your presence:
the urgency to communicate. Hands around my neck,
aorta opens. You, pulling, as you kiss, as if inhaling and
exhaling in response to that very instant & bodies breathing,
from our skins most of all.There was a necessity there,
one that exceeded water. Remember the heat,
how it moistened our skins & the meaning

truly being in awe of.

I am as stale as this city. Now, when I exhale, it is by default.
Relationship after an other: a stagnant comfort that I despise.
I am plateau-ed. I swear we must have a better sense of balance here,
with all this ice. God, would I rather crave death or starve of joy,
than this staleness.

Chrysanthemum

Flesh fleshed out in cloths,
daunting smells of itself,
decomposed-like.

Flowered and aware
of nothing but the emanating,

scent of withering.