The Leaving List I Patiently Helpt You With and You’d Forget

Toothbrush
Shavers
Toothpaste
Mouthwash
Floss
Hand Towel/Face Towel

Towel
Soap

Shirts x10
Jeans x3
Pants x4
Shorts x5
Dress-Shirts x7
Sweater x4
Button-up Sweaters x5
Socks x10
Underwear x10
Shoes x4

Ties 3-4
Hangers x 20
Scarf – 2-3
Gloves: x 1
Winter Hats x5
Summer Hats x2
Jackets x3
Coats x2

Books: x20

Entertainment:

•                     Laptops & Accessories
•                     Screen
•                     Art Paints
•                     Canvas
•                     Brushes

Recorder
Bicycle
Art Work
Drum

Postscriptum:

Whatever’d fit in 2 suitcases, a bike-box, and carry-on.

4 boxes to be shipped later.

nick.Lindsay

I Rode Home With Him After Class

He had a shaggy head of hair.
A voice weak and timid.
A bike as equally attractive.
Smile tucked under his eyes.
My seat was soft and dry and soft.
I watched his jeans slide off.
As he pushed his pedals rough.
He was rough, he had scruff.
It’s what I can remember.
This cold night in September,
I think I fell in love.

I want him to be mine.
I want his to graze these lips.
I remember him from back when.
His beautiful nose and skin.
Underwear tucked out and in and out.
I steal him with my mouth.
With this mouth, on this route.
Until to me, he surrenders.
It’s how I will remember
This cold night in September,
He’s mine, I vouch.

nick.Lindsay

III

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Love Letter no.5

S—-

[night: sneaking off under the cover of dusk; hand in hand through the starry-skied beach]

Remember dear, we chased tornadoes through Iowa and Missouri while speaking of earthquakes in Japan.

I- about to mention Galileo just because, when you shut me up with a kiss, I realize you’re jealous human.

Instead of old news we talk about Equatorial ocean currents that run parralel to Pacific ones.

You speak of thermohaline circulation: mondial weather conveyor belts; and I ask if they’re the reason of indifference you feel for me when the barometres go haywire. Guilty by your verdict of lover’s treason; I’m stuck in a tsunami of my own making. An environmental disaster I knew had begun and I cannot count on your foreign aid; the water just washes me away.

But then the ice melts from your polar caps and flows once again down my gulf stream. Rapid pressure rises in the wake of our cold front and I purse my lips in the showering eyes of a storm and selfishly demand:

O lover, what’s the harm in a little climate change?

                                                                                                           a.i       

Love Letter no.4

S—-

Mother says I shouldn’t stay up. I shouldn’t write heartfelt words to you again sweet-one; I am in over my head;

your truths are dangerous, she says, your heart lies in graves with the dead

No; no, though she’s yet to know just exactly how much of you I’ve swallowed.

In my adolescence I endured the lack of importance in your words. I played dress-up and performed on call;

that is youth- far driven from – far gone from – observational reasoning.

Growing somewhere into twenty-two, with full cognitive capacity; an eccentric; imaginative, romantic fool: I am still unconnected to reality but- far gone from – dreams.

We have two rather different views on intersexuality, your’s grounded in methodologies mine a heartfelt sentiment like these words. But like them you see, just how smart my philosophy

I need you to enrich me; fill me in and fill me up

up, up, up, until were encapsulated in cellular rhythm to propogate our own humanity.

a.i

Nick Lindsay

Love Letter no.3

S—-

[ mid-day: before your lecture, after the cafe ]

Your trickle-down economic plan isn’t fool proof; my employment of your knowledge is still in jeopardy, mon amour.

But you’ve never been a conservative;

nor I a liberal elite.

So to me, you dictate Michio Kaku theses over Jamaican-style soups and are baffled that I still ask the significance of billions invested underground in Geneva.

I: bashful. I say I’m teasing and that man is one smart little Japanese rat.

You see my eyes roll back in the delight of mental stimulation. You know chemical synapses firing miles a minute arouses me; my senses are gone, you know I am ready. I have the knowledge of observation, so when I speak of the ample curvature of my ass and face, you stop me once again.

Your lectures on holographic images have little to do with me, but I sit and watch your little nose crinkle again and again as you slide those glasses up over your bridge.  And you watch me salivate, with a grin from the corner of your eye, at the thought of the high-energy bruises I will suck gently into your neck.

an infatuated

Nicholas Lindsay

Love Letter no.2

S—-

[ night: the blue moon came and went and we, still- unorgasmed ]

We’ve been through this before, but I will lovingly tell you again.

I’m still a boy: neotenous, as our speciation has made me and you should know better: my mother would say.

But your finger’s tips leave diamond-hard imprints, where there used to be blissful ignorance. So I beg for you to radiate thoughts through with your tongue; skin to skin.

Your tongue laps and flaps generously.

I’m soft; and the pressure’s on you to perform.

How can you my love suggest to me so sweetly-as you often do, that this here is a partition in a multiverse of many? A hypothesis you’ve outsourced: you cannot pr-oove, but feel when you close your eyes. Like quarks you say that measure the distance from here to California within the breadth of a hair is the strength of your induction.

Must only be to upset me! I cannot follow you to whichever one you drift off to

where mind-pirates like you enchant idea-starved urchins and maidens. Drifting off into dreams to see just who else you’ve gotten just as you’ve gotten me.

It was only you who could penetrate my mind with concepts of space time. So I will wait here in the third demension, deep below but just as the black vacuum; wide-eyed; in cold sweats; hovering over you: my treasure between two adorable ears.

And as your pupils dilate this morning, I revive my shafty Epicurus.

an infatuated

Nicholas Lindsay @ The Room 22

Love Letter no.1

S—-

[night: we lay on your bed contemplating domestic and international ]

Politics make me so aggressive, dear. On edge; scared

but you: your voice puts me at ease.

So I listen as you whisper your big bang in my ear.

Tell me all about your particles and astrophysics.

When I lye down next to you I know that our history is much bigger than this here. Much bigger than this here; Earth; The Milky Way.

We are vast amounts of energy regathering, reforming;

photons reuniting after fourteen billion years of light-year seperation. Or something like that.

Rest on my lap and let me continue this phenomenon through your hair; as my fingers in desperation steal for that delicate, that beauty, this curiosity, this compassion, your wisdom and your generosity… my love… my dearest gate keeper to the cosmos.

an infatuated.

　

　

Nicholas Lindsay @ The Room 22

MCGILL DAILY !

Drawing by Nicole Stradiotto
An article by Tamkinat Mirza

French Fly – scarred Skies.

She loved a French fly.
The size of a tiny moon.
It disappeared. And she loves now, streams of air it’s cast throughout rooms.
Its fave fruits now soiled.
He’d never eat from them ‘gain.
They’d rot. And she’d throw out the more fermented friend.
His maggots, she left home.
She can’t keep them under her skin.
They don’t grow at all. And their corpses line the green bin.
She is bored stiff at night.
She makes oversized headstones;
A sign: to someone somewhere. And that she’ll never be alone.

Her intuition, his thousand eyes,
He sees that he’s in her insides.
Emptied are lonesome young girls who have fiddled about with French flies.

Nicholas Lindsay