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I’ve returned from my coma and have updated this blog with something to the tune of 10 new poems i’ve written recently. Please feel free to read them. I’m going to try and stay on top of this now, it feels good to write again.

– r.f.g


sometimes on nights like these, when the faint glow from the stars
illuminates a bit more than i tend to realize, the music
playing through my head dances and sways something ethereal,
warm and inviting, like magic. and there is magic in these words,
in the way that these summer nights make them bloom,
tender in such repose.
and sometimes on nights like these, i find myself chasing ghosts
and vapours, more often than i’d like to be and when i finally catch
up to them they slip through my hands, through my fingers
and i lose them for days, maybe centuries.
i want to take these ghosts, maybe memories and
trap them in my pen,
and write ten thousand sonnets, and bleed prose
from my wounds, before i whither away into
the terrible expanse of nothingness, perhaps oblivion, i do not know,
but my muses are fickle, and disappear
faster than i can control.

my dear, my darling, i take bits of myself and
scribe them onto my arms and slash the markings
like engraving runes upon my soul
to protect me from the harshness of winter and the
fear of waking up alone
and my fears of never writing my immortal poem..
wasting away in some
electronic historian’s footnote.
i take these words and twist them all for you,
fashion them into something beautiful,
tend to them just as they are a very extension
of myself,
in the grand hope that you would never leave me
without a voice to stand on
in this terribly noisy world.

but sometimes, on nights like these, it is all i can do to let this music
crash over me like an eternal wave, a sea of noise
and tranquility, rising and falling to the ebb of time
and let it spin my head like a fever dream, so i wake up
twisted and tormented, but alive
and in the morning, if i raise my voice to speak
then for this moment i am doing fine.

– r.f.g

spit words like madness
from your tongue, slurring
and belligerent
abusive and beautiful and take these
words and splice them together
with other ones and then
call it art,
or philanthropy
or suicide, its your call, its your vision.
and then take the ink from the paper
and cover yourself with it
like ancient war paint
and douse yourself
in gasoline, like all of the other old sports,
the young hearts and golden oldies
who stepped into the ring of fire
just as you are now,
and burnt themselves,
their starved, tired bodies
for the sake of possibly one day
maybe catching a glimpse of
some form of meaning in
martyrdom and false prose.

babble on
about doom like its more than an acquaintance,
like you go way back, eons ago
for centuries you’ve found yourselves
at the same bar, drinking the same
piss beer
and rot gut wine and
sometimes talk about the old days
that never happened because
outside of these walls and
this typewriter
your words have never scratched doom
or felt pain, loss or suffering
other than the suffering of words
trying to strangle you from the inside
but just tell them to fuck off
and eventually they’ll
get the message.

– r.f.g

Can’t sleep.
your voice loops through my head like a song
whispering in hushed, static tones, like church bells
ringing atop a cathedral somewhere in paris,
1942. Soon the machine guns will come to find me too.
and my eyes flicker, staring at the ceiling in my room,
counting the stucco, bleeding myself dry.
another three am threatens to pass me by in
an instant, a momentary blink, through my body cold:
a phantasmal image of your touch. Roll over, crash.

can’t sleep.
writing poems like falling off a cliff, arms outstretched,
grasping at stone, thread or even the air as my descent
brings me closer to the ground, or what’s left of it. And
these days I seem to be growing tired of finding inspiration
in jagged rocks and the unrelenting sea,
the depths of human depravity, the ocean as vast as the bottom
of this bottle. I want a new exit strategy. I desire a grander master plan.
something with a bit more spark and emphasis,
a little more romance and tangibility, a new script
for a new sound, a new audience to tremor my bones
and carve me new skin to sleep in.

can’t sleep.
comforted only by the faint glow of my typewriter,
the way it sparkles only at night, the day revealing its
deformities, the ugly way it scowls, the feelings of hatred
it omits, setting fire to my soul, but at night we dance,
slowly against the backdrop of the moon.
The earth playing the role of majestic gramophone,
gently places a needle in us and we fever dream to the sounds
which loop through my head like a song,
like a church bell,
like eternity.
wherever i am, these nights will find me
because i am awake and the music plays so bittersweet.

– r.f.g

the white walls of my
yawn at me,
stretch, scratch it’s
ass, roll over
and go back to sleep

and i’m sitting here
on my bed
with the
lights off
a cigarette in hand
and my right index
and ring fingers pressed
against my temple


oh, and my typewriter
as it lazily clicks
and tapdances
through the same tired routine
and its beginning
to skips words,
i fear it’s becoming forgetful
in its old age

two shots to the temple
and i’m down
for the count

but not out, goddammit
never out..
only slightly incapacitated
a little drunk. a little sad.

i wonder if i could
get drunk off
of all of my sadness.

my poor liver.)

i start thinking of the
lesser lonely nights
the ones where I cannot
lie awake until the sun
begins to faintly burn,
wrought with madness
and anger and guilt,
lines from sad-bastard poetry
for fear i might wake
up the person beside me.

those are probably why
my typewriter’s memory
is becoming a little foggy.
it needs consistency
you see.

– r.f.g

the sun belted off you,
like i had never seen before
and it was beautiful, for a moment,
a pause in the chaos of the day
and a glance that you never caught
but is burned into my memory
for as long as my memory serves me,
so perhaps we just continue to pause
or maybe i do, as the chaos starts
rushing back, swirling over my
head, through my frail body
and latching onto my deeper fears
and shaking me back into this world.

and this chaos in my mind,
forces me to question the better
judgement of my past
and the curiosity of my
present to carve out
the semblance of a future,
where perhaps one day i can
organize and categorize my failures
into a neat compartment
to always look back on and
wonder to myself
what the hell i really am doing
and whether or not i’m ready for this.

and then, you look at me,
and the sun blurs my vision
and i think to myself that
this is a woman and intimidating as
it may seem,
i am merely a boy,
so lets change that,

– r.f.g

one o’clock in the morning,
the streets are silent,
the lights outside,
flicker incandescently
alternating between sanity and
as i sit here, on the floor in my
room, not so differently.
i am tormented,
by the thoughts and stark
realizations of my failures
and inconsistencies
and faults and insecurities

and the way my body reacts
to these drugs
trembling on the fault lines
of this terrible city that i
live in,
and how it wants to grab me
by the throat
my fucking throat
and strangle the life
straight out of me
like all of the other poor bastards
sleeping in the crevices
and mall parking lots, auctioning off
whatever pieces of their
bodies they can do without
for a night
just to get high.

i think of the opportunities i’ve had to escape
and how i jettisoned my
exit strategy straight out the exhaust pipe
on to simcoe street
south simcoe,
the one with the hookers.

– r.f.g

rain hits the window like a sucker punch
and i am unsuspecting, staring outside at the smokers
and the bus terminal, picking up and dropping off;
people, united and brilliant as though there
is a sense of togetherness,
a sense of direction, however transient and fleeting.
we are here together,
crossing the parallels of dependence and
autonomy. we are all alike,
smiling and talking to each other, not making eye contact,
breath fading,… mixing and fading into the winter smog,
passing through bodies like holograms.
our touch is unseemly.
i shed my skin into a cup of lukewarm coffee
and write my secrets with lemon juice
and an over-worked ballpoint pen into
a small black journal of failures, meticulous notes of
insomnia and stories of madness.

these days when i sleep, i sleep with the radio on and
close my eyes trying to drown out the image of what your skin feels like
with cacophonous ramblings,
a head banger’s lament.
i dream about your voice
whispering to me in vapours.
i dream about the streets and how it made me
crawl in a child-like search for your affection
only to find myself awoken, covered in dirt, rocks and
this unnerving sense that i am alone with myself, atop my mattress
with no frame
my tiny room with one window,
the blinds covered, cloth and unmistakable.

the rain falls into my hands, the universe spilling
from my sides, hits the pavement, drowning rome in my heartbeat.
lifetimes of loves and lovers scorned,
come knocking at my door
and i have no answers for them.

– r.f.g

words flicker in and out of my consciousness,
buzzing like tiny hummingbirds
singing static songs in staccato time,
pecking at my synapses
and performing scientific experiments
with my neurons
attempting to find the cure for
all of this rampant self-loathing, but losing contact
before i can document them to the world.
or at least my world, which orbits around my head,
mocking me at every rotation, crippling me with its gravity
leaving me a husk of rotting flesh
picked apart by vultures and maggots and conservatives
and all of the childhood fears
i refused to believe would follow me out of the dark
and into my adult life.

words crawl across my eyes like a marquee
and the headlines read like a playbook of
bastards greatest hits,
volume three
the one that has that story about the time
i threw away my short term goals
for some even shorter term fixes that left me
dried up and exhausted the next morning
and fifty dollars poorer.

and sometimes, women read these words
and laugh at how pathetic they seem
and then cry when they realize its about them
and sometimes men read these words
but i don’t show these to them,
they find me,
they always find me. we visit the same places, you see.

– r.f.g

some nights my soul becomes rigid,
staring blankly at the walls,
the paper, the pen in my hands,
like a revolver, one of the older
models. i used to be a killer,
a murderer, but now with the
gun in my hands, i’m trembling,
too scared to pull the trigger.
what if it misfires?
what if i am no longer strong enough?
do i sit here and feel remorse
for the poems i’ve written?
cemented to this
chair while outside
i can hear sirens.
my muse is being stabbed
to death in one of the
back alleys of this dying city.
she’s stumbling out of
bars, slurring my words,
they fail to impress me any more.
i should
let it rot
and fester until
some other poor soul finds it’s corpse and tries to
raise it from the dead, dance with it
like a mannequin wearing
thrift store clothing
until someone is gullible enough
to believe that deep down,
at the very heart of it all,
underneath the whiskey breath,
the veneer of nicotine stained lungs,
the barely legible signature of a junkie,
that this is really art
and the only reason
we’re starving is because
i spent all my time gambling away my good fortune
when i should have been out at the market,
buying your love.

pay no mind to the burning
tanks in the intersections,
their symbolism is only aware
too fools and lovers of
fine excuses.

pay no mind to the music,
it’s just punk rock
to and for the masses
like my words are for public consumption.
please buy in
so i can cash out.
preferably with a pension, benefits
and a ’79 buick century i can drive into the gaping maw of the sun.

– r.f.g