Category: Poetry

The tunnel, glowing bright… like a radioactive worm, fat and proud… colours seen  ‘in bloom’; loud… He didn’t say it, but Campbell told me “You can’t go back…” Fragments of those days; Don Mills memories – now a legacy act to the collector.   Jon Mychal / Toronto — Apr 17 2015     Tweet

… up there on your pixel green embankment; seemingly spared from the storm… the dials of time stiffened in their odd resistance to the tug of history and consequence; not sure of your shades from here, but certain they’re vague — after all, the internet is the loneliest place known, and you’re still in hiding……

    Dr. Faustus — you crazy old kook — you dreamt a lie and then lived it; There is no ‘Feminine principle’, much less any redemption to be had in its midst.     Jon Mychal / Toronto — March 2 2014 Tweet

                                                   Clancy killed himself a bit more tonight – the grape trouncing speculation: “Yeah, you reached me.” he said. Stern faced; clipped… queer chords and time signatures stating he was quite literally out of it, this round. ‘Pork pie’ hats a visual sign of these charged times — the clumsy spirals serve to reflect. Tailored…

Perhaps I held those memories too loosely; tipping a stack of Septembers enough that the colours ran out of them; all those over developed moments drawn out like film in a chemical bath: stains pulled from the fabric of time… Even so, those autumn leaves tell stories… while tonight, my fingers smell like 90s pussy.…