I don't mind he's vomiting,
while crawling upon me.
If just for a second,
my string quivered,
"natures most,
massive formation."
I don't mind he's a lousy fuck,
promising heaven,
never to come.
If just to pretend,
when drawing a black,
rubbing spit upon my cunt.
I even sympathized
the cardboard housing,
the mouth wash spirit.
I do mind,
standing out here,
all along again.
Forgotten owe,
too the universe,
to witness
and celebrate.
Remembered,
broke my promise,
feel the smart.
Fuck you, ... fuck you. Starting as a low grounding tremble, diesel engined, still at a far distance. Fuck You, Fuck You, you faggot.
Every time, over and over again.
It grows louder and more immanent present, letting it's piercing reality hid your face. First a mild slab. Aghast. Starting to pound away, taking the indignities as reality. Exploding in your brain, anger erupting.
I know, painful, isn't it? Try being me, you starting to get it, YOU FAGGOT! I know what you are.
Staff, already on the spot. They know me, it took them four years getting me of the street on a mattress in the shelter-lounge, pissing and shitting myself every night, if they don't wake me up in time to take a dump.
"Behave yourself," she says, looking around, seeing a client balding his fists, ready to pop one on my face.
"Out you go. Come back when you do know how to behave." She hands me the crutches.
"Arghr, You faggot," I grunt, swinging my left arm at the world in despair.
Seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds later I managed to stagger my way to the reception-counter. They give me a schizophrenia pill. "Fuck, FUCK YOU," I shriek, swinging my left arm, right hand clinging the counter firmly.
The crutches fall. Staff helps me too the sidewalk. I thud down. The newbie hands me a paper plate with todays lunch: a blob of beans, baked potatoes, a bun; all submerged in swamp of gravy.
"FUck YOu," flipping the dish swiftly, smashing it onto the pavement. Indignation hits her face, leaving a shamed blush marking her cheeks.
Staff rescue the newbie: "He lost his wife and kids in a car-crash, he was a teacher, has been drinking since, we had to drag him of the streets, it's not you, okay, you'll get used to it.
"Yeah, or quit, most staff does," I think. "Can't handle real life, can you, you faggots."
I wonder off. Leaving the welfare crutches in the bush nearby the shelter. Taking the bus to hastings, selling off my four golden nugget-pills. Then to Davie street, panhandling. Taxi back to the shelter, retrieving the crutches, emptying my mickey. Drifting onto my lounge mattress, fading out the day.
FUCK YOU, Youuu, Faggot...
"What's this lady want's of me?" Been sitting here, not even leaning against the concrete ice-cold pole, shoulders relaxed in an uprise position. Not knowing, my testosterone, assured, eradiation, redneck appearance scares some people away, attracts some other people. People I need to talk to.
And yet, she keep coming over, talking too me, while shelter-meals are served. Time for a joint, I guess, leaving the shelter, into the bush near the river, watching the crows, play in the shallow water, enjoying the midday sun drying their shinny, coal fuzz. "They bath three or four times a day, real clean creatures."
Their straight bill combined with the extraordinary visual fields binocular area, leaves them almost impossibles to get shot.
They see the bullet coming, calculating the probable hail shotguns danger path, adjusting while flying, bypassing the risk of injury way before distress might occur.
"Do you know what a 50,000 dollar curtain looks like?" I ask the lady. No, if that exists...
"Well," continuing my story, "Honey, we need new curtains, these's are old and smelly." I don't think so, but then again, she's the woman in the house, she knows best, doesn't she.
Nice blue overpaid curtains to replace the old ones, who were just fine, to start with. She might just have truck a sensitive nerve-chord.
Honey, this coach doesn't match the new curtains, does it?" I think it does, but she's still the woman of the house, so she knows how to take cares of us the best, doesn't she.
I got her a damn coach, oversize refrigerator, flowered wall-paper, big-screen TV, woolen carpet and what-ever was needed TO KEEP THE PEACE IN HOUSE. Slaving away as a railway guard, spending every bloody penny on doing exactly more of the same of nothing.
She can keep it all. Left Thunder Bay. Enjoy traversing Canada, listening to my transistor radio, watching the crows as they learn me the ways of the street.
I need a jibber, a cooker and a cracker!
Still tasting the bitterness of cum, even a six-pack can't take away the sour smell persisting its way up my nostrils. I know for I've tried plentiful.
Why are they always grasping my ponytail, fixating my head when trusting forcefully forward, bursting their sperm way back in my throat, leaving me gagging and retching. Shit, now I've stained my shirt again.
Okay, OKAY, I want to swallow, you know that, don't you? Not because your vitamin rejuvenates me, but, because I have but this blouse left, you cheap son of a bitch.
"Oh, that tasted so good!" Happy clients come back, I think, my pimp already dialed the dealers number, now cashing in on our deal.
Leaving him, pants down to the ankles, knickers nowhere to be found, senses giddy swimming to life surface, wondering where the hell the whore went. Confused, handing out a few green ones.
"A jibber, a cooker and a cracker," Staff in the shelter, loathing, acting out of wont, serving for ones.
Shit, you motherfucker, stop staring at me. You have no clue, being touched by half the family to be liked, running away, picked up, having only one survival skill, earning plentiful, finding a numbing feeling solution, euphoria producing transfer. A cheap, easy, practical, worldly deal with the devil. Sooo? YO MOFO, STOP JUDGING ME!
I'm already sailing, the sweet waves of blissfulness, uniting zen experiences with god-forbidden sins. I'm four again, christmas, vigorous hitting the pink bike pedals and I'm four again, easter, ravishing pulling the dinghies paddles, in an intertwining, all transcending susceptibilities, surpassing, over-topping and out-topping if just for a minute.
My statute posture, giving away, my cravings now fulfilled hunkering. Going unnoticed for the pimp, nervously pulling the needle out of my pussies, all to often used vein, popping the needle in his own left shinbone, joining me on the journey.
For his marking are two swollen blue legs, for my marking are one messed up cunt.
Shooting a homeless person, provocation I say. How stupid can you get.
She warned your college dude, didn't you listen? The newspaper clearly stated that she would break camera and use bear-spray when coming near the camp!
In what world are you living? Don't you know anything of being homeless?
I can keep asking you, but really, truth said, when a homeless person makes a threat, action need to follow or loosing face and life can be the consequence.
Ah, an example to enlighten the bubble-people. A little time ago, darkness hit Vancouver when a wind blew out the lights of the city.
No electricity, no more communication, cellphones slowly loosing their juice. No firefighters, no ambulance, no police-force to protect.
In the shelter the staff got really scared, understaffed as usual, acknowledging dusk setting in when the emergence lights loosing their three-hour illuminating streak.
"Management will come to hand out flashlights for you clients."
They never came, no emergency procedure prepared, staff but two people strong, a flashlight in the left hand, holding on their balls with the right hand, nightfall here.
I don't mind, been surviving a freezing winter out in the bush. No tent, no more than a handful of rice and lentils, just the cloths on my body, a mark of my status among the clients.
They know all too well what "the most excruciating pain I ever felt in my entire life" means (to quote the newspapers freelance journalist) and it's not being hit by a bear-spray.
It's perishing without the option to die. Body holding on to the last inhale, when exhaling keeps commanding to let go every time, not knowing if I still have the strength to take another breath. Just lacking the courage not taking it, ending all. Death walks along my side, paving the way to simply fading out.
So, retaining this memory in my back-pocket near my guts-ending,
vehemence escorts my path. Darkness, becomes my friend, when disaster hits.
Bubble-people run to the light, we take a step back, using the wraps of obscurity to blend in because a shot takes out the brightest of lights, the easiest of targets.
The veil of darkness, once again, covers the bubbling pot of misery I once created in my past as a failed family-member, self-proclaimed hit-man, emotionless murderer or addicted kingpin, leaving death and debts all-over cities and villages.
So, stop shining that flash-light in my eyes when I pass by reception on the way to the lounge, you scary shitless, useless pile of human bubble. You call yourself staff, as I can now sniff out your cold sweat armpits oder, revealing who's the real predator and who's the real pray in this arena called universe.
"You should go to bed, as we can not be responsible for your safety in this darkness when somethings happens!" She said. "My safety is my own responsibility, thank you, it always is."
A unexpected response draining her conviction of any control she might have had left. Fleeing back behind her reception counter, she did, praying the three flashlights will hold until morning comes.
It must have been a long graveyard-shift, still another one to come, don't you think?
So, if chicken-shit, can't scare me away from my homeless camp, for sometimes I haven't washed myself in months, and I know the skunk wears it stench as a protection, what would make me move?
You must have guessed it, for sure.
Shooting and filming! Shining a spot-light on me, lifting the cover of my personal bubbling pot of misery, as getting a headline in the newspaper or making the evenings news-flash will surely lure out the real life, vindictive memory chimeras.
Thus, I make a stand, lift my skunk-tail and spray... but, who's in excruciating pain, I ask you?
At least, I realize that the world is a damned, going to hell place. Better then the staff at the shelter; not the clients, because they just do, no perception of time whatsoever. Ones you start to snort, time stops, leaving you leading life as a kid, only after going cold turkey you staring at an elderly strange face in the mirror and asking where these past ten years went?
You know, you dumb fuck, you chased the dragon, you got high on crack or you swam with Jack. At least you enjoyed the time watching the non-image left by Shaw when they took over the cable and left the TV screen blue until the shelter payed their monthly fee.
Leaving the staff in terror expecting a riot, getting killed one by one, as a day without TV is as a day not lived.
Ummm, 17 inmates keep watching the blue screen, for another hour, nothing happened. Just a mere anxiety ghost from the bubble people. Completely lacking any sense of reality, yet, claiming to have a direct line to the truth.
It took two months and seven days to get past the numerous committees and budget holder to allow Shaw to restore the shallowness of the patients habits. Meanwhile, all DVD's got stolen by a shelter client, in need off a mere ten bucks.
Well, at least someone got a good half an hour out of those dumb series. The last time a Christmas lady brought by one hundred and fifty DVD's with movies, the staff got them, claiming the bedbugs protocol.
Clients know this because they have nothing else to do than to carefully observe staff custom routine. For sure, that's what poor people, addicts do, intervening in the blind spots. Catching every opportunity to steal, scam and cheat. Just give us a blink, I'll pull you a fast one. AND YOU KNOW! Right in your face streetwise reality, isn't it?
As staff have their own way of dealing with the scum of the earth while claiming to be the angels on earth. The clients also make their calculations for the public doesn't know that 50% of their gifts go directly in the hands of fucking genitors, desk-clerks and self-proclaimed managers. Bookkeepers, at best, that's what they are.
The best idea they come up with the last three months was going on a hike. Bubble people, they don't know. Who wants to go fucking hiking when you're up at four AM to collect cannes before someone else gets them. Slaving away until 11 AM, cashing in 20 dollars, hard cash.
YES, LET'S GO HIKING AFTER WALKING SEVEN BLOODY HOURS, after licking every liquor bottle found in the urban cities trash cans, not even leaving a drop going to waste. We recycle, YES WE DO. I already had my drunken mans walk, scalding, blazing and fulminating at innocent bystanders.
They don't know, I'm just reliving my own past, yelling at abusive parents or whatever, ghosts of the past, replays of brain glitches, hunting my slowly quenching existence. Body is stronger and more difficult to kill then I expected. Just getting more and more crippled, day by day, dragging body to the graveyard, not finding the ditch to lay down and die, for I have to find the shuffle first and dig my own grave, carvings in stone, for I have to write my own epitaph.
OHHH, give me the strength to get sober for an instance to do just that. But first, another puff, that will help, for sure.
I used to be able to write streaming, but this damned english got me confused. Every syllable translating from dutch knowing that my spelling checker gets on my bloody ass like a sourpuss housewife that's smells her own bitchy cunt stuffed only by the divine emptiness of not getting fucked by her husband claiming to be overworking. And YES, we women think it stinks even if you men love it. We ...
So streaming, letting myself fulminating, experiencing the unbearable lightness of this existence (stole that sentence, didn't I). Feeling already better than the last five days when I imagined being a popular writer, word crafting, yet not finding a word, to utter.
Just read a few pages of Bukowski, always helps.
Sitting, a sack of potatoes, staring, eyes-glaze gone, one single thing on mind, then regaining consciousness quickly: "hey, you got a cigarette?"
"50 cents, 10 for 3 bucks, a pack for 5 dollars," claiming status as the cigarette-lady.
The answer, I heard a thousand times. So, you get this one for free, the next time you know the deal; they all do, but what, not having anything, thrown in this heaven of safety, life re-starts, doing what he does best, scam.
I gave him two, his girlfriend, she, needed one too. Quieting my inner heartache, negotiating, being the business-man, they portray me to be. Knowing all to well, three months ago, I was in this similar situation, still having one pack, giving them away for free. Ruining myself, forced to panhandling, begging for a butt, hating the person I become.
So, giving one or two for free, sometimes leaving some in the ashtray. A blissful discovery for the butt-end hunters, not having to beg for a zig-zag paper, squeezing tobacco bits, rolling into a sainted fag, inhaling, coughing and spluttering. Just lighting one for free, god be blessed, I'm feeling lucky today, hey!
"We've been sleeping in the park for a month now, a cougars, ate a raccoon, only a few inches from our tent, terrified, not been able to rest after that incident. You should have heard the bones crashing and the pray screaming for life, been torn from him, he says."
"Enjoy the cigarette, you're safe here." And she, raped as a child, forced into whoring, before I saved her from her pimp....The stories continued, not making sense to me, whatsoever.
Holly Moses the next day I saw her in the bushes, performing tricks, and yes the were able to buy a few fags, as when he lowered his socks, the true nature of their problems revealed itself. The blue and purple swollen legs of a dragon-chaser.
She must be very good because they were high the entire time they stayed in the shelter. Heroine, my lord, my savior, they swore, onto the next fix. Not wondering, while staying out for a day and a night, making it back to the shelter, discovering, that their life-remaining awaited them, by the front door. Oops, forgotten to tell, they also where staying in another shelter.
Back to the family of cougars in the park, for sure....
I don't mind he's vomiting, 
all along again. 
Every time, over and over again.
"What's this lady want's of me?" Been sitting here, not even leaning against the concrete ice-cold pole, shoulders relaxed in an uprise position. Not knowing, my testosterone, assured, eradiation, redneck appearance scares some people away, attracts some other people. People I need to talk to. 
Their straight bill combined with the extraordinary visual fields binocular area, leaves them almost impossibles to get shot. 
Leaving him, pants down to the ankles, knickers nowhere to be found, senses giddy swimming to life surface, wondering where the hell the whore went. Confused, handing out a few green ones.
My statute posture, giving away, my cravings now fulfilled hunkering. Going unnoticed for the pimp, nervously pulling the needle out of my pussies, all to often used vein, popping the needle in his own left shinbone, joining me on the journey.
She warned your college dude, didn't you listen? The newspaper clearly stated that she would break camera and use bear-spray when coming near the camp!
They know all too well what "the most excruciating pain I ever felt in my entire life" means (to quote the newspapers freelance journalist) and it's not being hit by a bear-spray. 
Shooting and filming! Shining a spot-light on me, lifting the cover of my personal bubbling pot of misery, as getting a headline in the newspaper or making the evenings news-flash will surely lure out the real life, vindictive memory chimeras. 
Clients know this because they have nothing else to do than to carefully observe staff custom routine. For sure, that's what poor people, addicts do, intervening in the blind spots. Catching every opportunity to steal, scam and cheat. Just give us a blink, I'll pull you a fast one. AND YOU KNOW! Right in your face streetwise reality, isn't it?
They don't know, I'm just reliving my own past, yelling at abusive parents or whatever, ghosts of the past, replays of brain glitches, hunting my slowly quenching existence. Body is stronger and more difficult to kill then I expected. Just getting more and more crippled, day by day, dragging body to the graveyard, not finding the ditch to lay down and die, for I have to find the shuffle first and dig my own grave, carvings in stone, for I have to write my own epitaph.
The answer, I heard a thousand times. So, you get this one for free, the next time you know the deal; they all do, but what, not having anything, thrown in this heaven of safety, life re-starts, doing what he does best, scam.
