Written by an 11 year old pee-wee goaltender.
(Source: lannister-lion, via alexei-emelin)
May 8th, 2012
Great Wake
the crow flies grey eight glamour black
though he's black as condor bristle rainbow rinse
jet as flee fuel trow
he's along and beyond cockroach shadow
white whisper along mellow fool fellow
glace
judder feather yellow sallow
wisp wallish above fallow
jut flack hook polish maw
craw and caw the fling
more than pebble pan or floor fluoor
coal dusk cough coal teeth click
he's a raven silk powder pewter
a rev robro lake
over capitol stone level
a glide and no sound oil jet sluice
unsung clarion cross skies
dripped canvas
ash works bloom
a panorama
doom black
boom
April 26th, 2012
April 16th, 2012
Eighty-Two Games Gone
you see we saw
sticks le drapeau
pucks les canards sur dos
CCM stitching l'argent
Reebok duffle crossed caliver
rack angles surface
forced fortuitous the reeds rush and roar
cylinders as wind rose
squares like the sun
and holes
the pegs and keys
that fit
not(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
April 12th, 2012
Bay Gray Shamble
a black crocodile
hangs
over the broad black
banister
by tail
it twists
tiretrack
skin
black rubber
tongue
flecked yellow teeth
and bay green
iris
on either side
sceptres
of founded ivory
colossal
pinned perimeters
solvent venom
drool
spills over
chilled acid
magazine perforation
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
April 10th, 2012
Seventy-Five
here in north petro canada the frost barnacles on fuel pumps snow through shot cauldron crow skies above the allowance dash to keep lashes from closing along tar top tundra frozen cheesecake streets no strawberries no lampwick no friends for fur and then I never thought Subban
April 9th, 2012
Two Inches Neat
dave looks up from the zazoo paper
he crinkles coffee
stirs his brow
the skates pinwheel
under the chopping limousine
blue
sky screen slides
under white
cough snow
lungful of tobacco
the blister wind cold y'know
an ovie caw
a red blood bucket russian
screech
the solo rounds
a team
or no mad
make
in a world
shaped
like russia(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
April 5th, 2012
Crypt and Puck IV
Iron’s creek teeth stretched across its gilt-black, carved crystal crag countenance. Beyond shame, beyond avarice, beyond its sparkle would-be cheeks.
Gossamer spittle of glee webbed the arched roof of its mouth. Iron croaked lust, burden beetled forward in shamble shadows, a monolith lurch, a volcanic odour.
This was the new game but the old game. There was no scoreboard. Iron snorted and moved slowly across lime letch and coopered stalagmite. A quiver gait ahead flickered green; his jackal consort.
In its furnace heart, Iron was cold envy, a hearth of hate newborn but with sallow wisdom of doom pulsing in brackish blood to belicose brain.
Under and beyond, there was no real wisdom, no real truth. Galaxies corrode in hurt vision. This foil ventricle and chalk tunnel shale are vortex to finity. Each battle can be lost. Almost none can be won.
She knew this. The jackal sentry sensed it. Iron, this chapter, would forge the stone-turned rule.
She would leave the puck behind. She would lead a chase. And her Demitur speed and elixir-eloquent bronze frost would sparkle as she set her fluid trap.
So she hoped.
Under that batless sky, a solemn roof here under years and at the end of plate stairs, she would turn. And skate.
Copper flesh and cubed ink eyes were in wait.
She heard Iron first. She saw Jackal emerge.
(to be continued, Sheila)
February 8th, 2012
Nylon Python Knots
blue on blue sky lay on ocean
and a small wedge of mica sand
a tiny triangle perch
for ragged sinew human hope
bludgeon lust
tickled goose hairs
travelled
beastly ocean
ripples
over his terrible flesh
triumphalist
oxone
repelliant
columbus'
ashen
explorer fear
these aren't our prints
something, someone
was here before
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
February 6th, 2012
Crypt and Puck III
Her face was heavier. Copper sagged. Her neck stiffened.
Iron waited. And a jackal soothsayer.
The steps ended.
With it, language of the upper plates.
She’d descended nearly a year of stairs. But time was uttered differently here.
She was copper limbs and torso now.
The puck was still in her pocket.
The cold was meaningless.
And the old scoreboard drew her. She knew but it didn’t matter. She knew why it was older than any man-object above. And that things above were extensions, controlled by these sometime things below. Buried here. And elsewhere.
But she was here. She was Copper. And Iron shuffled slowly somewhere near.
Fourteen miles down, the sentry with long jackal muscles and a sheared face grin began its lope.
She knew.
The scoreboard was closer. She stood still under it. It jutted. Its smashed countenance was a purposed, polished shape of its own. Of wrecked millenia and memory though it was.
A different code echoed in her. She remained still. The warped wood was something of this planet but much older than those above could know.
There were the great curves and letters. Vocabulary of damned tree shards or leaf-water hope. Those numbers slumbered, soft patternless blinking under nearly oaken closed eyes. The word scoreboard was some other thought-entrail now. All words.
She was a pure sunset metal colour.
And the flitter and spoof sentry was nearly near.
She waited for the old, blasted majesty above her to creak and turn. Scoreboard.
Around her, a half-rink leered. It was a cup, deep and it was an egg-circle, cold and large.
The scoreboard did crack and lean, finally and even as the sheared face appeared, a small loon light in the distance beyond the rink and board.
Iron wasn’t far.
And the jackal sentry smiled, its ancient yellow teeth, fraught powder and yellow clay under nature-made rubber lips.
There were no lights under here.
Some things proved light themselves. And darkness wasn’t enough for eyes of these kind.
She saw the jackal sentry and absorbed the language of first woods above.
Her copper form turned to leave.
The jackal sentry lolled and paused for brief thought.
(to be continued, Sheila)
January 30th, 2012
Crypt And Puck (Part II)
Under and beyond, a sifted spirit sang. Shifts of digital aroma klept or klamber, concrete dungeon, slabs of petrified kelp and the entrance beyond.
Through that stone aqua overhang.
Understand this locked lake drained to cracked face of a giant’s dust. Slaked osmosis ovium.
Innocent names, fabrics of another century, the spoof sentry spits sinister, drools venom, shadows and joy, the splinter of a heavy, doomed chain.
What movement was a sort of green magma. And the flitter hint of that spoof sentry.
She and her ear canal.
Stepped forward something.
Descent infernal.
Colder. It’s colder, she thought. She reached for wall and found none. She shuddered, her imbalance stopping her. Waiting for the goose pebble flesh to warm, she listened.
She listened for drip and heard none. Her sense of smell was negated.
She felt the air move, a large oxygen vacuum around her.
It moved less. And then was still.
She was a listener again. Then she was on the move.
Down the wall-less staircase.
One sure step and then another. She could see the steps. They were deep-sea and cave-dark green.
The puck was an orb undulate in her left pocket. The flashlight shape remained in the other.
The air followed her.
The steps came to an end.
From here, she saw the old scoreboard; rent plastics and shorn otherworld woods.
Stone hanging. Pipes, once-neat. Rooms, she fancied, beyond the corridors. The splotch or dim glow, greens of several kinds, were what helped her see. Old sea-creatures devolved to soft masses, mooshed jellies able to synthesize something into vague latrine memory lights.
It was colder. Colder.
Back here again. She knew where north led to warmth. Where south led to an endless staircase. And where east was wicked.
Somewhere, about fourteen miles down, a sentry stirred.
To be continued
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
January 29th, 2012
Crypt And Puck
She found the puck late that night.
At the bottom of the stairs where the crypt door met grainy, tough, salted old grass. Stone and earth met in tuft country shapes on that stairwell floor. There was a drain grate of grim iron and the smell of lime and lactating stone.
The puck was in the corner. Made of seeming speckled ivory, the thing had shrunk and was half the treasure it once was.
She recognized it immediately. Stooping, she pocketed it. And then she considered the door.
The cold was nearly forgotten. Her clothes were wet whispers against her clammy skin.
All she heard was the echo of code. One-one-three-five. One-one-three-five. Under, over, across and then under. The metal looked immovable.
She put on the gloves she’d been given and tried. Once. Twice.
The second time worked. And it was smooth. Smoother than it looked. Smoother than she expected.
She paused but more in response to her third eye which had a sense of the dramatic, even now.
A useless, automated gesture for an absent audience. Then she entered.
She should have been afraid. But she’d forgotten that emotion. She shut the door behind her.
And she forced her hand into a tight corduroy pocket. The flashlight, a cold, red tube, issued a thin, rude wire of light through the ante-room.
Her sense of smell was nearly gone. And the putrid vapour entrails that wafted under the next door went unnoticed.
That was the only door.
And she advanced.
Her shoes hissed quietly. And that she heard. She expected it.
Now the door.
But first a listen.
Dank silence.
She’d have to be quiet. But she remained bold.
The clank didn’t come. A tight, slow and easy squeeze of black metal was what worked.
She pulled. And then the door swung back.
She moved with it and then peered in.
She could feel if not smell the rot and essence of the atmosphere under and beyond.
And she heard the sounds of the ghoulish play. The stalagmites, the stone and the half-rink untended beyond.
To be Continued
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
January 28th, 2012
Two Words, One All-Star
Doug Bentley Miner Twin Frank Brimsek Mister Zero Bill Durnan Switch Leather Maurice Richard Iris Nova Syl Apps Apex Order Howie Meeker Grin Technical Don Metz Kid Three Turk Broda Blunt Bulge Gordie Howe Cold Mister Ted Lindsay Board Bale Jean Beliveau Brim Ivory Jacques Plante Stitched Plastic Glen Hall Butterfly Horror
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
January 18th, 2012
Barome Iginla
imagine
a pathway from an asphalt lot
the asphalt rolls beyond
and on,
under bridge
past track and train
spreads,
asphalt is all
the crag canada shape
of the land
cold tongues of tar to the
brill bream ocean
it crusted black rubber wave cake
grimitar teeth atlantic
blacktop boiled pacific
asphalt hills
asphalt valleys
angle and turn
to the city
asphalt alleys
are vanilla
ice cream
walls
a figure in white showy macaroon cottons
hood and fleece red gloves
saxophone and stick
sister stride
skinny
lampwick pride
off she goes
on she went
on dunk, on goal, on crowd, on blacktop ice
medallion discipline
a chosen note
pressed for flat brass
squeezed to gold clef
buttered barometric baritones
an ocold New York Show
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
January 13th, 2012
Elephants On Parade
hidden in the parade
pompon
lariat
rubber confetti explosion
brass monolith partition
sag head
baghead warm wart war elephant
signet homonym march
houseproud wormworn the jelly straps yellow
pigment frost fromme frown
clown
black blister freon fondue
terminal tongue collapse
baking boots bat escort
cakecircle cornshoe dance
purple pipers cornstalk towel
telementary town step mounds
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
January 11th, 2012
PigMaker Sweet
smashed bone words
murder nouns
corridor justice
man mothra dust
the iron ivory wheel turns
your cab express lorry
dappled blood fun
children you loan
your crowd obligatory
parn farn fraux froue free
words
lack
your tilted king man ship
slaves jelly barrels
splash the flesh deck
your parthenon jiggle
wax castles
nepotic necrotic pyramid
jungle stones
wrapped vines
and universe tome
warm enemy
buried minutes
september teeth
cracked jeer
and a street's galaxy
near
the iron ivory wheel turns
your bone
(Source: montrealmystique.ca)
