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Quite a lot of questionable poetry, poor pictures, and degrading doodles as preformed by the delightfully mediocre and possibly deranged Maya-Roisin Slater.

For Once In Your Life, Tonight You Look Pretty

I find it fascinating that something so simple as a walk in the dark can spark so many memories.

How in the quiet, eyes washing over familiar shapes I squint to see, the puke smeared sidewalks, mossy mansions, and spray paint sanctioned scaffolding tug my heart strings with nostalgic quality.

Perhaps it is the moon mystifying the murky marks of meaning in my mind, or the funny feeling walking home brings by making sad goodbyes and fond hellos simultaneous, or maybe it is nothing more than my friends Simon and Garfunkel who dance with me on this warm Saturday making Main and Hastings sing a romantic rumble.

Past the weird parking lot where beautiful bombs clad in Army and Navy thongs huddle in the breeze offering love for small fees.

Past the library filled with books nobody reads and many bags of government subsidized frozen peas distributed on Tuesdays at 5pm in the meal hall on a first come first serve basis.

Past the corner where in the daytime that friendly face, my neighbourhood mexican pimp, asks me every time I walk by “What are you a model?”. Fernando knows how to flatter.

Past the grocery store where I have purchased tonnes of two for one tofu and less than edible vegetables I justified with the promise of freezing or making into soup. In this moment I miss the violent cackles of elderly chinese woman eating produce straight from the bin on their lunch breaks, clutching little pocket knives and overripe avocados quite obviously making fun of customers in plain sight.

Past the strip club whose doors tonight go unguarded by the pushy panhandler with her waxy wigs, wielding a silver walker like a weapon of war. The gaudy SUVs normally parked outside housing pudgy pill pushers have all driven back to their suburban homes for the evening, the curb is left un badgered and barren.

In the mild air I could meander forever, eternally enamored with my own memories. I am quite content in these times, a little lonely and more receptive to all the loveliness around me. Sometimes my neighborhood leaves me heartbroken, hindered by all these majestic moments which make the present seemingly unmatchable.

But without long walks, heartbreak, and reminders of the things in life we deem great well there would be no poetry. New York, Paris, Berlin, and Spain, fuck off, you have enough poems! Vancouver in April around 11:30PM, you are nothing more than dark and dirty, I don’t love you very much at all. But looking up at your buildings art deco in style and medium tall, smelling the rotten oranges, the human shit smeared like graffiti on the wall, the empty corners where me and smiling strangers sneakily recognize each other daily, the stretch of sidewalk where people sell heroin tucked in old sneakers and pawn off family heirlooms, the peculiar foliage fawning over felons, tonight standing in this messy mosh posh part of you tucked away behind shopping malls and yoga studios I feel more than a little attached to your monuments.

With that, a sweet goodnight to my city.

For once in your life, tonight you look pretty.

The Pictures We Paint

A bright red truck and many wooden fences,
these are some of the comforts of home.

A trampoline turned auburn in the face of fallen leaves standing,
next to a miniature house cozied up to a canary yellow slide,
these are the objects in nature we hide.

On our rocky canvas we smear many mailboxes,
and prayer flags,
forgotten tool sheds whose walls sag.

Profiling humanity as an artist
wondering about the meaning behind our intentional statement supermarkets.
It’s here in the rural our decorative purpose unfurls.

Bulbous bulbs brought from foreign shores,
blooming brilliantly in our simple soil.

A couple sailboats to shimmer upon our wilting waves,
the sand becomes our garbage grave.

This house is now a home covered in concrete.
And this delusion of pastoral life?
Positively pleasuring!
These civilizing bits and bobs?
Nothing more than tethering.

A Real Love Poem About Eggs

In the morning, the perfection with which you execute every egg you make for me displays wordlessly your affection. I think the sublimity with which you make eggs for me creates a perfect metaphor for our relationship.

If you leave an egg to fry for hours, or carelessly plop a precious yolk into boiling water and leave it as the skin boils harder, if you scramble and forget the milk, leave it in the oven to crackle and break, you’ll ruin your eggs for heaven’s sake!

There is a subtlety and grace involved in making the perfect eggs. The right amount of attention must be paid, you must insure to not let the water cool or the oil burn away. You must hold the carton safe and secure on route home from the grocery store. But once you’re in your kitchen, near the pan, you must break the egg with a firm and gentle hand.

Beneath the shell at first is a runny hell, but if you salt and pepper just to taste, and grasp that cooking it is not a race, you will end up with the egg in perfect form. Firm on the outside, with a runny yolk, that stays in place ‘til you give it a poke.

Sure, eggs do not have legs, eggs don’t have lips, eggs don’t have funny haircuts. But beyond the basic human details we are pretty much the same. We are fragile, need care and attention, but not enough to hold us together completely, nothing about the hard shell of an egg says “eat me!”

The hard parts may break us, yet our attention to detail will make us, the perfect pair of eggs.

A Love Poem

1. Writing poems is hardly romantic

1. More of an exercise in subtlety

1. I love you

2. Who?

1. You

2. I wonder if she’s writing about me

1. I love you

2. Is she talking about me, is there a clue somewhere in here?

1. Today on my way home, I walked through an ally painted brightly with drug store advertisements from over 70 years ago. I find it hilarious how the most meaningless markings we leave on walls are the ones that can withstand life’s pitfalls. The baby blue strokes forming the word pharmacy reminded me of your eyes, which maintain a kind of blue reminiscent of the sorrowful color peeling off this building.

2. Hey, I have blue eyes!

2. What did I do to deserve being placed in this poem?

1. Everything is more beautiful from extremely high or or extremly low, looking right in front of me has a habit of initiating nausea.

2. Are you saying I make you nauseous?

1. I love you

2. I thought I made you nauseous

1. I am scared of quite a lot, in fact I think it’s becoming a theme in my life. I am afraid of people, as you know.

2. Do I know? Does that include me?

1. I am also afraid of sharp things, fire, failure, generalized impending doom, afraid of consequences, afraid of actions, afraid of animals, afraid of anything unpredictable, afraid of the truth.

1. I love you still

2. Thank you, you were getting pretty off track there

2. You know, I’m very flattered but I don’t think I like poems very much at all, no offence of course

1. I have holes in my jeans, so when I walk around my knees always feel an eerie draft. I’m still piecing together how that’s meaningful.

2. I definitely do not like poetry.

1. I despise day dreams

2. I despise poems

1. I love you

2. Right

1. I despise daydreams because they are admitting defeat. If you can’t muster up your mind enough to make the world around you at least a little dreamy than you really are a dull block of normality

1. I daydream constantly

1. I love myself

2. Narcissist

1. I love you

2. Better

2. I wish you would write about someone else

1. I miss mystifying views. Looking over the ocean, peppered with islands, tangled in trees, a couple birds drift lazily between the spaces to complete the picture. I know they’re out there, because I remember. Those islands lush with leaves and other boisterous botanicals, the same sparkling emerald as your eyes in the right light.

2. Wait, my eyes are blue

1. I love you

2. Don’t pull this shit on me

2. I thought you loved me! My eyes! they’re blue!

1. Writing poems is hardly romantic

2. I love you!

1. More of an exercise in subtlety

Drinking Hennessy On A $30,000 Couch and Other Reflections

It’s easy to go through the mundanity of your life and forget that beyond the four walls of your room and the confines of your usual haunts there lies a million other worlds, a million acres of new terrain, and a million folks eager to learn your name.

Tonight I went for a walk with a dear friend of mine in my neighbourhood. During our excursion we past by a store chalked full of people, chatting wildly; it appeared to be the makings of some bourgeois party.

Waiting for the bouncer to desert his stand my partner in crime and I dashed through the conveniently unlocked door, looking subtle as we raced to the apex of the crowd. Lost among the USA made turtle shell glasses and $800 dollar japanese wool blazers we did our best to blend in. We talked vigorously and picked at the hummus spreads placed strategically about the room.

By taking careful note of the signage we surmised the party we had stealthy slid our way into was a book signing. The room was large, carefully decorated and two stories tall. We found out it was in the business of selling furniture, the kind to be looked at not sat on if you know what I mean. We explored the upstairs quadrant, taking a brief break to push our collective tush upon the feathery cushions of an apricot coloured silken love seat. Soon after we were comfortably seated a group of five approached us, eagerly introducing themselves with names too regular to remember. Through conversation we learned they worked for some of the world’s biggest interior design firms, which is exactly how they got their names on the list to attend this exclusive party. “How did you hear about this?” one of them asked “Oh word of mouth” I said confidently. “What do you do?” He asked “I’m a freelance writer” I exclaimed, going on to greatly exaggerate my writing accomplishments.

It is easy to get caught up in the world you’re supposed to fit into. Easy to tell people you’re a waitress, easy to believe what you tell yourself and others. But when you take the risks, when you get your name out there to millionaires while drinking hennessy on a thirty thousand dollar couch, now that’s when you start going places. The places you can get kicked out of are exactly the places you should be going to. Tonight I experienced a taste of the life I have always jested at wanting, and my god did it fit like a glove. All I had to do was take the risk, stick my foot in the door, and act naturally.

I don’t think there was anyone in that room that felt like they deserved to be there, despite their names being printed neatly on the list clutched dependently by the steroid pumped brute guarding the door. I was in the opposite position, undeserving, but in my element. When it comes down to it I was undeniably born to be placed in a room, and act like an elephant.

“This is a beautiful couch, I wonder who it’s by.” The prada suit clad designer offered up to me “Yes, it can be so hard to find the tags on these things!” I replied, he began to laugh wildly. Luckily he didn’t realize I wasn’t joking.

Life Is Simply Terrifying: A Friendly Taster Of Thoughts

On Tuesday in the afternoon I felt afraid, that all the dreams I had were lost, unsaved.

On Tuesday in the afternoon I looked on craigslist, inquired about a fully furnsihed cave, in Alberta, and other irrelevant places.

On Tuesday night I kept my sneaking suspicion that life was conspiring against me tucked neatly underneath my pillow, next to notebooks filled with my best laid plans.

On Sunday morning I am still breathing melencholy air.

On Sunday night I am moving forward and avoiding the perifery, trying not to glance at Tuesday’s shadows doubting me.

I’ll admit I’m afraid for Monday morning, petrified for Tuesday around 3:20, sick to my stomach at the thought of next Saturday at 11, fickle towards every Friday in April, and my neurons are naucheous gnawing over the prospect of every day in between the ones afformentioned for the next 17 years approximatly.

What the future holds makes me want to dig 10 foot by 10 foot holes to bury and cover my ghastly goals.

I try to take deep breaths just like wikipedia told me to. I try to eat more omega-3s as reccomended by Health Magazine. I am dressing appropriatly for the weather, in the hopes my life these tips will better.

On Tuesday afternoon I felt afraid of what I have accomplished, what I haven’t accomplished, I felt afraid of people, I felt afraid of myself, I felt afraid of dependance, I felt independant, I felt a weird pain in my hamstring I have never previously experience, I felt like I wrote bad poems, I felt like writing a poem.

So on Sunday night with a little more light in my brain I did write a poem. Now we’re here. I still feel afraid, still craigslisting my runaway cave, still wrought with self skeptisism, as a writer I guess sensless feelings are the gift to keep on giving.

On tuesday night I went to bed late, on Sunday night I’ll do the same; dreaming about newspapers of the future, which will inevitably mispell my name.

Out Side/Looking in

In big houses with unkempt backyards and mossy exteriors there lies the roots of the problem.

In these rooms of living with the couches pushed aside and the precious lamps hidden safely in closed closets, crowds of beautiful faces enter the sparkling womb of social stasis. I can see them through the bay window, but I can’t quite hear what they’re saying, and their libation lubricated lips only layer the confusion.

Pinning grainy pictures to the walls which close in around me I try to connect the dots drawn by their erotic eyes and chiseled cheeks. The likes of which they claim as meek. My mind wonders to conspiracy, my mind wanders, to myself as per usual. Better, brilliantly so. Connected, the dirty things they know. Living, a life with worth. Comparatively, a crystal pool to my mess and murk.

Inside it seems warm, the walls supported and privy to storms. Inside life seems pretty, and witty, and bright. This impossible rolling motion of a generation of delusional inside-turned-out subversive snakes. With each individual consciousness convinced they only make mistakes.

Young, beautiful, in love, and sick to our stomachs with all these tumultuous truths. If we speak them aloud, this coy game we lose. Leaving high and dry with photographic proof and a demure smile keeping you painfully aloof. These are the parties millions of us are missing. Only knowing second hand which lavender lipstick loaded liberal minded lover our objects of desire ended up kissing.

Chasing instead of facing reality; the trap music continues to make these meaningless moments magical memories. If only I could be there in that crowded room of adorable assholes yelling over the bass, if only my mug of wine a mischievous mutual friend would lace.

Enlightenment doesn’t make it easier. Love doesn’t make it easier. Age doesn’t make it easier. Being on the inside doesn’t make it easier. Because even standing warmly by the keg of locally brewed beer there is always a better story than yours to hear, there is always a more cosmic and comical peer to make the things you say your biggest fear.

We are young, we are obsessed with ourselves, we are creative, in our destruction, we are caught, a cycle of social seduction.

In big houses with unkempt backyards and mossy exteriors there lies the roots of the problem.

The Sun, The Dreams, The Coffee: A Friendly Taster Of Thoughts

I woke up this morning and felt a little shocked peering at the slivers of light cutting through the blinds.

Not shocked because it was early, or because my eyes were getting used to things, but rather because I expected rain.

And isn’t it funny how things turn out some mornings.

I’ve noticed my days are becoming increasingly enticing. Noticed how I’ve stopped sleeping, noticed how I’ve started staring at things, like chairs, badly executed graffiti, people’s freckles, and other such effects in plain sight. Everything becomes beautiful after a couple hours of looking. How can I dream of dreaming below something so captivating as my ceiling?

When I do sleep I dream of you and me doing everyday things like buying groceries or comparing fabric swatches. When I do sleep I dream of waking up, but most of the time I forget to go through with it.

I spend a lot of time lost in thought, so much so that when walking I often slam right into telephone poles and parking meters. Peppering my limbs with bruises they don’t necessarily deserve. My thoughts lose me to fantastical pictures of cabins, cold, and in solitude, inhabited by me. Here in my cabin in my mind I sit beside a fire, wearing something very gaudy and made of silk, listening to sad music, and smiling quite a bit.

I know full well if I went to a cabin in the woods, dressed myself in silken robes, and drank up morose melodies all I would really do is daydream about bumping into city signage.

And isn’t it funny how my thoughts become infinities.

More and more often I’m forgetting what I’m trying to say mid sentence. I think this is best for everyone.

I’ve been trying to listen more, not to songs or cityscapes, but humans. The most difficult sound. All I’ve heard so far is even the most quiet mind’s greatest desire is to be heard.

Once upon a time I found out not everyone will love everything I do, and that was my happy ending. It was a little uncomfortable, but like vitamin C or getting scammed on craigslist it made me stronger, understand how things work a little more.

To conclude, the thing I think about most, is how little I know about life. The conventional version that is. I could not point Poland out to you on a map, I don’t know when to stop talking, when I floss my gums bleed, I still cry when I fall, I cannot conceptually grasp tax forms, and I don’t have the upper arm strength to hold my body weight.

Tomorrow I will wake up and be surprised by the sun, having predicted rain. I am still learning clouds don’t always indicate a storm. Tomorrow I will wake up having had 6 hours of sleep, approximately. I don’t think that’s very good for me, but I’ll drink some coffee, and pretend, like everyone else, that it keeps me awake. It’s funny how we all need an excuse to be exuberant.

When I raise my voice about a sensitive subject and forget people can hear me, when I question the meaning of life, when I smile with something in my teeth, or fart in a quiet moment, or cry because a car on the street has a nostalgic quality that’s so overwhelmingly delightful I just can’t keep it in, I will blame it on the caffeine.

And isn’t it funny how that will make it all ok.

Do you have a boyfriend?


Cut it out Mom!!!!! YOU’RE SO EMBARRASSING!!!! :-(

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