Theme by Themes that you like


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


In the morning I take out the garbage

Three doors, one corridor, and a bin on my back spilling with rotten greenery.

To the ally where the dumpster lies, myself the subject of blood shot eyes.

Some shout my name behind bright “hellos!”

Morning after morning I wave and wish well

When the load I bear looks particularly cumbersome, a stranger sitting next to the dumpster may lay down his pipe and lend a hand.

On some mornings others will mistake me for one of them “are you working?” they will croon.

Other days are darker still,
When no one even bats an eye,
My garbage cannot disturb the high.

On these Wednesdays at the end of every month I can see life in profound simplicity

Existence can be summed up in two parts

Having and not having

Back in the primal state of hunger and the hunt.

My pock marked ally companions subscribe to something more, addiction beyond reality.

When they call my name we feel the same, strange little humans on a path for connection

But this morning as I stand next to this group of lovely people now wailing and with blood pouring from their veins yelling despair in free refrain

I am guilty to find I feel we are something different.

Possessed by a poppy, some draino, a rock

These beautiful creatures roulette with the clock.




She writhes on the cement.

In the morning, with my garbage, for my friends I lament.

Ulysses Coppard: The New John Mayer 

Ulysses Coppard: The New John Mayer 

Interior Design

Sexy Christ & other garage sale treasures.

Rock God

Sweet Zane

Cowboy spotting on Hastings and Columbia!

Out in the neighbourhood, feelin’ blue. 


You’ve got a good heart. Why can’t
You love the right things?


Old rockstar in the front row dancing with his baby girl


Me in my bed alone listening to pop music


Making money in the mornings and memories in the evenings


My heart skips beats that seem vital to the soundtrack


But I keep singing loudly like the melody is etched to the palm of my hand.


You don’t drink, you don’t write poems


I don’t fold my clothes and see things clearly.


You all see yourselfs as champions


But you haven’t even run the race


You fail to realize that all the good sounds are made amidst the chace.


We all keep secrets and we all stop ourselves from reaching


For dangerous things like beautiful glass and seductive bombs


For fear the things will slice us wrong.


You tell me that I’m brilliant,


But never show my work.


Daylight don’t excite me


I long to see you all lurking in the shadows


my favourite bodies behind the strobing lights and smoke machines.


Last night I dreamt of you in the crowd


Walking in a zigzag line with my name on your lips.


Instead I found a couple bland faces wearing expensive t shirts


With nothing important to say.


Everybody is getting married


To their values at a young age


And in my infancy my nuptials mean nothing.


I think about how you would look dancing with me


I doubt it’s any better than you would look parked on the sofa


Even although you tell me everything is more romantic in my head.


The beat is infectious


But I can’t pinpoint the instrument which makes the sound


You tell me I’m deaf


I tell you my hearing is selective.


I feel famous


When the whole room is smiling in my direction


But I’m realizing more and more


That they aren’t understanding my stupid jokes.


Please come home and sit with me


In the grass near your house


Before I make the wrong phone calls

And book up all my Sundays.