MY PHONE’S DARK RED PLACE IS ALSO A FORM OF BETRAYAL POEM


art is knowledge getting drunk with intuition

and texting is closer to thinking

and thinking is closer to being

nothing at all, which never disappoints.

tonight the phone 

is behaving like a high-maintenance 

electronic pet. feeding it texts, like tossing 

lemons to a raging hound, I feel disinterested.

the keyboard is hostile to my fingers and I can’t

come up with a good sentence that combines 

clarity with craziness. I think I forgot

how to talk on the phone, 

which taught me that nothing is lost nothing is gained,

everything is compensation, and also that art is tiring,

and never disappoints. I went mad maybe,

not from one thing but from multiple things,

the phone’s memory unit being ninety-four percent full

and then the pressure of having to delete

either evidence of my jurisdiction as a lover

or peaks in my social relationships.

the phone should maybe fuck off

or go up to a hundred-and-ten percent memory full,

accept the pain, then go mad, 

which never disappoints. 






WRITING POETRY I AM PICTURING IN MY HEAD

A TELEVISION COMMERCIAL ON PAIN-RELIEF.


womanless on women’s day.

kissing my friends

for anguish shame delight,

their faces a hidden compartment

to stash tapes of home-recorded flute songs

whose lyrics articulate

disjointed,  taboo life outlooks.


my ass is expanding to devour me,

will grow to the size of a mediocre sunset

whose picture will be used as someone's wallpaper.

the warm, subtle light rays of my ass

obscured by a forest of desktop icons,

shortcut links to secret folders

a place to hide

amongst unset emails

and reflect on why things do not matter,

only their contribution to survival matters.


praying by a small statue of myself

for my friends to write not poems

but essays on self-annihilation

which is the same thing just more frantic,

and then the unprovoked epiphany

that my facebook account is a third-person write-up of myself.


my ass is an irresistible force.

the faces of friends are irresistible forces also.

friends don't kiss, continually resist kissing

by having study dates on large tables

to write papers

on the relation between self-awareness and social value

while knowing

the size of the table prevents kissing.


my job as a poet

is to bore myself

though no one ever helps the writer

which is okay

since the writer’s primary motivation

is to have better conversations with himself.



fascination with themes and characters

and never the abstract as attractive,

the effect of googling obscure poets on the mind

and bundle their work together

to discover the lone unexpressed sentence in poetry

which reads,

‘I can never write a poem in french.’

 



(Guillaume Morissette writes poetry and fiction and emails. He is a creative writing major at 

concordia, which is probably the closest you can get to majoring in sadness. He lives in montreal.)