The Dazzling Oppression of the Real #2

Jude Dillon Presents: Kyle Stuckert 

Photo Credit: Jude Dillon

*Photo Credit: Jude Dillon

Economy Class

It is the height of the fidelity to such economy
that seems to drive them up the wall.
Or, perhaps they lay, bug-eyed on the floor,
while subtle steams from their lusting folds
peel the wallpaper down upon them.
Either way it is they who initiate such wildernesses
when certain sadness betrays the waste behind their feverish opulence.
Semantics wait for truths to become tired and,
when forces and frictions start to melt, new lies are born.
This is where you might see them making conservative definitions.
The level to which they are loyal to such preservation
would naturally drive them up the wall.
Though the economy they speak of is grosser and
has nothing to do with conservative anythings.
Why would it when there’s fucking to do and wallpaper to be thrown away?


Proprioception

How can I say for sure where I was in that dream?

I think it was a row of pay phones in a very old high school.
Each booth was made out of the kind of heavy, stained wood
that can never move, and smells like it’s made of some futuristic laminate
of compressed yearbooks and
shiny basketball shorts that won championships in the 90s.

It was also ever-so-slightly in the basement of that weird house I lived in for a semester in college.

Anyway, the operative theme was that I couldn’t get out.

I wanted to and that made me crazy like when we snuck above the stage in Grade 9 and made out
among the ropes, rafters and sandbags. Like I could feel you falling then,
but you were sane enough to climb down to earth and find someone to kiss you
with less abandon. You were afraid of heights and I don’t blame you for
thinking that felt much safer.

I’m afraid of heights too (deathly), it’s just that I could never come down safely.

It’s only now, after all the reunions and reminiscings.
After all the disbelieved tears have fallen and opened all our eyes to real pain.
After all the attempted descents and years of sustained fears and madnesses.

It’s only now, after all the escapes and escapades.
After all the real tears have fallen and opened your eyes to your disbelieved pain.
After all the ignored ascents and years of repressed fears and madnesses.

It’s only now you realize that, awake or asleep, the crazy ones are the safest.

Fill Me On Up, Sam

I’m not quite here, but I’m really all there,
with a pint in my belly and one on the square.
The waitress won’t love me, but I don’t really mind,
‘been a clean day in this place since the last time I pined.

So fill me on up, Sam, my cup runneth under,
My shirt is still tucked in, my eyes are still clear.
Fill’er up, damn Sam! I’ve yet made a blunder,
It’s 7 PM and I’m still on this same beer.

I’m not really there, but I’m quite all here,
with a pen in my fingers and one on my ear.
The waitress won’t serve me, ‘cause I called her a bitch,
It’s 1 in the morning and I still haven’t switched.

So fill me on up, Sam, my cup runneth wrong,
My tie is still done up, my face is still long.
Fill’er up, shit Sam! I’m still seeing this straight,
‘been a slow day in this place since the last time I ate.

I’m not all here, but I’m really quite there,
with a time in my memory and one in the mirror.
The waitress won’t stop me, but she’s just about off,
‘been a sweet day in this place since last she was soft.

So fill me on up, Sam, my cup runneth empty,
My hat is still on tight, my blues are still plenty.
Fill’er up, fuck Sam! I still feel the same way,
It’s 3 hours ‘til confession and I still haven’t prayed.

Rue St. Dennis

I want to go out tonight.
I want to drink reason from
my mind and smell the room
like a German Sheppard.
The beer’s so crisp after chilling
with anticipation, expectation
at work all week.
The rye’ll put that smirk on
my face. It’ll make me giggle
at the names stamped on top
of the urinals, that sound
like mythic train lines of some
lost America – American Standard
and Pennton Briggs.

I want to go out tonight.
I want to crash pathos into
my mind and see the room
like a forgotten god.
The beer’s so stale after swamping
with exploitation, relegation
all night at play.
The rye’ll put that tear in
my eye. It’ll make me struggle
with the names stamped on
my aching brain that sound
like exotic perfumes of some
perfect France – Emily, Brigitte
and Maria.

I want to go out tonight.
I want to live salvation into
my mind and see the room
like an angelic child.
The beer’s so bland after diluting
with extravagance, impracticality
all night at attention.
The rye’ll put that need in
my heart. It’ll make huddle
with the names stamped on
my waiting life that sound
like the gentle ideas of some
beauty itself – Faith,
Hope and Grace.

Because of Your Eyes

And now I see
the world that you saw I was making,
ever so scared of the faking,
not finding the truth in the real.

And now I see
the years that I wasted just hiding,
just sanding and painting the siding,
not trying to change how it feels.

But because of the rain
I can’t ever cry,
because of intentions
I can’t say goodbye.
I can now see behind things,
but when push comes to shove
it’s because of your eyes
that I won’t fall in love.

And now I see
how good girls and bad boys will trade places,
once he’s done with the bats and the bases,
and she starts with the dresses and heels.

And so I see
the rules of the games that I hated,
remain upon breaths that are bated,
of the souls in the back cuttin’ deals.

Now because of the rain
I can’t ever cry,
because of intentions
I can’t say goodbye.
I can now see behind things,
but when push comes to shove
it’s because of your eyes
that I can’t fall in love.

Home Improvement

Odious,                      unsanitary.

Waiting for the
cooooma-rack of the
hot water pipes, between
the ssssss eelp saaatc
(all night).

Close the bathroom
door to shut up the
ever-filling toilet, before the
thweeeeeee, cuusssrrrrrrl
(every night).

Too tired when it matters.

Too yella-bellied
to touch the gas valve.

Too red-necked
to fiddle with the ball cock.

Bio: Kyle Stuckert lives in Calgary, Canada where his many notebooks occasionally become prized prescription pads on which tries to scribble the remedies for whatever might be ailing him. He studied English and Communications at Mount Royal College and is a freelance writer and technical writing and editing consultant. When he is not working, Kyle enjoys getting lost on warm islands or in crowded cities and generally looking around for his future wife.

3 thoughts on “The Dazzling Oppression of the Real #2

  1. Thanks for the comments you guys. As for the website inquiry, Lucy, no I don't at this time. This is pretty much the first time I've published anything anywhere.

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