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Tag Archives: poetry

My pain
is like those white spots
you see in the sky at night…

It’s where the light shines thru.

And my love
for all of my past loves
is like the moon
Overtime
you might see less of me
but I’ll always be there
for you.

B.

Can’t swim
but love to study the waves

My favourite part of the day
is when it’s raining
Ah, blue o’clock
I take my time coming home

Trouble
you’re in trouble…

I sing to myself when I catch him
in my breath

His eyes:
two liquid capsules full of transparent blur
red-rimmed and open ocean blue
He
was barely there

When asked what’s up
his head hangs like a crooked frame on a wall
and the little yellow and red Lego pieces of me
instantly connect
to the ton of bricks on his shoulders
I know, I know
You shouldn’t play with road kill.
But it’s like holding a camera in your hands with no flash
and you must make light of the situation
I guess the best way to explain it
is that
wherever he is, I’ve been there

I get it

Despite surviving a semi-detached house full of split personality
part of me believes
I deserve to be forgotten, left alone unwanted
Sometimes I feel like a rescue dog, you know?
Scared
and hungry
for something other than what could be held in my mouth
or sometimes I feel like an ex-jock
who can’t help but be loud and drag around a stupid Letterman jacket
I might run ahead a few blocks
but I always look back
and it’s complicated to fall
for someone who doesn’t want to be who they are
It’s counterproductive to react (it doesn’t do any good to feel bad)
The hardest part of being there is knowing when to step back

I step back, out of the way

His eyes, two tidal waves
of Come At Me
or Get Out of My Face

I can tell he’s been chasing shadows and leaving dead people
all over town
Not that he’s in any danger per se
but he’s desperate to escape from living out the corner of his eye
so I make him a bed he can’t refuse
circle around it a few times
before laying down
and joining in

We reach for our slingshots and fold into each other’s laughter
pointing at those who scurry by with their newspapers and umbrellas
because we love the rain
we love the water and
would kill to have something we’re made of
destroy us
Using my arms for scaffolding, I build myself up into a seated position and…
He’s a copycat!
Mocks the way I study the waves
and I’m… flattered

Because it doesn’t matter
if you’re looking through trash or looking through
glass,
you always find what you’re looking for

Britta B.

Here’s a short documentary put together by some Humber College students (2013) Special Thanks to Julia Rogers.

Check out this interview with Britta B. and Ryan B. Patrick from Canada Arts Connect Magazine:
URBAN/Intersection: Spoken Word Poet Britta B.

With my impatience
I can build a Ruin in a day
and let it ruin my whole week

Britta B.

It’s not true, you’re just crazy
’bout

lips and tips,
                      garment rips
hot tea sips and flips a table
turn tables; Gladys Knight and the Pips
under a lunar eclipse
saw a rock climber with identity grips
paper clips
you, me and all these ex relationships
first class trips into
                         vanilla
                                 dips
Bloods & Crypts
Goons, tunes and hips
swinging half moons and heavenly
hash chocolate chips
rocky
mountains
and smooth sailing ships
you, me and all these Jump Rope for Heart beat skips…

You wanted a little more, didn’t you?

Britta B.

The sound of crooked kitchen chairs, hands
squeezed shut around necks, and words built on boomerangs
bellowing out from ’bout-to-be-broken jaws
drag themselves up the wall and into my room…
I’ve got a project I’m working on

Fire vs Burning
I’m on fire and burning
on fire
and burning
on fire
and burning
on fire
and burning
on fire and
burning

Britta B.

I hate the word “speechless”
but the English language is what I speak most
yet, amongst all of the letters and the sounds and the meanings it consists of
I have nothing to say
nothing true enough in its form to describe the immense amount of
appreciation I have for you

Lil’ buddy, you make me embarrassingly proud

I can react to disappointment like an animal
use my outdoor voice to spill my best kept secrets
slam a door in your face
act a fool
cry, pig out, cry, leave the country, cry,
not talk to you for days (because that’s all we can ever really last)
go out and make friends with strange and unusual people
use words I don’t know the meanings of and cry
let myself think for a moment that it’s possible to lose you then cry some more
and there you’ll be – right beside me on a stoop
somewhere, anywhere because this city is ours
no matter how many names deface it with graffiti we can’t read

The other day, you tried reading my palm with a stack of cards you found in a house
you keep coming back to despite your plans and executions  
and I wondered –
what are you really trying to tell me that
I don’t already know?

And now I remember
how you’ve always been a reminder
a red tie around my finger
a badge of honour, a souvenir
you are the acceptance speech I wrote when I was 6 years old
after throwing crying fit in my closet
because you get me when words fail me

There is no sound for this

It’s not like me to be the unlikely me so upfront, so close and personal
but you welcome me
and there is no sound for this
there is no sound in welcoming the unsound
it is merely a silent
ovation
  

Britta B.

*LOVE YOU, LIL BUDDY!! HAPPY 25th BIRTHDAY
MAY ALL YOUR HAKIM “THE DREAM”‘s COME TRUE!!!* 

Somewhere ‘tween the blowing curtains and his kiss
I started to feel like
I didn’t belong
like I should have
been down the street
talking to Average Joe
about LSD, vinyl records, and the best techniques for keeping the
government out of your business
but no
I was caught, uncool
crumbling, uncool
lackadaisically keeping up
with the shifts and the twists of a tongue I could have sworn belonged to a whale
as it slid down my throat and into my pocket for later
for when I finally go home to my roommate, squatting on top of a milk crate
stroking the final touches of her latest attempt to paint her take on the
skin-close encounters of the wild things we tend to bump into
when we’re just looking for something good to listen to
a groove that jingles especial for our jungle
ah yes, that’s when I’ll pluck the rubbery velvet from the corners of my mouth
and question, “If boys are my weakness, Maj, what will a man do to me?”

 Britta B.

What would you risk your life
to write?

would it be a name
a birthday, date, place
or time?

what about directions;
could you write a legend?

could you tell the truth?

what would you write?

who would you want to read it?
who would be in mind?

We artists
are closest
to the Gods

for we create
recreate
recreationally
and as a job

If I had to risk my life, I’d write:
I con art into love
I con art into love
I con art into love
I con art into love

ICONARTINTOLOVE

Britta B.