Hi there
I’m inertia
And I’m your best friend
Even after you walked away from me
And you said the story would end
In those drafty P.E halls
Actually why are they always so drafty
And you said words in your circle of chairs
Words that have me laughing
“I’ve been fighting addiction for so long now
And I’m finally starting to feel free”
You have no concept of prison
Because freedom is me
Call yourself well
I call you unhinged
Call me a prick
But I’m a syringe
I’m every slurp sniff and slit
That gives reality a twinge
Because I am Inertia
I’m your best friend
I’m the choice between the quality and the quantity of life
Before life’s end
I was there when nothing was by your side
So I have to voice my concerns
Because reality is so dull
And nothing is being popped injected or burned
There’s a word for that and it’s masochism
Because life is just designed to be crappy
So I’m going to ask you what any best friend would
Don’t you want to be happy
Do you remember the feeling
The first time you did just a little too much
And do you remember that feeling
That sensation that goes beyond touch
And you can hate me for everything that I’ve given you
You can hate me for all this flirting
But being clean is so neat
Wouldn’t you rather be dirty
And I get what you’re trying to do
I understand what you’re seeking
But your plan has a fatal flaw you’re not acknowledging
You don’t have it in you to beat me
You say you’re going to win
But I always do
Because you forget you’re me
You forget that I’m you
So those sobriety chips
I’m going to eat them and shit them out my fucking end
Because you’re nothing without me
You are nothing but my best friend
Swiping left
Interview with Kindred
I was asked to come in by the wonderful people of Kindred to talk about the future ahead, the writing behind and my ability to fake cry.
Mask
There’s a secret I’m too scared to tell
Maybe my heart beats for boys as well
Maybe I hate how the mirror fails to show a female
Maybe I’m autistic and you missed it
But that’s my fault
There’s a mask tasked to halt questions of any class
This mask helps me breeze past any mass
And never be asked who is the real person here
A mask crafted with gold and fear because the news has made it clear
The threats I’d get if I loved a Ruth and a Roy
If I didn’t feel like I was a boy
If flapping my hands gave me joy
The different eyes I’d earn when you saw the lie burn
To the tune of Jim Carey saying “Smokin”
And even without violence I’m a freak or a token
So instead of being laid to waste I took my face and I lost it
Now I lie with the other monsters in the closet
But there’s no fear factor when you’re faced with an actor
There’s less pity and rage when the world is stage
With a script perfectly lipped without a word tripped or a line clipped
And you connected with the mask met at the door
Without it will you want to be my friend anymore
Maybe I’m weird or wrong or a bore
Those who’ve seen beneath adore but there are people who think I need to be cured
Because these are just silly teenage dreams
Or it’s a phase going on longer than it seems
Or it’s the vaccines
Why can’t it just be me
What you don’t see is my mask of gold has me blue
Because it’s exhausting pretending to be you
I collapse in bed because I’m through
Scared to start this all anew
And I want to show you who I am
Really I do
So I’m waiting for the day my nature isn’t chit-chatter
The day I’m not at risk of being battered
Or your image of me doesn’t shatter
I’ll tell you this secret
On the day it doesn’t matter
What Invoked his Wrath
Like Newton’s situation
The apple longed for a human hand
That first bite can never be described
Its juices ran down the throat
Like a perfect stream
A crawling vein of delicious lifeblood
It crunched perfectly
With taste of sweetness
No fruit of this garden could mimic
No knowledge came with this
No rush of the serpent’s motives and means
It was just an apple
A forbidden apple
Another bite
Absent of magic and Lucifer’s influence
But even the word of our Lord shriveled in comparison
To the sweetness owned by us
I guess
Stolen food tastes better
Just a quick redirect
So I was sought out by this Canadian painter named Jessica Stepushyn to do a collaboration between her paintings and my writings. The link below is to some of the work we produced either in tandem or on our own during my Canadian adventure. As well, you can navigate around her website and see what art she has for sale. Maybe one will catch your eye. Maybe there might be a poem about it. Who knows?
Love in Little Tokyo
You are like a suicide in Little Tokyo
Horror in a neon culture that makes us hold each other
You ask would the rain brutally murder water-walking Jesus
You are the appeal unknown to the stable
You are a shine far beneath moonlight
To love you
Is to love surrounded by smogged purples and blues
You call like the first cigarette
And speak like the last
We were always wrong for each other
I live a life of midnights peeling wax
Using a candle to see what I’m doing
So I kiss you like we are not built to last
Just to be the last
The lonely ones
The only ones
To hold each other
Like there’s a suicide in Little Tokyo
Two Sentence Short stories
“You can’t make a story with just two sentences”!
“Watch me”.
After the wing healed, I let her go.
I believed in angels after that.
“You’re going to die alone”.
“That may be, but I’ll live with her”.
“You deserve someone who knows you better.
And here, I saved you the blue M&Ms”.
A tree landed on my car before it spun out of control.
I got out of my car and said “Thanks Dad, and rest in peace”.
“I like things a gentleman should not enjoy” he said.
“I’ve got handcuffs in my bag” she replied with a smile.
“That’s ok sweetie, we all have demons”.
“Are yours in your basement too”?
It was a boy meets girl story until the dick pic was sent.
He was surprised to say the least.
Weighting
She is happy
Boppy
Talkative over an empty cup of coffee
She descended downstairs to the bathroom and us as a crowd
Were not as loud
At the foot of the stairs she returned
And every preconception burned
I could tell she was paper thin
But no one heard her call food a sin
She wrapped up her smile
In her pocket was where it was kept
Saving it for the triumph
Called the top step
There are no words to iterate
No diction to explain
The lack of energy she had moving
How each step was tackled with such strain
How skin and bone clutched onto the hand rail
But she was on her feet and refused to be beat
She promised herself she would witness defeat
As often as she would eat
And she ascended
Sitting comfortably in her seat
Asking about the crowd absent of her
And how it did fare
I was not looking forward to my trip home
Buses trams and walking to get there
But her tired tired wings had so much more
They had a flight of stairs
Exist on our tongues
So I want to talk about talking. I’ve been told that what I talk about is surprising sometimes. Either because of my age, gender or something else. And half of me hates this. I love the looks I get when I bring these topics up, but I don’t like how rare these subjects are spoken of. I want a place where these actions are as regular as showering (not everyone does it, but you get weird looks if you don’t. And you probably smell funny). For instance, I’ve been told guys like myself will not utter a word about one topic, period.
I was with a group of friends who were talking about their periods. And seeing an opportunity, I said “Hey, can I ask a few questions, because I have no idea how to help when a girl is on her period”? There was shock and awe on the table. I felt like I was about to be anointed into a cult. I’d nearly say the lights dimmed, and everyone on the table leaned in close.
One my friends said “Do you really want to know about this”? Of course I did. Most of my guy friends only say one thing when it comes to periods; I should take a tactical leave of the country when it happens. But I needed to know this because I am related to women, I make friends with women, and get girlfriends on (rare) occasions.
The only reason you shouldn’t ask about Auntie Floe’s visits is if you are a guy surrounded by only guys until the day you die. (If this is your situation, I have a few questions, like: How does that differ from modern day society/ Can I crack open a few cold ones with you guys this weekend/ How does it feel knowing your tribe of testosterone will die out in a generation’s time?) And this knowledge puts you in great books with women, because it’s a rarity (when it shouldn’t be). So while this is a barely tapped market, you may as well avail of it. I’ll share three tips I was told, but you’ll have to learn the rest yourself as every period is different for everyone.
Hot water bottles are mandatory. Especially ones with the fur coating, like a tea-cosy. And if she can’t go out herself, someone needs to buy the supplies. (And before I get guys who’d rather leave a woman to buy that kind of stuff, think on this: If you’re chemistry was being dicked around like it was a pharmacy being run by a blind intern, would you be able to go outside so easily?) Another tip I was given was chocolate. Enough said.
But while I was taking notes with these girls, I said none of this should be that rare. And it won’t be if we talk about it. If there are topics that are issues, then it stands to reason that these should be the issues of friends/family. Burdens shared and all that jazz. And since we’re talking about issues, let’s talk about mental health issues. (It took me three months to think of that segway. It’s not going to get much better than that.)
I keep colourful company. Red yellow and green characters too grand for any story written. Problem is, they aren’t always bright colours. And in my time befriending people who were blue, I became very good as an open ear. Break-ups, Trump, a death in the family, they call me. Give me a bottle of coke and a packet of cigarettes, and there isn’t a dark night in creation that can stand against us.
But sometimes I’m the only contact in someone’s phone who they can call. That is just heart-breaking. This should be talk in a café. If I came to you, said “I miss my brothers/ I dropped my ice cream/ Life is treating me like I forgot the safe word” would that be so unknown that we wouldn’t talk about it? I don’t think so, but we act like it shouldn’t be spoken of. And that is mind blowing.
If it exists in our lives, it should exist on our tongues. We need to start somewhere so why not here and now? When I’m offering an open ear in a deaf world, I’m trying to set a trend. We’ll all be healthier with more of those stories told. I want talking about our problems to be as regular as ordering a coffee. Either that, or we should flip it on its head, and make ordering a coffee as taboo as talking about dark days.
“Can I get a coffee”?
“What!? Here? Now? Are you serious”?
“Dude, it’s just a coffee”.
“Ok ok. Here. Just keep it out of sight, ok? Next you’ll want sugar as well”.
“Three please”.
“Are you fucking kidding me”!?
I’ll tell you a little secret: sometimes, hundreds spent on therapy doesn’t match to a friend seeing you have a world and a half of storms between your ears. And that friend saying “Coffee”?
Society determines what is taboo and what isn’t. Aren’t we society? We should be talking about everything, everywhere, except the cinema. Everyone who talks in the cinema should be flown into the sun. Anyways, I’ve been chatting for long enough. It’s your turn now.
Jacob Wordsmith 