DEPRESSION IS DEPRESSING

Tuesday, August 18/Wednesday, August 19, 2009

DEPRESSION IS DEPRESSING

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Writing about depression is just too damned depressing.
I’d rather be painting on the beach, with my feet in the sand, at Big Sur,
Just like Elizabeth Taylor in “The Sandpiper”.
Or having sex with some gorgeous, well hung stud muffin twink.
Whip out your throbbing dick and let me go to town, baby.

It’s like being dragged, against your will, into Alice’s stinking rabbit hole
Only there’s no fun when you reach the bottom.
Blackness, bleakness, a sense of screeching red hopelessness.

In my dreams, I can fly around the room,
Feeling so alive and free.
Then I wake up thinking it’s for real
Before I come crashing down to hideous reality.

Take me to the French Riviera
To Nice and Cannes or Cap Ferrat.
Driving the winding roads up into the shimmering pink hills,
Oozing soothing sweat with the hot sun in my face.

Depression is like drowning in burning sewage.
I long to see Jackie Burroughs on the silver screen or live upon the stage.
No booze induced puking on the floor in my seedy room at the baths.
Weeping on a park bench when a love affair comes to an end.
Something sets you off and the charcoal-coloured curtains envelope you in disgust.
The demon sits on your chest and tries to crush you.

Better the opening night jitters and after-party elation.
Standing on the stage, full house, not knowing what play you are even in,
Let alone the lines that must spew out of your mouth.
Tears soak your clean T-shirt and empty the Kleenex box.
Once, when a play I wrote was a flop,
I stayed in bed for a week with the Black Dog shitting in my face.

Please let me watch a favourite flick, like “Vertigo” or “The Misfits”.
A good cry watching “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” can purge the soul
And make you feel so much better.
I want to grasp the wings of a giant eagle and soar through the heavens.
Have lengthy conversations with intelligent angels.
Ask important questions of the Goddess.
All about the meaning of life and why we are here.

Send space aliens to educate me about the Universe.
There is even a time, after death, when you can have anything and everything your little heart desires.
It puts things in perspective.
After all, what good is an Oscar if you have a house full of them?
Would money be meaningless if you had $80 billion dollars?
How many lovers can one contend with?

Help me to escape from the rabbit hole of hell.
Anti-depressants make you fat and lazy which depresses the shit out of me.
“Hello. How are you?”
“I’m depressed.”
“That’s nice. I have to go. I just remembered something.”
Click.
Yeah, I’ll deal with this on my own.

I had this psychiatrist in the Eighties.
I’d be telling him some trauma from the past.
I’d glance over at him and he’d be yawning.
My pain was his boredom.
At least his paycheque was good.

Dropping, falling, tumbling backwards into oblivion.
Down the foxhole into nothingness.
Being unable to swim to shore in the middle of the pitching sea.
Your arms and legs tied with invisible rope.
Seaweed choking your parched throat.
Unable to evacuate anything.

Even if I had a sex change, I’ll never look like Julianne Moore,
Or have the accolades of Meryl Streep.
Not in this reality, anyway.
It’s just me, alone.
Craving more sex.
Reaching out for a life-saving hand.
Trying to be happy with life the way it is.

Depression is just there, like the sun.
Like a dog turd on the sidewalk.
Like sniffing a wino’s bum hole in the dark.
Look up. Relax.
It’ll go away, eventually.
Rise up. Get some sun.
Take some St. John’s Wort.
Get up. Live. Smoke a joint.
Make some art.
Lift your head.
Fly away with me, my sweet imaginary lover,
Into the dawning of rapturous golden bliss.
I wish this depression were merely boring but it can crush you to death.

SPIDER ON THE CEILING

Sunday, August 23, 2009

SPIDER ON THE CEILING

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The spider is acting crazy.
He shoots down from the ceiling on his invisible thread,
Dangles for a minute,
His arms flailing like a daredevil,
Then scurries back up to the white ceiling.
He does this, repeatedly.

Maybe the heat of the light,
Sticking out from the wall,
Looking like a 19th Century streetlamp,
Frightens him away.
I wish I knew what this spider wanted to do.

Sometimes, the tiny brown thing hangs from the ceiling above my stove,
Curled up and snug,
Sleeping the night away.
Cooking brunch awakens him
And he zips away in terror to the safety of the grease-stained wall.

I try to reassure him.
My soothing tones seem to calm the little sweetie.
“Don’t worry. I won’t kill you.”

You see, I love spiders.
In fact, I adore them.
They bring me luck.
They’re glorious, beautiful creatures.

At my doctor’s office,
The receptionist started screaming.
“Ahh!!! A spider! A spider!”
I begged her not to kill the cute wee thing.
“They’re good luck,” I said.
This slightly strange looking woman didn’t believe me.
The terrified creepy-crawly soon disappeared.

Once, I had a pet spider.
It liked to hang around above my stove, as well.
Late one morning, I sat down to eat my fried eggs.
As I cut into the food, the poor, dead darling suddenly appeared on my plate,
Hiding underneath the eggs.
It made me sad.
What a waste of good food!

This one keeps acting wild,
Going up and down the thread, again and again,
With its thin arms waving and flapping about.

I can’t read its mind or suss out the vibes.
Maybe it’s pissed off about something.
I just hope it doesn’t die.

Perhaps Percy is old and has dementia
And doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Could it be having a nervous breakdown?

I hope it isn’t hungry.
A fruit fly buzzed around it but Mr. Spider totally ignored him.

This many-legged thing crawled across the corner of my large acrylic landscape painting.
I guess this creature has no taste for art.

Maybe it wants to mate.
My brother once watched a film in which a baboon in heat,
Running around in a frenzy,
Screwed everything in sight.
After each encounter, it would throw the male off its back
And run to the next partner.
Perhaps my cute pal is merely horny.

The up and down frenzy continues.
Yes, I truly believe this spider may be nuts.

Now, it’s morning.
My delightful little room-mate is all curled up in a ball,
Once again hugging the ceiling.
It hasn’t moved for hours.
Methinks it’s snoring away.
I didn’t know that spiders ever slept.

MIDNIGHT WANDERINGS

Thursday, August 20/Saturday, August 22, 2009


MIDNIGHT WANDERINGS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns


Standing ten feet away from the tides slapping against the sand.
I love the sound.
Warm, sticky summer night.
Remembering the hard rocks beside the sea at Nice.
The cool, strong winds.

Wish I were somewhere else.
A hot beach in Tahiti.
Venice or Paris.
Anywhere but here,
Where jealous, penny-pinching quasi-friends betray you.
Where former buddies tell salty lies stinking of revenge.

If I close my eyes, I can pretend I’m far away.
I’m Deborah Kerr in “From Here to Eternity”
Committing lovely adultery on the beach,
With Burt Lancaster in a tight black bathing suit
Showing the world what religion he is not.
The lapping of the waves stirs the mind and nourishes my soul.
I can try to forget my tiny troubles and ponder how life could be.

The lights shimmer on the lake, as if they were dancing.
The streetlight illuminates the white of the water.
The lapping sound of the waves repeats and repeats.
It’s comforting and healing,
Soothing the reoccurring melancholy.

The boats all look to be asleep.
No lights coming from any of them,
As they gently rock back and forth.
Sometimes the tides sound angry
And other times more calm and relaxed.
I’m carried away to other places
Where trouble no longer exists.

Maybe, in the morning, things will be better.
This lagoon is my own private hiding place
In a city full of terror and gloom.
I long for escape.

Further on, past the Palais Royale,
The Boardwalk has been torn up,
Replaced by wet sand.
There are no cars in the parking lot
Or people on the beach.
Only one man passes me as I stroll along in the dark.

A great glob of cement-like emotion is trapped in my chest.
The tides speak to me in inexplicable ways.
I turn around and head for home,
Walking quickly along the deserted bicycle path.
The empty feeling inside haunts me as I briskly make my way East.

BIRTHDAY POEM FOR NEIL

Monday, August 10, 2009

BIRTHDAY POEM FOR NEIL

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

It was a still summer night, not unlike tonight.
It could have been yesterday.
We were so very young and beautiful.
I’ve always loved the summer.
We sat on a bench, with the highway running underneath us.
Something frightening and electric was in the air.
You told me it was over and I burst into tears.

I remember your gobbling, wiry body.
The long, lithe legs.
That huge luscious cock
And the asshole with a tiny hint of hair around it.
I was crazy about you.
We had dreams in our eyes.
Heady times, they were.
Dancing together at a gay disco
With you in your silver jumpsuit.
Writhing sex at the baths for we had nowhere else to go.

We shot an avant-garde Underground movie together,
Something I’d been dreaming of since I was 5 years old.
We smoked dope and had incredible sex.
I was falling into a scary, fearful, wondrous pit.
Then I crashed down to Earth and was wounded.
It came to an end.

I remember getting drunk and going to your house and crashing in a strange bed.
I hoped you would be there so we could patch things up.
No one saw me or questioned the foolishness of the situation.

We wanted different things.
You desired security and riches.
Someone to take care of you.
That’s how it seemed to me.
I needed great passion and art,
Acting, success and fame.
It was brief but traumatic.
I moved on carrying scars.

In those days, I was always getting dumped.
I was hot and sexy and didn’t even know it.
A quivering mass of insecurities.
Falling for guys who were already taken.
No one wanted to get involved.
Gay relationships were so different, back then.

For years, I didn’t understand what happened,
But the pattern was often repeated.
Always blamed myself when things ended.
We both continued to perform and create art.
You seemed to find the love and material things you were looking for.

Love is a crazy thing,
Like reaching out to grab bubbles that disintegrate in your hands.
I never found the romance I was seeking though I’ve had some fabulous rides along the way.

Decades pass.
Things change.
Lives move apart and come together.
People transform into new beings.
We age and lose our youthful appeal.
Become happy or bitter.
Life is full of such joy and pain.
Sometimes it seems impossible to carry on.
Fits and starts.

Now, years later, it’s your birthday.
Happy birthday, darling Neil.
I’m so glad you were a brief part of my life.
I wish you all the joy and abundance in the world.
May you carry on with grace and ease.
I am no longer the boy you knew
As you are no longer the guy I lusted after.
Have a marvellous day.
Merry meet and merry part
And merry meet again.
Blessed be.

WALKING AFTER THE RAIN

Monday, August 10, 2009

WALKING AFTER THE RAIN

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I’m walking after the rain has stopped.

Air is fresh and clean.

Crisp, damp.

Thinking about Cultural Icons.

Society needs them.

People desire role models.

Someone to look up to and fantasize about.

Listen to teenagers talk.

They babble on about the latest pop star celebrity,

As if that person was truly important in their lives.

They say we chose the circumstances of our life before we come down to Earth,

As well as the way it will end.

Someone consented to be James Dean and die in a horrific car crash.

It’s as if we are actors choosing our roles before we descend onto this thrilling Paradise.

A soul even agreed to be Adolf Hitler, as that being was needed on the planet.

We decide beforehand what we need to work on in the upcoming lifetime.

A group of souls staying and playing together for eons.

One time, this particular one is your Mother.

In another life, they become your husband.

Someone is spreading vicious lies about me.

A channeller said that this man is getting his revenge

Because of a past life connection between us.

We seek peace, comfort and knowledge on this plane of existence.

It’s a learning experience for us.

Even before the printing press, there was the Town Crier

Announcing news and upcoming theatrical events.

Humans need to look outside themselves,

To empathize with other beings.

To see their own stories right in front of their eyes.

I’m walking after the rain.

Feeling good.

Wondering what’s coming next?

Trying to make sense of past traumas

In order to move on and thrive.

Remembering fun times when I had more stars in my eyes.

I had celebrity role models.

Jane Fonda, Judy Garland, Janis Joplin, James Dean, Montgomery Clift.

I liked the ones with drama surrounding them.

A whirlwind of sex and acclaim.

I never grew up to be an icon,

Though I was blessed with some gifts.

You be the judge of that.

We hide in our little cubby holes

Coming up for air when we need it.

Mingling with like-minded spirits.

Attempting to tell the truth, we hope.

Dolls morph into magazine photos

Which transform into thoughts and dreams.

Lusting after the unattainable.

Even Brando turned out old and fat and finally dead.

I think of some truly talented people and the misery of their lives.

Give me Van Gogh’s genius but not his torment.

Bless me with Judy’s glorious singing voice but not her crippling addictions.

Give me Liz Taylor’s youthful beauty but you can keep her illnesses for yourself .

Society reaches out to grasp these icon’s dazzling lives.

It takes us away from the dreariness of our own puss-filled boredom.

Even Jesus Christ had to relieve himself, just like you and me.

After death, we review the life we just lived, as if it were a novel we’d studied in school.

What did we learn?

What did we do right or wrong?

What challenges did we overcome and why?

In one life, you are a male peasant, starving to death in a barren wasteland.

In another, you’re a beautiful woman, with jewels on silver platters.

We have to experience everything.

You murder and are murdered.

Rich and poor.

Famous and infamous.

Easy lives and hard ones,

All flowing into the same swirling river.

A kaleidoscope of lives meshing into each other.

Will you be royalty, if requested?

General Patton?

Roosevelt or Woody Guthrie.

Jewish or Arab.

Intersexed.

Heterosexual or gay.

Asexual or trans.

Consider the possibilities.

We have all of Eternity to play these endless games.

May we all be blessed with our fair share of joy.

BREATHE IN SOME VIOLET

Friday, July 31, 2009/Saturday, August 1, 2009

BREATHE IN SOME VIOLET

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I used to play with dolls when I was a little boy.

They’re so sweet and colourful.

Lovely frilly clothes.

The kids laughed at me because of that.

“Philip should have been a girl,” they always said.

No thank you.

Who wants to worry about getting pregnant and having a period every month?

I’d rather just do occasional drag.

The best of both worlds.

Gulp down all the pills.

They’ll kill you and then no one will jeer, anymore.

I was only 13.

Thirteen and over-dosing!!

Can you believe it?!

My tummy full of aspirins,

Wondering what death would be like.

Scared.

Vomiting against my will.

Crying.

Carolyn coming down to see what was up.

Mom yelling because she’d been woken up.

That bitch always wanted to control everything.

He lived.

Another stomach full of pills when I was 21.

Plus LSD and a bottle of wine and a house plant.

Knocked it on the floor, you see.

Broke the deep green glass it was in,

Tumbling from the top of the toilet tank.

Mom mustn’t know.

So I ate the long, winding shoot with shiny emerald leaves

To get rid of the nasty evidence.

Blame it on the acid!

Oh, to grow up with confidence and acceptance.

Unconditional love and popularity.

Turning into a shamrock with anger and envy.

Ambulance meeting me around the corner

After calling a Suicide hotline.

To the hospital.

Puking in a bucket.

I’m alive.

Forget about these things.

“You’re not in high school, anymore,” a pretty strawberry blond guy once said to me,

Not so long ago.

The past colours the present.

Give me less blue and more yellow.

Give me same-sex parents and my own private island.

Purple morphs into mauve

Which becomes violet that turns into pale dusty pink.

The sunset is visible from my concrete balcony.

Every colour lilts into another.

The past imbues the present, as well.

Life goes on, no matter what happened before.

Breathe in every shade of experience.

Who wants to hear a sob story?

Yes, I’m still alive.

Dolls are so beautiful.

One stands regally gowned on a bookcase in my bachelor apartment.

Go ahead and laugh.

FOR JAMES AND MARILYN

Friday, July 31, 2009/Saturday, August 1, 2009

FOR JAMES AND MARILYN

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Don’t write about any Sixties movie stars.

People are complaining.

They’ve heard enough about that blonde who killed herself.

Don’t write about her, ever again.

Well, I couldn’t give a fuck about Madonna or Britney Spears.

Kim Novak, to me, is the epitome of feminine beauty.

The Sixties was a tumultuous decade.

No one over 35 needs to be told that.

The sex goddesses were the best, back then.

I don’t want to fuck them, mind you.

Lend me their gowns and jewels and furs.

I’ll put then on, plus a long blonde wig.

I’ll tromp on the red carpet.

Don’t want anyone to throw rotten tomatoes at me.

Wanna have some fun.

Make lots of money.

Be slim and gorgeous.

Have many sexy lovers.

I want what I want.

Just happy to have a roof over my head.

After all, so many of my people died in the Nineties.

I’m here, right now.

But I’m never, ever gonna write about that zoftig blonde, ever again.

The one who died at 36.

What was her name, again?

See, I’ve forgotten it, already.

Don’t remember any of her movies

Even though I’ve seen almost all of them.

He warned you.

You’re starting to write about her and you promised not to.

Try to pen a poem about flowers or something.

Petunias don’t grab me.

I want to write about sex.

Don’t you dare.

There are nice people in the audience.

Nice people don’t have sex except to make babies.

Good people never THINK about sex.

It’s only horny queer perverts, like me, who fantasize about copulation

And all those filthy things, like fellatio.

Stop that!

You’ll get a slap.

I’d rather you wrote about that movie star than rude, vile, filthy things.

Go out and look at the sunset.

It’s free and pretty.

Maybe you’ll get a Canada Council grant

If you write about the colours in a sunset.

No sex and no Marilyn.

Oh, no! You said it.

You wrote about her.

Shame on you.

Write about the sunset.

Do it right now.

Okay, shut up.

I promise I’ll never write about her, ever, ever, EVER, again.

And I mean it.

All right?

The colours in the sky at 9 pm are heavenly

On this glorious summer night.

And my heart went thump, thump, thump.

Are you happy, now?

CANNES DREAMS

Friday, July 24, 2009

CANNES DREAMS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The actor is dying a slow, sombre death.

Is it time to retire when joy is no longer there?

I still long to stroll along La Croisette at Cannes, again,

But, this time, to walk the red carpet in my finery.

Diamond studs in my ears.

A huge wad of money in my pocket.

The paparazzi foaming at the mouth.

Winning Best Actor at the awards ceremony on the closing night.

Smoking a joint with Jack Nicholson on his rented yacht in the harbour.

Drinking champagne with Meryl Streep in her suite at the Carlton Hotel.

Where is the kind, sexy lover I thought I would find?

The house by the sea with acres of rolling hills

And a swimming pool in the backyard?

I was really only looking for mass love

To make up for all the childhood jeers.

Life turned out so different than I planned.

Foolish, unrealistic dreams replaced by living nightmares

And boring jobs.

People can be so difficult to get along with

Or am I to blame?

No need for you to shed tears for me.

I’d hate to come back as a child soldier

Or a maimed, starving baby in Darfur.

In India, parents cut off their children’s fingers

And gouge out their eyes.

It brings in more money from begging.

Forever trolling for sex in strange places.

Unlit forests and bathhouse corridors.

My gut getting bigger as each year passes.

Sinking into a snake pit of shrieking cannibals and rude retorts.

Let the oxygenated blood flow.

This planet is full of beauty and horror,

In equal measure.

The Scales of Justice tip over and come crashing to the ground.

There are no survivors.

I want to climb into an alternate reality

Where everything is bright and perfect

And soiled events don’t crush my ugly enthusiasm.

I miss the fireworks at Cannes,

Our car parked so far away from the Palais.

Watching classic foreign films,

With no subtitles, on the beach,

Sitting jetlagged in a deck-chair in the sand,

With stars in my eyes and unbridled hope twisting around in my full belly.

The butterfly is emerging from the cocoon.

No one has shown him how to fly.

I wish I could relive the Buddhist doctrine.

These frustrated desires are killing me.

Steam rises from my body after every sexual encounter

But only in my dreams.

All I want is to live life to the fullest

With every moment wrapped in mauve velvet paper.

Imaginary rubies dripping from my delicate fingers.

Wagner to greet me, in person, at the gates of Heaven.

(Though, of course, they don’t really exist.)

Salvador Dali to paint a birthday card for me

With Liza Minnelli jumping out of the cake.

I bought all those silly lies in movie magazines

And on the boob tube.

The Mediterranean air made me feel invigorated and whole.

Who knows what the future holds?

Forget the blackness from the past.

There is so much to be thankful for.

Every breath can’t be orgasmic, unfortunately.

LOST AND FOUND

Thursday, July 16/Friday, July 24, 2009

LOST AND FOUND

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I found out the hard way

That endings can be amorphous,

Or sad or angry.

Sometimes confusing.

The phone just stops ringing

Though his scent lingers in the mind.

Marilyn’s demise still shines in the Collective Unconscious.

We are all doomed and lost,

Though we’re rarely aware of this fact.

Love puffs us up.

The trap door opens as we swing on the gallows.

Music eases the pain.

There is nothing we can do but live

Until Death comes to visit.

The house of cards collapses but no one seems to care.

Memories can change and taint the past,

Like fire burning a genius’s manuscript.

Sal Mineo died for your sins.

I never got a chance to kiss him

For we simply never met.

We all have bitter regrets.

Lost dreams.

Jewellery cases full of emeralds and silver.

Saved love notes wrapped in pink ribbon.

Gasping fantasies of wild, luscious sex.

A hazy sunrise through the kitchen window.

The night creeps up on you and steals your soul.

Aaron Copland’s “Quiet City” kisses my eardrums.

A shard of green glass penetrates my bowels.

Forget about sex and romance.

It’s too tragic to think about

But so much fun to do.

The aging transvestite fell down the filthy manhole

And broke both her legs.

She left her glasses at home.

No one spoke to her at the crowded club.

Her nylons were torn and her make-up was caked-on and smeared.

Myrtle thought she resembled Elizabeth Taylor

But she looked more like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Please surround me with love.

No criticisms or angry demands.

My hair is full of dust.

Lucky spiders crawl across my walls.

I greet them with kind words and a smile.

Faded celebrities are dying almost every day.

There’s a variety show happening in the sky.

I want to drown in talent.

Not boring TV and stale pre-packaged food.

The faint voices I hear in my head are soft and soothing,

Damning and delightful.

This path has called to me for countless years.

I wish I had more answers to get me through the days.

Life is a tall, thick, ageless Oak tree standing confidently on its own.

The hunger pangs never really go away.

I’m almost tired of it all.

DON'T DROP THE BOMB

Tuesday, July 21/Thursday, July 23, 2009

DON’T DROP THE BOMB

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Into this slate-coloured pit,

I dip my dry, cracked toes.

I am morphing into someone else.

The journey is painful but awe-inspiring.

I miss the stage and the camera.

Discovering a new character.

Making new friends.

Falling into that other fascinating dimension.

I’m fearful of the words that spurt out of my right hand.

Where will this pilgrimage end?

Out of the left hand flows the true picture.

I sit beside the lake, in the dark,

Drinking in the warm summer air.

Feeling so alive.

The Beast has left me,

At least for the time being.

I get up and stretch my long legs.

The boardwalk clunks under my feet.

Nothing is ever enough.

Always wanting more and more.

No longer moaning about being alone.

Just enjoying the small, golden moments.

Each second may be my last.

Try to live a Buddha-like existence.

Breath to breath,

Moment to moment.

Smell the sounds of the ecstatic.

Taste the colours of love,

In all its silver forms.

The stones speak to me.

Amethyst opens my soul.

Kiss the silence.

Suppress the constant aching desires,

Like a beast that can never be fed enough.

Let me climb to the top of the mountain

To drink the fresh, clean air.

Help me to discover truths.

Books, movies, friends,

Intellectual nourishment.

Wet sex and hot food.

Comfort me.

Look up at the full moon.

Think and wonder.

Hide from evil.

Just concentrate on the good, kind people on the planet,

Hiding under sharp rocks and in dark, makeshift caves.

Eradicate sadness and despair.

Heal all the broken limbs.

Life should be joyous and fresh.

A blazing ochre sunset.

The Goddess wants us to be happy.

Touch me in all the right places.

Send Reiki to swab my cuts and bruises.

Jump high into the quiet music of silence.

Exhale a perfect hue.

Poisons spew out of my pours and I feel cleansed.

Now, inhale everything.

As much as you can understand.

Will there ever be enough?

When will all the sorrow end?

BLACK RAPIDS

Monday July 20, 2009

BLACK RAPIDS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I’m being sucked deep into the desolate, black abyss.

There are no colours or music.

Crisp burnt grass, as far as the eye can see.

My emotions rage out of control, like a bright red forest fire.

This void can be comforting and compulsive.

Grey thieves have stolen something

But I don’t know what.

My heart ceases to pump yet I’m still alive.

Is everything else dead?

Something is missing.

I can’t put my finger on it.

Can’t think.

The Black Dog is chewing away at my vitals.

The CD player has been playing the same damned note for 8 hours.

Food tastes like fuchsia sawdust.

Friends have deserted me or disappeared.

Please, someone, sing that song I like.

Shake me to life like a newborn’s ass.

Push me out into the world through the loose folds of ashen skin.

Let me say outrageous things.

The purple sunset burnt my eyeballs.

The weight of the world sits on my crooked shoulders.

I just need to be touched.

To be heard.

To speak the truth as I see it.

To find my lost hope.

I kissed the hard, beautiful sea shell

And it crumbled into tiny grains of sand.

Sit beside me.

Worry a little about me.

I want to see violet one more time before I die.

Tell me profound, loving things.

Shock me into rapture.

Hit the tingshaw so I can enter the divine.

Blast the sounds of a heavenly choir.

Wipe away a tear.

I’m standing on the edge of something frightening and bitter.

I can taste the reality of it.

You let me see your dark corners.

All I feel is sad and empty.

Don’t punish me for that.

I need the feeling, again,

Of Anita Ekberg dancing in a luscious black gown in “La Dolce Vita”.

The blond actor with the goatee doing back-flips.

The plunk-plunk of the 60s Euro-pop guitar.

The soft strings on the soundtrack

As Anita wanders through the late night streets of Rome,

Her curly platinum blonde hair cascading into the crevices of her exposed back.

Forgive me.

This bleak pit singes my face and scars my soul.

I can’t get up.

The cold steel door has slammed shut.

These emotions are like the deadly rapids in “Deliverance”,

Gurgling and bubbling,

Gobbling up the innocent and naive.

A part of me is dying a slow, painful death.

The pointed phoenix will rise, again, I can only hope.

All those lost dreams fading away.

This shimmering mirage is a devastating, lonely place.

Life in the 21st Century

Friday, June 19, 2009

LIFE IN THE 21ST CENTURY

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

What part of “Fuck off” don’t you understand?
Your hemorrhoids are so huge,
Your asshole looks like the labia of an old whore.

I’m tired of poverty and struggle.
I’m sick of rejection and doors slammed in my face.
Let me taste a bit of success, again.

I want to look at the world from my seventh floor balcony,
Stretching my muscles on the cold concrete
In the darkness of the night.

I want sexual fulfillment
And a pink bow tied around my flaccid penis.
I want what I want and I want it now!!
Not tomorrow or next year
Or when I grow up or turn 65.

I want a life.
Not a broken puzzle,
A ringing phone that no one answers.
Fuck the half full jar of pennies on my wobbly wooden stand.
I want enough of everything.

Say “yes” when I whisper in your ear.
Call me up when I send you my resume.
You!!
Once I thought I loved you.
Maybe I really did.
Now it seems like blind, stupid lust.
Your once taut belly now turning to flab.

That’s not why I don’t want to see you.
It’s your superiority and contempt that stops me from picking up the icy phone.
Your jaw-dropping selfishness.
Now I see you for the tedious bore you really are.
Your phony two-faced smile.
Fans can’t see past those duck lips and the bulge in your pants.
I can!!

“Piss off.”
Is that clear enough?
I don’t want much.
Not a mansion or a pink Cadillac.
I can live without diamonds and all the things I’m supposed to want.

Just give me peace and quiet.
A good book.
Some hot flesh when I want it.
Conversations with decent friends.
Art to soothe my nerves.

Let me look at a book of Monet’s “Water Lilies” on my death bed.
That will ease the transition to the other side.
Ban the priest from my room
Then let me blow the male nurse before my last gasping breath.

Life is full of nasty surprises
Sneaking up and squeezing your balls when you least expect it.
Life is a Jayne Mansfield car wreck.
James Dean was nominated for two Oscars after he died.
A lot of good that did him.

Listen to the gorgeous sound of the ocean
Outside my imaginary home.
It’s the most beautiful music in the world.
I love to walk in the sun on a soothing summer day.
Smell the fresh smog as it burns the cancer in my lungs.
I’d like a Close Encounter of the Third Kind.

There is no unemployment on Pluto.
Purple is the sound of ecstasy and infinity.
The Afterlife is one big drunken coffee break,
So I am told.
I can’t wait to find out the real, honest to God truth.

Uncle Jim's Family

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Today, we had a graveside memorial service for my Uncle Jim, Aunty Helen and their daughter Virginia. I wrote this poem for them and read it out to the gathered friends and family. We were all invited to speak. It was a lovely service and the reception, afterwards, was very enjoyable. It was a great chance to see everyone. Jim and Helen's 2 week old great grandchildren (twins) were brought in towards the end of the reception.

UNCLE JIM’S FAMILY

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Helen was always so kind to me, as a child.

I forever enjoyed going over to Uncle Jim and Aunty Helen’s house.

Lots of activity and fun,

With good vibrations emanating from the walls.

Virginia said the funniest things.

I think of pink and dark yellow, when I think of that place.

I recall the antique front parlour furniture that no one ever sat in

And the rough and ready feeling in the basement.

Later in life, Ginny Ann was very generous and lovingly organized family get-togethers.

Now we all only see each other at birthdays or funerals.

May the Goddess bless you Uncle Jim, Aunty Helen and Virginia.

And I was blessed to have them in my life yet I didn’t even know it,

When I was young.

I think of Ginny’s straw-coloured hair.

The weight she put on, later in life.

Jim always seemed to be wheeling and dealing.

A born salesman.

Always the upbeat personality and almost swagger.

Aunty Helen and her nervous breakdown.

Her liberation through taking part time jobs

Just to get her out of the house.

She loved it.

I will miss them.

The quirky, gurgle of a laugh coming out of Virginia’s throat.

We all had big families and there was always someone to play with close to your own age.

Much laughter, tears, loving and drama at Uncle Jim’s house.

Sports on TV in the rec-room.

Secrets to tell the cousins.

A great place to visit.

Helen and Jim had a good marriage.

Virginia lived a fruitful life.

She always had the most beautiful homes.

A smiling face to greet the guests.

I wish all three of them great peace, joy and serenity in the Afterlife.

Thank you for gracing our lives.

Mine was certainly richer because I was your nephew and cousin.

Away to the light blue sky, far, far up out of sight.

Spread your wings and fly away to happiness.

Let the angels sing a soaring, rapturous song.

Goodbye.

I will never forget you three.

I think they would want us not to grieve too wisely.

We’ll see them, again, someday soon.

Potty Mouth

Saturday, May 2, 2009

POTTY MOUTH

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I rimmed a dwarf on Sunday,
Instead of going to Church.
Sparkling purple amethyst sits on my kitchen table,
A birthday gift from a dear friend.

On Monday, I went to Confession.
The priest wanted to call the Police.
He thought rimming was an act of violence.
I was reluctant to explain the full truth to him,
As he’d led a sheltered life.

A piece of fluff got into my mouth.
I worried it perhaps was fecal matter.
Since it was odourless and tasteless,
I relaxed and tried to enjoy the situation.
The dwarf’s teeth were a little rotten
But his penis nearly hung to his knees.
In this life, you have to take the good with the bad.

I watched Garrett Hedlund in a movie with Jane Fonda.
He looked like the sexiest man alive.
My apartment is full of crystals and semi-precious stones.
Dreams and sorrows waft through the air, inside.
They are so real you can touch them.
I value the silence of the night more than anything,
Except, perhaps, a full body orgasm or $10 million in the bank.

I’ve never made this dwarf cum
Though we’ve had sex many times.
He hugged me close and I asked his name.
His voice cracked like an adolescent boy.
Soothing herbs entered my guts
To kill all the nasty micro-organisms he gave me.

I watched a movie that made me weep
And I worried about dying.
A miniature china version of Judy’s ruby slippers
Sits on a filing cabinet in my living room.
Anita Ekberg called from her villa in Rome.
I didn’t pick up.
Charlie Chaplin sat on my face and farted.
It felt familiar,
Like working at a boring office job
Peopled with nasty shit-head sharks,
Just like the ones who worked in the Purchasing Department at a large hospital.

The only thing worse than most jobs is eating cold midget shit
On a tarnished silver platter.
Life sucks most of the time
But dying at Grace is even worse.

The priest told me to go home and flagellate myself for 20 minutes.
I told him to fuck off then asked him for a date.
He thanked me for the offer
But told me he only liked 12 year old boys.
I knew he was gonna say that.

The psychic with the green sparkly turban
Told me she could bring back my lover
If I gave her $5,000.
I told her I’d give her $7,000 if she made sure he never came back.
She’d never heard that one, before.
The pervert threw a dirty diaper on Sasha’s white, furry couch.
This is symbolic of life on this planet.

I can watch the multi-hued sunrise from my kitchen window
Before I go to sleep.
Lots of things are very beautiful.
I musn’t forget that.

Hot Wet Food

March 19, 2009

HOT WET FOOD

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Freddie stuck his penis into the soft chocolate mocha cake.

Runny whipped cream dribbling down his legs.

Tongue flicking into rude, forbidden crevices.

Fascist police running down empty hallways.

Hidden guns in lingerie drawers.

Tiny, taut breasts.

Bent, silver, broken knees.

Vicious and evil words spewing out of vile mouths.

Craziness and lies.

Fat lips and broken teeth.

Lust is harder than concrete.

Dirty buggered bitch dogs.

Dank, frightened basements.

Ghosts and putrid deeds.

Ugly faces.

Pretty boys who need to shave.

Love and violet smirks.

The loss of innocence.

Ricky Ray

Saturday, April 11, 2009

RICKY RAY

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I see him surrounded by Dark Forces,
Swirling around and engulfing him,
Strangling his Higher Self.
I try to send him love and light,
To ease his pain
And to stop the devilish energy from killing his goodness.

Ricky calls himself a Buddhist
Yet he is consumed with rage and vengeance.
I do Wiccan rituals,
To the light of a candle,
In the silent depths of the night,
Asking my Guides for a miracle.

This ugly, mean being tries to rob me of joy and passion.
My creativity sits on a chair, unused,
Like a soiled, torn garment.
Thick hands encircle my neck,
Distorting my voice and choking my Life Force.
I stand in court pleading my innocence
For I have done no wrong.

Ricky has no support system,
No life, no hobbies, no lovers or friends.
His tormented shadow falls on all my daily activities,
Like a rabid dog chasing me through a nightmare.

I watched a movie on my TV set.
One of the scenes was set in a beautiful house
Overlooking the ocean in Southern California.
I read a book where the main character owned an 8,000 acre ranch in New Mexico.
She roamed the mountains with her dogs,
Trekking through canyons and cool streams.

Oh, how I long to escape to these places.
To find solace in nature,
Surrounded by quiet and tranquility.
I wish for money to lead a proper life.
Forever the struggling artist counting his pennies.

Ricky professes to believe in Karma,
Yet he cannot see the consequences of his actions
In the here and now.

The Universe surrounds me in a cocoon of White Light and joy.
No harm will come to me.
This is merely a learning experience.
I am not attached to this man,
In any way, shape or form.

I send Reiki to the courtroom.
I am alone.
My Higher Self speaks to me
And I try so hard to hear the soft, faint words.

Ricky is drowning in a black, inky cesspool.
It is not my job to save him.
My biggest wish is for him to disappear from my life
Forever.

Lip Synch Dysphoria

Monday, March 9, 2009

LIP SYNCH DYSPHORIA

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The last time I did acid,

I had the overwhelming desire to cut off my hands.

In the twisted logic of my skewered mind,

I figured, since they were the most valuable part of my anatomy,

Being an artist,

Then, therefore, I must hack them off.

“Yes” means “no” and “no” means “yes”.

Being alone, I could only have cut off one hand

Since I don’t own a chain saw.

You’d be seeing me, right now, with a gory stump,

Long since healed, on the end of one arm.

I’d have to keep that mutilated thing in my pocket at auditions

Or I’d never get hired, again.

Don’t know which hand it would have been.

I’m ambidextrous but I favour my right hand in most things.

If I’d hacked off that one,

It would’ve taken me a while to come up to speed with the left.

I have a little voice, inside me, that protects me under such circumstances.

“Don’t do it. Relax. You’re high on acid. You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“But my hands are so important. I really should cut them off. It makes perfect sense.”

“You’ll bitterly regret it. Big time. Believe me.”

When I came down, I decided never again to take LSD.

After all, next time, I might not be so lucky.

My inner parent might not win the battle.

That was my 6^th trip.

The first time was in the 70s.

That evening, my friend told me he had dropped it, too,

But I think he was lying.

I was crazy about Bob but the feeling wasn’t mutual.

The two of us, and a plus-size female friend,

Went to see the Kubrick film, “2001: A Space Odyssey”

At a midnight showing at the Roxy.

What a perfect trip!! What a blast!!

The third time I dropped acid,

I was staying at a friend’s cottage on the French River.

Walking out onto the deck, in the glorious summer sunshine,

A hornet’s nest, lodged under the strips of wood,

Was accidentally disturbed and they went nuts,

But neither of us was stung.

I did some painting and talked a mile a minute with my hostess,

Smoking endless cigarettes.

I found a bug outside.

Its face looked so human to me.

I held it in my hand and felt that we were communicating on some strange level.

It looked like a tiny, little baby.

Late that afternoon, there was a knock at the door.

An older, balding man stood there with a message for me from my hostess’s mother,

Back in Scarborough.

He’d taken a boat from the marina in order to deliver it.

A major theatre, back in Toronto, wanted me for a part in a play with Len Cariou,

The Broadway star.

That’s what it said.

The director wanted to see me, the very next day.

We raced back to Toronto in her car, on very little sleep,

Weaving in and out of traffic,

With just enough time for me to shower and change

At my parent’s place in the Burbs.

Then Carol Anne drove me downtown to the theatre.

I walked in, portfolio in hand, with grand expectations and racing heart.

The bitchy, impatient Artistic Director snapped at me,

“We don’t want to see that.”

(He gestured at the portfolio of pictures from plays I had been in.)

“We just want to look at you and hear your voice.”

I read for him but was not cast.

It was just another audition.

I didn’t tell him what I’d gone through in order to get there on time.

My vacation was shot.

On the final LSD trip, the 6^th one, I also painted.

It was a wild, psychedelic acrylic abstract,

With eyes and eyelashes peering out from the frantic colours.

Lots of deep pinks and reds and pale blue and startling yellow.

A stranger phoned and said I sounded sleepy.

He seemed pissed off.

I had answered his personal ad in the paper.

“I’m painting a picture,” I said but he didn’t get it.

The Asian man never called back, as he said he would.

The 5^th time was totally unexpected.

An upstairs neighbour appeared at my door, late one night.

He reached in my front door, thrusting a beer in my face.

“I heard you moving about,” he said.

He wanted me to drop acid with him but I had to rehearse in the morning,

So I begged off.

The shaggy-haired blond kept plying me with beer.

He handed me a purple tab of acid and I said I would take it later.

I dropped it on the floor and Dave said, “It’s dirty. Better put it in your mouth, ”

Which I foolishly did.

After partying all night with this scuzzy guy,

I phoned the director the next morning.

He had long hair and seemed pretty cool so I figured it would be okay to be honest.

“I can’t come to rehearsal. I dropped acid last night. I haven’t had any sleep.”

Darshan started freaking out.

“Oh, no. Oh, no. Do you still want to do the play?”

“Of course. I just need some sleep.”

“I’ll call you,” he said but I never heard from him, again.

That was okay. The gig was a freebee in a speakeasy

And I didn’t really want to do it.

I heard through the grapevine that the production never happened.

Sometimes it’s best to tell a little white lie.

Colours look so vivid.

You think you’ve found all the deep, profound answers to the great mysteries of life.

Your sense of perspective is all topsy-turvy.

It’s like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

Acid is so unpredictable.

Be careful.

Don’t do it by yourself, as I once did.

I was looking for truths.

Trying to find cosmic answers.

Wanted to know what all the media screaming was about.

Pink turns into swirling neon lime green.

Reality becomes a kaleidoscope.

You crave sex but it can be hard to function properly.

I somehow miss those wild, crazy times.

Life had infinite possibilities.

Now, it seems to be lots of cul de sacs, dead ends,

And doors slammed in my face.