[ phliparima.com ]

poems & stories

Damaged

We Ran
By Phlip Arima

we took off our clothes and ran in the rain. a circle on the grass at the back of the house. it was dark out. most of the world was asleep. the cars on the highway were hushed. the jets beyond the clouds could barely be heard.

we ran

we ran until the circle was the only track to follow. it became a deep rut with smooth hardened sides. so high. impossible to climb. always dark. filled with harsh breathing and skin calloused grey.

we ran

we ran as the world changed and as it remained. some children were born. some of them died. the ones that lived we taught all we had learned.

they look up for the stars more than we ever have.

A. F.
By Phlip Arima

She cuts out all the eyes
from every picture in the magazine
colours over the hands
in dark purple crayon
says to me
now it looks righter.

Be Quiet
By Phlip Arima

There's something different about the house. The kitchen looks the same. And the bathroom still smells like the can that sprays. But something has changed.

I was watching television, playing with my toys, when outside I heard the boys from next door. One was Darry, my friend. I went out to see what he was doing. When I came in, all my toys were put away, but no one was mad at me.

There's something different about the house. The stuff I'm not suppose to touch in the back room is still leaning up against the wall. There's laundry on the washer and some beside it on the floor. But something, I don't know what, has changed.

After dinner, when Daddy went out, he didn't slam the door. Mommy and me, we read a book. Halfway through the phone rang. Mommy talked in a normal voice and I even think I heard her laughing.

There's something different about the house. All the lights still turn on and off. And the candles in the dinning room haven't been burned. But something has changed.

I'm going to go to sleep now, but you have to stay awake. I'm going to sit you here, right beside my pillow. It's your job to watch and see what bad things happen.

Ant Trails
By Phlip Arima

lying in the grass counting ant trails
one begins at my right ankle, goes up the shin
then back again on a jagged crooked path

i don't know why they picked me
hit me, beat me to the ground and
ripped my clothes off

lying in the grass counting ant trails
another from under my arm goes to nipple
to belly to sex and down

they were three and big with hate
they spit, then swore, then cut me with a knife
when i cried they were happy, when i screamed—excited

lying in the grass counting ant trails
four circle my knee, two pass on my face
more move across my arms, ribs, hands and feet

when they entered me i enjoyed it
but shame shadowed the pleasure
and the stabbing turned it black

lying in the grass counting ant trails
at eleven my focus fades
and as the flies start to arrive

i want to move

He Does
By Phlip Arima

the man with the backward laugh

mixes his whiskey with tears
sings songs with words nobody hears
dances and staggers off the edge of the curb

sees the light as he recognizes the screech and the curse
believes the life that passes is dust on dirt
does not cry with the pain or start at the shock

or think a significant thought
waiting for the rain, the siren, a someone
to hold him and say: rest easy, so long, bye bye.

Waiting for the Light to Change
By Phlip Arima

at the corner where cigarette filters cover the pavement
and little girls stoop to look through car windows
a woman smoothes her hair back over her ear
waits for the light to change

she does not say a thing
as it goes from red to green to red again
then stepping out into the traffic her shrieks begin

"worthless fucking slut bitch
you don't deserve to live
take this and this
and this"

as the cars honk and swerve the hand repeatedly returns
to slap her face and turn the skin a swollen mauve
rip a lip so blood begins to flow

"worthless fucking slut bitch
you don't deserve to live"

the watchers seek each other out in eyes dry against the cold
see prophesy caught and denied as the woman
reaches the other side

smoothes her hair back over her ear
and waits for the light
to change.

Push Not Pull
By Phlip Arima

I'm pushing my boxes across the street
there's eleven but there was twelve
last night I reorganized everything
so it seems like there art is less

I have to do this quickly
there's the traffic and there's people
once I was hit by a car then taken to the hospital
I was afraid all my things would be stolen

People are more dangerous than cars
I've had to fight with drunk ruffians
who thought they could harass me for fun
and sometimes when I sleep things go missing

A man I don't know is asking to help
he's young but alright dressed so I tell him yes
he starts pulling the box I've got halfway across
I have to stop him and explain the right way to do it

You gotta push them not pull
pulling wears out the bottom too fast
makes the cardboard go soft at the corners
I'm glad he understands 'cause some cars are honking

The sky is getting dark and the wind picking up
soon it will be raining like all last week
if this man keeps on helping
I'll be done before it starts

I wonder what I can give him
as a way of saying thanks

Dance Baby Dance
By Phlip Arima

there is a rhythmic throb to the droning backdrop
of the many layers of memory complicating an event
so common it is no longer noted by the media
yet so real as to illuminate the despair
lurking within my thoughts
with only a few hours sleep in between
half crashed... dropping off
into wonderless dream

the eyes... the nose... the mouth
and the skin over shattered cheekbones
are no longer a face as the light creeps out
of the swollen rawness that once craved life

too much knowledge gained in a single flash of insight
and i can hear my voice repeating... dance
baby dance... you ain't gonna cry blue no more
dance baby dance... you ain't gonna cry blue no more

Nigel
By Phlip Arima

i hear him talking to himself on the back of the bus
in a language i will never understand, wonder
what he carries in his pockets and his bag
know he wants another life to live

there are stories in his mind he can no longer tell
dreams he sold for something sadder than his smile
and as his shoes decay, he keeps waiting for that day
when the noise will be less loud

leaning against a locked door, asking me for some change
he does not recognize me from five minutes before
looks as though he has never had a proper meal
knows how to survive a life i could not live

there are stories in his mind he can no longer tell
dreams he sold for something sadder than his smile
and as his shoes decay, he keeps waiting for that day
when the noise will be less loud

the buildings where he sleeps get torn down and redeveloped
while i warm my bed by making love surrounded by pillows
and sometimes when i look out my window, i see him on the street
knowing his hands have touched more life than i have lived

there are stories in his mind he can no longer tell
dreams he sold for something sadder than his smile
and as his shoes decay, he keeps waiting for that day
when the noise will be less loud.

I Take a Breath
By Phlip Arima

and i turn into a stone chipped from a building
and feet kick me to the street where car tires screech
and a kid picks me up to throw at a friend
and i bounce off a window not making a scratch
and i land in the garbage waiting to be collected
and in the middle of the night the trucks arrive
and i am taken to the dump where rats are fighting
and i am pushed underneath by giant bulldozers
and i turn into a man slowly exhaling.

As Trains Go By
By Phlip Arima

a bomb and an eye that has the world, horse stance, violence, flesh tattooed and pierced while man blows horn and monk strums lute, the school fool, wide open child and woman in white, rotten grin above the mic,

mask of death, head shaved, fingers in the air, dance dance dance, hi daddy, soldier, freak on steps, freaks in dump, nude, punk, head in a bag, crowd waving hands and mother kissing child,

long legs in dress tight beneath a devil miniature, skeleton, comic, filmmaker, three boys and a body, buddha with walkman headphones on, little girl smiling all scrunched up in a box

a shadowed face, key chains, airplanes and a corpse, rappers near a box, near a busker, near a pin-up and a cure, the blues and a painted dude next to space craft and monkey,

faces, blindness, a mushroom cloud.

Alone by the Door
By Phlip Arima

one of four in the car screeching
through the tunnel wanting to scream
give voice to the pain be like the sane
other three passengers on the train

screeching through the tunnel
like the rage in his brain the fear
on his head clawing its way
down his spine passed his ribs

to the core of his being faster
than the train screeching through
the tunnel separate from the others
their loves and lovers

with his hands gripping tight fixed
to the pole turning rigid turning
cold as his legs start to shake
and muscles ache and vision

turns grey with no value at all
while the screeching through the tunnel
approaching the station what he calls
salvation

repeatedly saying breath man breath
hang on and breath you just have to
make it through the door to the platform
up the stairs to the street and

there will be air and not so many people
in so close a space and no more one of four
screeching through the tunnel
wanting to scream
end a bad scene.

The Watcher Lonely
By Phlip Arima

night-time city... city street
through clouded glass thick with expelled human breath
see a being empty of dreams selling flowers for two dollars
to a man who stands alone watching for someone to meet
make his life somehow complete... neat for him and his date
one he hopes will make the daily suck angelic

a fellow traveller bound to me by our lust for things to change
not like the coffee in my mug turning to a luke-warm sludge
nor the ashtray over-flowing where a fire smoulders quiet

frigid flames in my lungs... shriek for silence in my head
i read a shirt in front of me stretched across a young kids chest
flight! the script looks like a slash in bloody thread on cotton black

an icy blast from the doorway yanks back out of myself
the watcher lonely has just entered flowers breaking in his grip
petals falling to the muck and dirty hopes lost by us.

I Would Like
By Phlip Arima

to laugh at the pedestrians scowling their faces
in shocked recognition of the desires they censor
as if touching their passion will cripple their souls

to stand on a tower and shout wild in the wind
so loud that no siren can drown out my voice
letting everyone know where the fire is exploding

to care about things so small they have meaning
like the scar of a piercing healed over for years
or a seed that starts sprouting before the ice is all melted

to hear light in the sky and see sound in the air
know a tear by its taste... a hair by its scent
a mood by the texture of sensitive skin

like a hero... like a lover... like a friend
touch mind to mind where there is no sense of time
realize all glory in a single moment of humility

be the nothing in everything... the wish in the dream
and no longer want to scream or plead for a change
ask for a hope or smile through death

I would like to watch the stars start to slide
the world spin in wonder and the universe expand
touching your fingers with mine.

My Eyes Open
By Phlip Arima

How long have I been awake?
breathing her heat? conscious of dreams?
thinking? remembering each pause
in the hours of conversation
before sleep?

Are there any cookies left?
has the lemonade soured? the flowers
wilted? the meaning of all we said
still have relevance?

Is there anything I have to do?
calls to make? people to see? reason
not to caress her skin this overcast morning?

Was there a promise? will there be? what kind
of expectation still sleeps in the thin space
between our bodies?

Are the candles still burning?
what was the last song I heard playing?
has the snow we were promised started falling?

can all that has happened really have begun
with the confession of a memory?

Did she say how long she would stay? does it matter?
do I care? is my world significantly changed?
will there be an obligation incurred
when she opens her eyes
and focuses on mine?

Was yesterday only a few hours ago?
do I have any food I can offer? any desire
I want satisfied? will she need me to be more
than I have been?

What time is it now? why must she leave?
where will she go? is the closeness we have shared
a gift she will carry? do I want to light a cigarette
and watch the smoke lift and get lost
on its way to the ceiling?

Years
By Phlip Arima

and with orgasm there are tears
the strength that draws no longer frightens
joy rushes through the consummation of a decade's desire
and the realization that too much has changed
pierces the space that cannot be named

"I love you" echoing without voice

This Stare
By Phlip Arima

it is a stare, a stare so solidly fixed
that to change its perception demands
the sharpest possible ice pick

but

it is not the stare of a hungry man
setting a snare and stoking a fire
impatiently waiting to satisfy desire

and it is not the stare of a nervous youth
hoping to define himself within another
then run away when he has gained some power

and it is not the stare of an awestruck boy
who has no history and only knows
what his father has told him

it is a stare, the stare of a single soul
wet with compassion tempered by respect
and ready to stand with you

Shadows
By Phlip Arima

Standing in the middle of the road
looking beyond the buildings at the sun
i hold my hand up as if to stop traffic
and its red still hits me in the eye

turning thoughts of rubbish in the wind
to shadows creeping around my spine
in a convoluted game of hide and seek
with memories that will not sleep.

Standing alone in the late afternoon
looking beyond the buildings at the sun
as it descends on the horizon
like it is drained and done

when the catering truck horn sounds
louder and for longer than is necessary
and i remember how much you liked
the chocolate donuts i will buy.

Our Last Hug
By Phlip Arima

Our last hug locked-up like a seatbelt in a head on crash
the future was mapped when the outfit was bought

if you had turned into the skid the spin might have stopped
staring at the broken line all control was lost

I heard your cry from too far off
felt the collision arrest your heart

looking at my arm where your fingertips gripped
I wish you had told me how far you were going.

Goodbye
By Phlip Arima

I watch a breath on the wind
its sentiment is deeper... darker
less travelled... less lost
than the force with which it flies

I watch a breath on the wind
its moisture is thick
with the sweetness of a heart
opening like a mouth
closing over a nipple

I watch a breath on the wind
in a time when no war
turns my thoughts into knives
that can hack but not slice

I watch a breath on the wind
long before i am waking
to this wet city morning
as car tires shift the flow
of water across the pavement

I watch a breath on the wind
feel your eyes touching mine
know the kiss that i blow
will never return

Leaving the Mix
By Phlip Arima

when the lonely descends like locus across ripe land
and the stuff from the pharmacist hasn't the kick
i want to leave the mix

every breath is a reminder... every thought a question
i don't expect to feel better... just nothing and numb
out of the mix

your hand blistering on mine as you watch me decay
with what is left of my heart i wish you would look away
somewhere besides this edge of the mix

Late at Night
By Phlip Arima

there are moments of endless length
when the noise is not so loud, when the ache
does not seem like pain, when i do not feel
like you abandoned me, gave up while i
continue the struggle.

they are soft moments i fill with candlelight
forgiveness and reflection. moments when i
can exhale each breath without the sadness
crippling me—turning my eyes
liquid grey.

moments when i can accept your death
and all the little daily deaths as part
of my life, a life that has these
quiet moments of alone
that are not lonely.

After the Ecstasy
By Phlip Arima

i take a mouthful of water
i so want to swallow

hold my lips over yours
let you drink

as the sweat starts to dry
exhaustion sedates

words take on a gentle shape
while meaning disappears

in the emotion we communicate
as the city awakes

and our tongues relax
silent sleep

Here
By Phlip Arima

i am thick and i am thin and i am tight and i am flat
and i am blitzed and groovy and rushing the edge
and grasping the answer to the question
that cannot be asked

here

is the where i stop swallowing the myth
here is the where i dance and i strip

this is the space where this kid lost his head
on that occasion of strangeness when the funniest thing
was the attempt to explain the funniest thing
and i realize

the startling truth that everything is nothing
and nothing the sum of all that there is

here

where if i think i am living i am actually dead

In My Room
By Phlip Arima

there is an animal alive in my room.

i cannot see it. i cannot hear it.
but i know it. know it is alive.
alive in my room.

i am sitting in the corner on the floor.
my back to the walls. i am in my room.
my empty room. wrapped naked in a blanket
i found in the hall.

there is an animal alive in this room.
i sense it. i dislike it. i want it
to leave before i capture
and kill it.

beyond the window there is wind.
a wind silenced by fog. fog glowing cool
with a power i crave. a power
i can use.

there is an animal alive in the room.
it is beginning to move. it knows
how to chew. it breaths with a rhythm
that reflects my own.

i am sitting on the floor looking up
at the bare bulb. it brightens
as it filament burns-out. leaving me
in doubt.

there is an animal alive in its room.
it is alone. and it is angry. and it is
happy. so happy its growl can be felt
when it swallows.

Where is the Night
By Phlip Arima

Why is it so bright?
i use to lie on the sharp stones between the tracks
near my home

How can I tell the nasty shadows from the friendly ones?
i could see the rail on my left or on my right,
but not both at the same time

Did I just hear something?
usually i stared straight into the sky
let my thoughts drift unfettered

Is there someone there?
it felt best when it was cool and the stars
seemed real close

Will things ever be dark like they were?
when a train shook the earth and the cars flew by my face,
i would scream

Why is there the taste of metal in my mouth?
i would scream from a hidden place
deep down inside

What is going to happen if I let loose a shout?
more than once two trains would go by
at the same time

Is anyone near enough to hear?
the sky would become a strip
no wider than my head

Does the soul have a mind of its own?
my body would arch up as i writhed and it felt
like blood was running from my eyes

Are the crazy the sane?
the power of cold steel on cold steel
was all i could hear

Why are the shadows always dressed in white?

Listening
By Phlip Arima

the telling of a life story late at night
with an injured hand laying limp

on a pillow stained with spunk
and no sound except the furnace
blowing dry air for a few seconds
at the end of each year

words spoken in the same tone
emergency ward doctors use
when speaking amongst themselves
as if this will render the events
less real and more easily
understood

words spoken with only one listener
half revealed by the street light
filtering through a window
as i toy with a doll
beside a mattress on the floor
that has never been for sleeping

words spoken so slowly and so honestly
and with such credible detail that
though no tears fill my eyes
and no thoughts fill my mouth
i fall into a pit where all i can feel
is love.

The Ache
By Phlip Arima

It is a tiny room
with no windows and white walls
nightmares by the locked door

the skin crawls

it is a place filled with smoke
hard light and emotions that strike
and dry blood on the rim of an eye

the stomach cramps

it is a place i stay
at the bad hours of the day
when the chill makes the crowd too dense

the hands clench

i close my soul
chew through a lip
make promises i will not keep.

Wednesday Morning
By Phlip Arima

cold air blows through the crack in the window
killing the candle that lit the night

a dog is barking

the scarves that hang from the foot of the bed
have left their mark in my flesh

the sheets are wet

before you fell asleep you said: i love you
and all i could think of was death

Hello, Hello, Where are you?
By Phlip Arima

it's raining black drops of perspiration from a dirty god.
the trees though they do not seem to mind. they thrive. thrive.
they are alive. and green. are we?

i saw your name in a restaurant john stall. should i have added
your number? do you even have a phone? i dial and dial
and all i get is a tone.

it's raining black drops of perspiration from a dirty god.
the cars though they do not seem to mind. they multiply.
multiply. are they alive?

last week when we spoke you had a book full of words
i do not know. can you teach me to say
the things you read?

it's raining black drops of perspiration from a dirty god.
but the dj on fucc pirate radio does not seem to mind.
he's playing every one of our favourite songs.
favourite songs.

if you are listening
it's kinda like we are together.

Delirious Near Sleep
By Phlip Arima

a teardrop shadow on your throat
the metronome of my heart speaking with the dark

every seven cuts the song comes around
to let you repeat this one is deep

and i sigh into you each time i agree
such sadness is beauty.

Monos
By Phlip Arima

watching a body crippled by a face that winked... smiled...
turned to a shadow and flew through the stone structure
of a building too tall to climb

when we kissed there was blood
it coloured our eyes then drained through our guts

i saw a dog die in the heat as it fell it tried to growl
the sound was not unlike our breathing
after we were done

when the days are dark with storm and the nights clear
i feel the blood we share

hell is a place where no one considers anyone but themselves
love can be similar

No
By Phlip Arima

The snow has melted to water
and, warming in the heat clings to the surface
of her hair.

It does not run or drip and is a long way
evaporating. It is trapped by the force in all objects
that attracts one thing to another regardless
of their life or lifelessness.

It waits as if it can dictate what will next take place
when, with a shake of her head, the connection
is broken, and those few drops of moisture
are gone.

Take Thirty-Two
By Phlip Arima

i have been told that when the ground freezes
land mines will explode.
i feel so cold.

a slow pan across the crowd finishing with a tilt.
everyone looks great in the dark. she won't be a bit
of a junky for long. hair burning on the washroom floor.
the ambulance operator puts us on hold. the priest
is packing to move out of the city.

we are caught in the spot light. we are craving cherry
lip balm. we are wearing tinted glasses and advertising
clothing. we are the majority of society
and a danger to ourselves.

waiting for the effects
to make the zoom perfect.

waiting for the zoom
to make the effects perfect.

as the furnace is burning. as the flowers are wilting.
as the pictures all curl. as memories merge.
as eyes are lost in diminishing thought.

a backwash of basil with a red pepper thread.
i want to shut down the out of sync tick.
powder polished stones. pour oil in water.
tell those who keep calling I no longer laugh.
got a tube to my jugular. got a tube to my lungs.
got a tube to my stomach. got a tube to my heart.
got a tube to the sewers that are managed
by the city.
the toys fell apart. the toys fell apart. i hear
voices repeating identical phrases: sugar in coffee
leaves the colour the same. a machine is here
to record your message.

It's raining black drops of perspiration from a dirty god.