Monthly Archives: June 2015

an old story with no back door

keep loading baby
they won’t be long settin’ fire to this cabin
we gotta keep firin’ to keep ’em from gettin’ too close

and she’s in a yellow dress
baby i didn’t sign on for this when i said
let’s make a life together

his teeth are baring
jaw muscles in hate firin’ live rounds
wood framin’ a busted window

she’s duckin’ at every whip-o-will sound
loading guns at each one set down
she’s wonderin’ about the drapery and importing new glass

keep loading baby
it’s the only time she hears his ‘g’
wishin’ gee – couldn’t you just farm like my pappy


that’s what drew her to him
the outlaw refusin’ to conform
now they’re outside of town – inside their own coffins

keep loading baby
they’re gettin’ closer baby
baby – she thinks – just surrender – i wanna go home….


Man Woman or Beast

all the cedar and vines
wrap around the rib cage in an unattended garden jungle
wasted cigarettes
hands holding
arms covering breasts
eyes shadow the smoke sitting in this flower bed shell


next to the abandon wall
daring onlookers to find something relatable
to the rest of society

the wall is connected to a used record store
it is connected to a factory wall
an old water works mill
where a province thought as Englishmen
uniting a city
placing glamour in even the rudimentary

but today is a throw away society
where blame is tossed and responsibility shrugged
memes placed on the window screen shout back
allowing – accepting nothing which will plant and continue growth

the vines choke rather than produce wine
the cedar trees block out the sun rather than opening into a forested city of progress

and you

puffing that cigarette
curl your body and hug your self-guarded defences
holding breast and rib

society moves sidewalks onto the streets of bandwidth
with photo-captions shouting morals
water pumps becoming crank/less
and coal piling up in decay

waiting for a good

when you find yourself reading too long and too much from a book edited after death

the kind of woman who can’t afford a rooming house
but finds herself at yours
at Uncle Buks’
either at 3 in the morning
3 in the afternoon

both times you’re trying to
stay sober-drunk

and everyone is pounding the walls
the ceiling





but you can’t
get rid of her

she’s a bad memory
she’s locust
a pure shot of what you ({[don’t]}) need

and it’s too hot
it’s summer

it’s inhospitable
and rude

what would Chinaski say



besides – you say

she’s sitting on the windowsill ledge
and the drapes are drawn
closing out the sun
the stars
and the fan is propped up trying to
suck in cool air
or suck out the heat

and she’s just sitting there
in a wife beater
tall socks
and roller girl shorts

she’s got her way of showing
without showing

everything your mind wants to feel rotten

and you stand so she can see you’re impressed
letting her know
she’s not going to be kicked out by you

you shuffle around the typewriter
and into the kitchen
you grab more ice and another glass

you don’t want to share

but you know she’ll let you bum a smoke


you’re back in the living room
even though you know
this ain’t

and she’s sitting on the couch
tapping on your typewriter

tapping on your coffee table
that empty hydro line spool with the perfect holes
for holding styrofoam cups

and she grins a cock roach smile
circling the hole
the drain



so you pour

and the night
or the day

the middle of the clock
ticks on

and life wasted
continues to amuse you in ways
that only you can appreciate


she leaves at a point where your
self awareness is on its hands
either 6:30
or 12:00


both hands have been round full in this rooming house
as she closes the door

her high heels clicking
down the hall

back into the wilderness of
a Bukowski strip
knowing both debauchery
and understanding beauty

in all it’s ugliness
and flower perfume forms.

welcome to ghost town

army boots or cowgirl boots
march-tramping a summer field
-sunbathing attitude

climbs in front seat of ’50 olds
adjusting mirror

body distraction

checks lipstick
confirms eyes

opens passenger door
continues climbing out front
shotty in left hand


she crawls down to ground
door open
window rolled down

pokes head up
eyes – smile

shotty resting in frame

raise your hands
respect the situation for 30 seconds

a round of smoke blows out the window

you find yourself feet lifted
backwards flying
hard hitting the ground
looking up at the sky – fading

she stands
army boots unlaced
cowgirl boots
body sunbathing

shotty in left hand

‘welcome home baby’

population: 1

idea from a vintage postcard and a midnight radio play

quietly on the train
stopped at the station


wickedly wild west
before modern time


2 marshalls
with guns to the back of your
bank robbing head

still resting on the wooden seats

you turn
only to be buffalo’d across the ear

you fall into the midnight oil
picture yourself in a sombrero
slumping over the saddle after a midnight run
pushing branded cattle


if Calgary could be Texas
and Ontario

you could cross the borders

avoid the train next time

and move the cattle harvested
to Hoard’s Station

making a tidy profit

you’re carried to jail – hog tied
early morn

a lump at the base of your ear
and a ringing in your throat

police brutality

no matter the era
no matter the reason
there’s always police brutality to contend with

and in your current position and time

you still don’t understand

Martin Durkin to be Published in PIF Magazine During July

Established in 1995 and considered one of the best and oldest online magazines for poetry and fiction in America today, PIF Magazine will be publishing Durkin’s poem ‘Hey Mickey’ for July.


When the Pain is Sexy

the tuft V of birds
passing full roundness
into dark cylinder ways

200 mgs of Sandoz-Indomethacin
mixed with 24 mgs of Zolmitriptan

this is $300

confronted by visionary dark spots
catching shadows on the backyard branches
movement down the hallways
– a young foal (perhaps)
total awareness in the eyes
the surrender
melting into contempt
the bear leaving the forest
your shirt
tennis shoes and

the imagination

a photograph


escaping facts
an email
turned into 4 word – lined
linear – thoughts
warming up
becoming suicidal

72 hour pain
3 day furlow

morning expectations
knee pulled up
sitting up
this V
the northside -southern treed – moss
creeping marsh land
sherwood forest
not a forest

not medicinal visions
not a gateway
not trapped souls
not music on the player spinning

full roundness walking away from the lens
the hi-hat cylinder releasing the pressure
leaving disc form

-the caveman seeing the stone wheel moving downhill…


nothing making any sense but in my own madness

and left in dyslexic jargon….

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