Tag: mtl

“Spread” – Sarah Christina Brown

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This is a found prose poem – all lines are dialogue spoken by women in porn films.

I would never describe myself as a bad girl. I’m eager to please. I’m too tight. I’m too tired. I’m eighteen. I’ve never even had a massage before. It’s my first time. It’s the last time. It’s the only time I can do something like this. This is my first real job. This is what I’m here for. What are you doing with that camera again? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to stretch me open? Does your wife suck your cock like this? Did you drink all the fucking orange juice? If you hire me, I’ll make sure my pussy’s spread open right here every lunch break. But I’m your stepmom. But you’re my boss. But you’re my best friend. But I’m the goddess of big dick, I don’t want any more grapes. I want a full-time position. I want you answering my calls from now on. A girl like me plans to get behind the camera someday. A girl like you could learn a few things from my tongue. We girls have to stick together, you know. I tell men they’re going to think about me the rest of their lives. I told you, it’s Titty Tuesday. Don’t you want to touch me? Can you finish me off? Shut up, Gerard, you know I deserve this. Don’t be shy. I’m coming. She’s coming. Give me my happy ending. Give it to me. Give it to me.

 

these words by Sarah Christina Brown were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

 

 

“Screams in an empty place” – Jerry Corvil

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Alone in my room, my thoughts are dark
I live in a place where they hate me because my skin is dark.
Whoever says “smile and your misery will be history”
Is lying; the harder I smile the stronger it’s hurting me.

Knees to my chest, my soul crushing into pieces,
Sinking into darkness, happiness is all my heart misses.
Should I even write this; am I ever going to feel better?
I have long been digging from within, looking for a treasure.

Maybe I am not worth anything; should I even keep fighting?
All those thoughts and demons inside of my head.
I call for help, and no one hears me except those monsters under my bed.
I’m asking, to whoever can answer me, how can I survive when my mind is fading?

Those paintings inspire me, tell me there’s still beauty all around me.
I might be sick, who knows? I can only write when life’s hurting me.
Is it ironic to say that the only one who’s always been there for me is loneliness?
I have lived most of my life, lost, scared and confused; I feel better when I’m depressed.

This is what my mind is constantly repeating to itself.
It’s like one side is trying to find solutions, while the other’s killing itself.
I am not asking for much, only need somebody’s presence.
I’m tired of screaming, sitting in this blue room hearing only the echoes of silence.

 

these words by Jerry Corvil were inspired by the work of Nicolas V. Sanchez

 

 

“Pawns” – Stephan Enasni Sunz

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It all began as a game of chess;
history always repeats itself.
We were all hoping for the same mess to be gone.
It’s no mystery that we are being tamed and depressed,
obsessed with the disbeliefs of becoming kings and queens.

Yet reality is so keen on having other plans for us to string together.
As seen before, we are another set of oppressed pawns
stuck with the beliefs of hearing a lord’s call.
Words are left unspoken as we have lost our will to sing;
vocal cords are suppressed as the hours continue to crawl.
This world is the rich man’s board,
with the poor men drawn and stressed against their choices.

Even after falling down the herd’s still willing to take back their voices,
to fill up the void caused by the reign’s vices,
as they believe it’ll only bring hope to the birds with broken wings.

 

these words by Stephan Enasni Sunz were inspired by the work of Nicolas V. Sanchez

 

“Displaced” – Fiona Williams

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I am searching for Home.

I straddle between east and west and belonging has always been evasive.

I am an outsider here but I do not feel so, until they tell me.

It is the same sun that sets in Islamabad and rises in Toronto, isn’t it?
The same sun that kisses my skin but scorches the earth.

So I continue searching.

I have only found comfort in anonymity—
in the sense of security when no one knows my name.

It seems displacement has become a familiar feeling
an existential anxiety that only recognizes a feeling of Calm amongst utter chaos.

I have been searching for Home
and am beginning to realizing
I will only find it within me.

 

these words by Fiona Williams were inspired by the work of Lin Bao Ling

Opening: Reading Coordinator

The Reading Coordinator organizes literary readings with Word and Colour authors and similar writers in the Montreal community. They share the work with the Managing Editor and Community Outreach coordinator, organizing readings at least once per season.

Because Word and Colour is a collective of volunteers working under the mission to confront oppression with words inspired by colour, an ideal candidate would benefit from the position for their professional experience, as it is a volunteer role with the rest of our team. Readings

In general, the Reading Coordinator:

  • finds an appropriate venue;
  • arranges audio equipment;
  • works with the graphic design team for posters;
  • works with the social media team for marketing,
  • and works with the Managing Editor to establish a roster of readers.

To apply, contact word@wordandcolour.com by September 15th with a resume and an answer to the question: why do readings matter?

“Tickets and Rides” – Josh Elyea

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The neon from the carnival lights, bright against the black sky, hurts my eyes when I stare at it for too long. It’s hard to tell where the light ends and the black begins; no matter how hard I try to hone in on the exact place where they meet, the edge never reveals itself. Sometimes our love is like that, too; even when I want to, I can never really find where the good bits stop and the bad bits start.

It feels as though something horrible is about to happen; the air is heavy, laden, just as it is before the breaking of a storm. I like storms. I remember fondly those moments when I would sit, as a child, on the porch swing with my mother and we’d watch the thunder clouds roll in across the fields. With the defiance found only in youth, I’d scream back towards the lightning with all the breath in my lungs, as my mother shook her head.

You have to whisper to the thunder, she’d say. That’s the only way it can hear you.

My wife looks like my mother, a little.

 The heavy air feels hot on my skin, and I worry my hands are too clammy to reach out and grasp the woman next to me. I do it anyway. As I do, I say that ferris wheels aren’t supposed to move this fast, my darling. They aren’t supposed to fly.

Cotton candy flavored kisses, corny lines like you complete me, cocaine drips and my corduroys rubbing together with that shhhk, shhhk. The drugs were her idea, I swear. Something about shaking the monotony of Saturday night rituals, of having a suburban crisis of faith.  

Stopped at the top, I stare deep into the sky. It’s moving, like a Rorschach without the white. Pulsing, and at the very edges of my eyes, from below, the neon creeps into view. Who knew a glimpse into the abyss could be bought with a single carnival ticket. Here I thought it would cost me a white picket fence.

 

these words by Josh Elyea were inspired by the work of Lin Bao Ling

“And I Inhale Again” – Nahomi Amberber

Babe-in-the-Woods---Selina-Vesely-(2015)

I lay myself down in between you
And us
And inhale.
You do not smell like home
Like they said you would.
You smell like old pine trees and the mud they root themselves in,
And I inhale again.
I begin to weep and you ask me why;
“You smell like land unconquered,” I say.
“You smell like a dream.”

these words by Nahomi Amberber were inspired by the work of Selina Vesely

“Passage” – Jess Goldson

Icy-Melt---Selina-Vesely-(2017)

The young woman clothes herself in fall colours year-round. Something about being surrounded by hues emblematic of death gives her a sense of peace. Enrobed in maroon, and burnt oranges and umbers, she feels a crispness in her step, a frail assuredness. As she treads through autumn, flattening the leaves, she, too, finds herself bent backward. Snowflakes descend, stifling the last breaths of crunching leaves — disembodied trees. Sheets of ice overwhelm battered leaves, soothing and preserving their bruised tissues. Although she anticipates destruction, winter heals her.

 

these words by Jess Goldson were inspired by the work of Selina Vesely

 

New poetry from Oumy Dembele, “MEIOSIS”

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“Home is not where you live but where they understand you.”

-Christian Morgenstern

So
apparently
in Europe I’m too African
in Africa I’m too European
and in Canada I’m too French
I’m done.

How many years
have I lost
in a camouflage?
Trying to eclipse one side of myself
just to be told
that the other one is wrong?

I’m so stupid.
Self-love? Ruined.
Self-esteem? I’d like to see that.
You. Words. Irony. Jokes. Silences. Looks. Because.I.don’t.belong

It’s like seeking affection and never finding open arms, reaching out to your mum’s hand and
never grabbing it, wandering around the world, homeless, rejected by your own kind
Every-fucking-where.

With multiplying comes the division. It’s nature. Maybe that’s how things are supposed to be.
Maybe my home doesn’t exist.
Maybe my will is unrealistic.
Maybe my hope is a camouflage too.
To hide the ugly truth.

these words by Oumy Dembele were paired with the colour of Evelyn Bencicova