Sylvie Hill

Otherwise

Do you remember that time I said to you
that I was the only one who didn’t lie to you?
Your wife, her kid, my sister and the too-afraid:
I was brave, yet scared and still didn’t lie to you.

I wonder when you took down the frames.
What stories you had for your business associates?
Just as you’re the “Successful President”
Will they see my story clearly on Linkedin?

Maybe my gut wrench at injustice…
My obsession with feeling illiterate…
Maybe my fierce love for sad men…
Is from having a father who’s a sociopath?

Do you remember when you threw the dog across the lawn?
It showed up at our schoolyard – had you just got home?
Do you remember the photograph on the box of my mom?
You, downstairs, taking aim at it with your pellet-gun.

Do you remember your excitement chasing us?
— with a belt or scaring us with your teeth-ripped face?
Do you remember grabbing us by the hair that time?
We spilled milk – decades later, your new wife would say it was OK.

Do you remember that time I said to you
that I was the only one who didn’t lie to you?
Your wife, her kid, my sister and the too-afraid:
I was brave, yet scared and still didn’t lie to you.

Here’s the truth:

Do you remember how she treated Grandma?
with scorn and rudeness and ridicule?
When you lose your mind – and you will
do you think she’ll honour you?

I’ve been sick since July 4, it was shit.
Parasthesia, joint assault, fatigue, vertigo, and more.
My flat is infested with mouse shit and piss.
And I managed that alone, with work, and more.

Too poorly to think of how to put in an air conditioner
You would have loved installing it for this kid.
All that joy you took in helping me build that molecule
Yet how you withheld my money for uni to punish.

Fucking flip-flopper. Over-sensitive maniac.
Bizarre anal ritualistic behaviours, power trips
And scare-tactics on your past girlfriends –
You told me about it.

And through it all, I could understand
how a 21 year-old Calgary kid could go mad!
To this day, I empathize with becoming a dad by accident
Having to marry someone in whom you weren’t interested.

I’m the only who will not tell you lies.
But you can’t live without them, otherwise.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, August 23, 2020

Illiterate

I was completely illiterate.

But you spelled it out
in black and white!
Despite such clarity –
our decisiveness had such
subtexts
like regrets.

It’s a dead language now
that does not exist.

I’m to make way for the
archeo-anthropo-logist
decoding scratches
scriptures, hints
into some existence
persists
like infection.

It’s a dead language now
finished.

Totally mis-read.
Parts missing.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, July 19, 2020

Peanut Butter

In time you’ll know where to buy
the cheaper peanut butter
and bags of spices
just like one day, you’ll wake up
or maybe it’ll be as you’re going to bed
and realize: you are over him.

Not from grand therapeutic solution
or a magnificent, inspiring conversation
nor through delusion of the hot surfer
San Franciscan gliding inside and up into you
…although that will help
one time you’ll just know where to find

your affinities.
And it won’t be in the weaknesses.
Nor in the flesh, blood, and boned
masses of insecurities.
Nor in puzzled people with mismatched pieces
of so much good, but wicked jagged edges.

In time you’ll know where to find
the good people, full of interest
because you’ll have found you
and birds of feather, innit.
you’ll want to preserve you
like a few coins on the butter, nutter.

Why pay more?
Why absorb more than you should handle?
The more you get to know the city
you’ll be saying “oh this is the best place for…”
The more you get to know you
darling, you’ll discard the excessive, for certain.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, May 15, 2020

Rue

In grand loves lost
– or forgotten
those of the past
– or rotted
I have come to understand
that perverted “love”
dominates
and good love
permeates.
Like addictions to
make-ups
or expensive jeans
a love for these things
takes over senses
– and your bank account.
You look beautiful.
But you are stupid.
Senseless in the sense
that you are magnificent.
And how gracious
the one who offers:
that is not love but obsession
it is not love but a reflection.
Rotten love just stinks
and it’s just the stench that remains.
It’s a dark winter
imprints itself
upon your skin
like the lifeless sky
sunless energy
paling you in comparison
to a could-be incarnation.
Whereas in bright
Oh, dear, you will shine.
And if fear, tension,
tightness and guard
was always heightened
no wonder you got stuck
in costochondritis
your heart strangled!
They were so like your Dad.
And so like your Mom.
Except for the true loves
that had zero in common
with them at all.
In grand loves lost
– or forgotten
those of the past
– or rotted
I have come to understand
that perverted “love”
dominates
and good love
permeates.
My, how I’ve been overtaken
by sadness reeling
for my parents’ love.
How I’ve been freed
by saying fuck off.
And with distance
and silence
and estrangement
(I hope) until death
what peace I feel
to breathe
my Grandma’s unwavering
love in lightness
a true love’s care
and a friend’s supportiveness.
What grace by which I now live life!
I think of a million nights
that I disguised my feeling sorry for you
in some kind of fondness
and delight, and rue.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, May 14, 2020

Ms Shiva Shiva vs The Train Wreck

Oh, I how I wanted to carry her case
and get her water.
Support Ms Shiva as she walked across
with her camera on the dance floor.

Filming the rockstars
and documenting their looks
and I love to do that in writing,
PR, and hooks. (And for you – books).

Not by love or starfucking
or groupie hanger-onners.
But these wild boys of talents
with my skills I could honour.

And I wanted to get her a drink:
she didn’t stop all night!
And she serious in her profession,
and her photos snapped in spotlight.

Shiva Shiva, a mysterious woman
as I too was/am was among musicians
walking into rooms full of faces
all eyes on me as the missus.

And in London, it was best
I didn’t know Liam Watson.
And flashed my tits
in Camden to the guy from the red carpet.

That I talked of university
to whom was apparently
the roommate of the guitarist
in that band led by Morrissey.

And how the man I tried to forge
bonds with on the label of Boy George
told Billy Corrigan to go fuck himself
and had a Camberwell marjoram garden emporium.

Maybe because Secret Me
was me secretly free in the orderly
and the famous one between us
was the one doing the rescuing.

Oh, how I wanted to carry her case
and get her water.
Support Ms Shiva Shiva as she walked across
the dance floor.

Filming the rockstars
and documenting their looks
and I love to do that in writing,
PR, and hooks.

“I thought you were a band manager”
he said to me from a train in London
when we used to talk more
and before he convinced you to stop it.

“I’ll give you 20% fee as manager”
he said from the bar paying in Bloomsbury.
“Oh no it’s OK, I’ll do it for free,”
something about a silver platter?

When Shiva Shiva shivvied on the dance floor
And Reuben played the best song on the album
I wanted to listen but I was caught up in it
connecting dots to some pizza and a man up Auckland.

Ruined again – my own moment
compelled to share the epic
with a bearded Kiwi, musician like he
and stories from the road, with personality.

And the last man I loved
I took him like a son
and isn’t that the deal
with these musicians?

“You can never be with an artist”
“Guy must have a real job”
A man to look after me
Instead of me doing the babying.

Such artists and their egos
That I care for like their mothers
I surely care for the boys like babies.
Could you not keep care of me like a sister?

(My hair has gone grey like hers.)

Shiva Shiva with her straight face,
she doesn’t let on that she owns the place.
And that was always my vibe when I walked in the bar.
I was going to consume the musician,

and everything you are.

But oh how Ms Shiva captures with grace.
And you watched me take you

like a train wreck.

Sylvie Hill, Feb 24, 2020, Montreal

“You From Australia?”

And by god, you wouldn’t shut up!
You complained about the young workmen
their entitled millennial attitude
wound up, you weren’t wrong.

And between my spilled drink
and our meals and pints of Guinness
you spoke frustrated about buying a house
working too hard, then working late on fixing it.

Balls deep, mate, in snow up to your ass
thick of winter, on a roof fixing it up
“An investment property,” you’d get your money back
or that dream to get to Vancouver with any luck.

The winters sucked here compared to England.
But remember how I thought you were Australian?
Us both, freezing our knickers off in the winter!
Stood waiting at the clinic, you’d gotten there an hour earlier.

Sat on the Australian side of the truck, heating up,
waiting for the Appletree clinic doors to open, fuck.
I was first in line – no make-up, snowpants and parka.
You were looking weathered and 47, I loved it.

And your banter was custom
you’re that kind of character,
and we continued on into the clinic
I was first in line, you second.

And they called our names:
Sylvie Hill, _______ Atkins,
I steadied you so you could remove your boot
and put the blue Smurf booties on to go in.

“Thanks dear,” you said, like I was a sister.
No problem, bro, I was thinking in laughter.
We sat each in a room across from the other.
Me Rx renewal, you – we joked after.

As I left, I left my number
into the fold of the boot’s tongue,
tucked under.

When you texted your spelling such shit
I laughed cuz that’s typically a favourite!
He said, “I like your style, I’m keeping your number.”
And I thought how just like that, one morning in winter.

That spring we fought at trivia
I had Laura Baranigan right, your accent won Dionne Warwick, lost us the point.
I drank too much talking to mates
While you patiently waited to walk me home after, late.

And the hug you gave was the tightest I’d have.
Strong: believe me bones inside me breasts would crack.
And what a man, what banter, patience, so handsome.
An early start to the morning – as a carpenter.

And Mr Atkins was a wild one, funny, and free.
But I remember long conversations on the phone once with me.
We spoke about how being brave or pioneering or travelling
is sometimes easier with a partner to bounce things off of, indeed.

And you – surrounded by your friends, colleagues, and fans
could you smell my kind a mile away – the ones who want your hand?
Who want to paint a porch together, massaging your hands in evening
and laugh at you as you vent your day, but also take you seriously?

Oh, it’s been since 2013 that I’ve thought of anyone like that.
But I do tell folks there was no one interesting came across my path.
But there was once that Mr Atkins, our phone calls and silly texts
And one night of trivia, a really strong hug …

… and the bastardized invitation for bacon at an early breakfast.

Sylvie Hill, December 31, 2019, Montreal

Shotgun

We come at the same time.
These men speaking of simultaneous orgasms.
But don’t you know great sex starts outside the bedroom.
Foreplay started at coat check, he said.
And mom said it was all about if he opened the car door.

Can we get the boat out into the water
properly with the motor not tearing up the grassland
or the shore, and do you have the bait?
I made sandwiches, got the tacklebox?
And I will cook the walleye when we return later.

Simultaneous – everything!
How you know when to flip my steaks
at 4 minutes into the grill as I fetch the cakes
and a table spread for friends to feast
how we dance to set up the potluck and greet them.

Sameness in – tooth brushing!
At night – you used mine in a London, UK hotel.
Your big black Maori eyes and a faraway smile.
And the way you pushed me back in the hedges.
And the way you pushed me back into our bed(s).

Togetherness – but far away!
Seasonal relations.
“Fusional” is what we all aspire to.
It’s why I cry when I reach the moon, solo.
Ceasing a moment together – seized: affinity, home.

… in climbing anticipation and – freeing
… in mind-fucking fuck and toughest erection – releasing
… in that knowing glance and a pupil’s warning
… the time is now, our bodies folding.

The greatest act of accepting while you’re giving
And the greatest love of giving while taking
And the practice it takes for a simultaneous orgasm in fucking
…is over groceries, and fights, and laughs, and house cleaning.
And they chalk up the dance in a one-night stand to magic.

They know nothing.

As I’m shaking the meat
And you can’t find your beat,
with your work stress, your smoking, and your drinking.

As I’m cupping you curving,
and sinking into your hips
with your willing admission it’s never been like this; amazing.

As I’m riding you triangle,
that you wanted to try but was too shy.
Intimidated, will be impossible for us to reach “simultaneous”, tonight.

In concept we’re all great lovers in writing.
In art our bodies shine like radiant reality.
What of you dead couples – have you no memory of fusing?
That you do not bring forth this incredible bonding!

Best be single in such dreams of achieving.
Wasting moments away from love in not climaxing.
Give each their share, and meal to each.
But share the glass, tasting wine, entreating.

Le fusil – a shot in the dark, fusing.
Like double-murder suicide
It’s no wonder, it’s une petite mort
finger, fuck, love, and french-kiss me.

And I always called shotgun.
And Shotgun was what they called me.
But pushing past you first, and always in a blast…
Betrays my desire to arrive separately

but jointly, at last.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, December 14, 2019

Image: “Death of a Poet” by Loui Jover

When You Crash The Company Truck

If he could only see what I saw when he swung open the door
Tall, proud, satchel bag from work, in command and clear-headed not stoned.

You’ve so much potential! And you were so proud showing me around!
But in the aftermath I saw it was not about me, but making yourself look sound.

How many times can you fuck up?
Will it be a Thursday or Friday when you drive-drunk/crash the company truck?

You once wrote that you could picture falling in love
But the sentiment was gone when you next hit the pub.

Another, and another round.
$67.55 they made you buy the shots.

And you suffering headaches from hangovers and doping too much.
Who are you when you’re sober, and stable, and not fucked?

What, by Christ, are you running from?
And yes I can see why you hate yourself so much.

If you could see what I saw when he tried to please everyone at once
He was overwhelmed, exhausted, out of his depth, and drowned.

And you spoke once of how you wanted to love
To not be alone, have a woman sleep close was enough.

You need to quit alcohol, eat well, go for a run
You need to stop listening to everyone around you just once.

Can you find the place inside your heart where once you gave a fuck?
If you cannot, tell me –

Will it be a Thursday or Friday when you drive-drunk/crash the company truck?

(My love, get to the country air, no substances, walk your dogs
Save your money, be brave, find the girl, build a family, and that pond.)

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, July 10, 2019.

How Soon, Now?

Oh, the honour we pay,
the grave path we pave.
Paved: with the regular walk
of doubts of finding love again
so – we stay.
Sat on benches, staring
at rocks, dead bodies beneath them
“Come alive!”
“Come alive!”
We say.
Go away, you say to them.
For it they never met you
would you burn like this?
You’re dead ashes
in the grey.

Oh, the honour we pay
To dead loves by loving again
Well I can NOT!
Build a shrine: mourn the forgotten.
So – I stay.
Sat on beds, wondering,
at memories reconfigured falsely.
“Go away!”
“Go away!”
We say,
Go away, you say to them.
Where to shelve memories
and to move on publicly, gracefully.
Stay single, waiting
For some day?

Is it too soon?
When will be the day?
What lasting love
was here to stay?
What once was sacred
is last week’s bread:
Hardened, old
and stale.
Like your marriage
with an expiry date
you forgot to erase.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, December 7, 2019

Oh dear me. If you could have seen the streets tonight, lit up from the street lamps, and the brick walls beaming inside with book shelves, and neat lighting fixtures, and characters dining, bathing, doing their things in Montreal. My street! It’s my street! It was so peaceful, and me so full of peace. Walking with the staircases winding, and the tall tall tallness of these plexes, and buildings. It’s a street that was dismantled and undone – and now, paved over, smooth, no longer under construction. Like you. Or me. When we’ve ripped everything to shits, and tore out the ground from underneath but preserved some roots to the most important things while re-paving, and re-building, and gutting the place from the insides out to make better foundations that’ll last for so long, ah… that’s when you regain your calm. What was once … torn up, is rebuilt, and full of wonderment. Now how can you hate anything about life that is of your own choosing, when what you settle for was yours and your taking. Be careful about crapping on your lot or situation – you chose it to break free from some shitty predicament. But will you be brave enough? Curious enough? Hungry enough. I hope you will be because life is all about little moments like the walkabout, down the street when the sun’s gone down, and the quiet settles in on a favourite town … and you’ve nothing to do but breathe in air after exercise, grateful in your health for being able to move your thighs. And your only dilemma is what treats to eat tonight. And your only complaint is you don’t spend enough time with the ones you love and who love you back dearly, alright…

Montreal, November 25, 2019

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By the way, imagine skateboarding on the beautiful, fresh pavement?