Talking to women

Talking to women

On the bus,
condensation fills the windows;
sticky and humid vail
from breath captive.
The rain outside beats-
I know it's there
but I want to see it
for myself.
I reach out,
wipe away moisture shadow-
gone: I see what I see everyday;
my hand wet- cold.

-Matthew Koutzun

Untitled Broken Poem

While looking through an old small note book, that I have been using throughout the four productions I've been apart of at Vancouver Film School, I stumbled on a really wierd poem that I only now actually remember writing. I remember writing it during our second production "Weekended" in which I was the Assistant Director. I was extremely tired since it was such a begiling process to organize a full shoot, but one that was fun and informative none the less. I give to you the original scan of the poem, for prosterity, since the tired design I believe is sort of important to the piece- especially since I wrote it with my head down, eyes barely open. I also give you the typed version which will be much easier to decypher since I can barely read my own writing in this piece. But here it is for your viewing pleasure.


And typed:

Untitled Broken Poem

Lied to you
with the ice white
sheets.
You thought they said
love is under there.
The images they showed you
told you that.
Now the sheets are
moist.
What shit.
Love over coffee
under sheets
or cafe roof
taken or given
from a grinder.
still hated.

-Matthew Koutzun

I still think it's odd looking back at it. Don't even remember the original train of thought that might have taken me there. But take from the scan what you can because I don't know how it was structured. I think that's why this one excites me.

Making Noise -or- Unpleasurable Happiness

Making Noise
-or-
Unpleasurable Happiness

Wood on Silver-
Wood on silver-
A metalic clank repitous on steel.

Shine, and coil-
force and effect-
small arms direct.

A look from above-
smashing noise-
a coy smile below.

A musician in the making,
they'll say-
a quake in the heart for most.

-Matthew Koutzun

Untitled - or- Sing of Fire

Untitled -or- Sing of Fire

Inspiration comes in bursts,
Song from Hell
sprang from it and spontoninity.

A tang- a ping- a voice- an urge.

Song from Hell,
sung from such sweet lips
looking so much like my own.

Tune from the Underworld,
lull me into security,
false or even true.

That scares me more.

Oh, expire me to your song;
so sweet in ears
so sweet to sleep to.

Take me home,
fire and brimstone
is where I was bore.

I cry- I weep- I tear- I was.

I was not made of light-
like the others,
but I walked with them anyway.

Thought I could learn how to behave;
to be like them
and fit from shadow.

But trying never was doing.

Now, Song from Hell; chiming.
I am coming home.
Started and now I end.

Wrap around me warmth,
burn me till I am no more,
make my fears be true:

if I am consumed there is nothing more of me.

-Matthew Koutzun

On Stage at the Orpheum Theatre

On Stage at the Orpheum Theatre

Sing,
terrible voiced boy.
Crack a note,
noteworthy to shaken head man across the room.
Deepen the pitch,
in hopes a girl across will catch the throw.

Oh,
red faced child,
it's not so bad
it is what resides within your house
the one that you look from
those windows- eyes.

Pluck a string,
cause that vibration trouble,
bang a drum,
create earthquake noise,
hold a breath,
to create silence beat.

Constuction demolished,
a tune in need of tune-up,
oh, boy,
it's not so bad,
being honest to the crowd-
the loneliest people are the ones who overspoke the truth.

You just sang.
No harm, none done.
Sing more,
shake heads,
someone will like.
And that's only the start.

-Matthew Koutzun

Honour

Honour

The hardest part of honouring a good-bye,
is acknowledging when not to say hello.

-Matthew Koutzun