In Dark Again

In Dark Again

There is a false security that comes
from watching a police car
drive by in the night.

The lights comforting
glowing
and then fading into dark again.

And then it leaves
and your in darkness again
realizing help won't check back for a while.

-Matthew Koutzun

Words from an Asshole

Words from an Asshole

I'm puckered for you
after 2 hours of teasing.
My lips tensed
infront of your face.

I'm the man in the corner.
The one mother never warned about,
because I hid in layers of ambiguity;
a smile under a smile.

My body sways
from the constant amount
of courage
I drank down with force.

Oh, I'm oh so vulnerable:
what can I do?
Maybe you can help
these poor old lips of mine.

And you do-

And I laugh inside again.
Oh, how the weak
control the strong;
handling the gate.

-Matthew Koutzun

Filter in a Vacuum

Filter in a Vacuum

Cleaning the filter of my mind,
my eyes irritated at something in them: water.
All the sad things I've heard,
and the troublesome things I've seen;
Cleaning the filter of my mind.

-Matthew Koutzun

Sex Advice from Margaret

Sex Advice from Margaret

Dear Margaret;
What do I do?
He won't lift my spirits
with the right hand of God,
nor take my soul
into the pit of his.
I cannot understand
how a woman,
sensitive though I am,
cannot find hope
inside of him.

Dear Reader;
He can't levitate the bed.
He can't jump through hoops.
Just be happy
he can find where to stick it.

-Matthew Koutzun

Entry

Entry

Coming home
to the ruckus.
Enter a doorway
past world.
Time passes
awkward.
Take me back
to when we smiled
silent.

-Matthew Koutzun

Paper Aeroplanes

Paper Aeroplanes

I never knew a paper areoplane could carry someone so far;
folded out of mere plain paper, lined, coloured or constructed.
Someone, even so heavy or light as yourself, could fly off in it.
But in rain it folds in on itself, bat from the thin air it caressed.
A lump of pulp and it flies no more- neither it's passenger again.
I knew it wouldn't carry someone far,
but it, at least, carried them halfway.

-Matthew Koutzun

My Confession in Prose

My Confession in Prose

One day or another it was going to happen, so let it be today. I'm tired of indirectly trying to lead you to my insides through broken verse and mishapen song. I have to be direct now it seems; with you and myself, and I do it prose because I can't hide from truth any longer.

I've been searching for love all this time, never knowing where it could be, or how it is made, or how one obtains it. No matter how hard I've searched and how far I've lead you to follow me on my journey I've never been able to coax it out of me nor have you. So, I'm direct now, or am I misleading again?

I've looked at everything, across information's highway, and through the people I've met and many more I've met from afar, watching their actions, trying to dissect their ways- but still have come no closer to finding anything that resembles them in myself. From the highway, I've searched every esteric and erotic thing known to man and have felt nothing from picture, image, colour, or sound; from illusion to disillusion, there is nothing that has stirred anything in me.

Sure, my white hot comes from me now and then but it passes by without thought to whats really present. I feel genderless and sexless without a drive to call a home. Nothing to move nor distinguish me in a power driven world.

From violence to peace I've searched, perhaps love was found in pain I once thought, and couldn't stand the blood unnessecary, and in peace I could not find any pace or romantisism to stir affection into stagnant and thrusting lust.

Oh, I've done it now, with shaking hands on plastic keys, I've spewed it all out for everyone to see again (and I thought a confession would be longer. But like a climax, it's power is perhaps in it's quick and concise nature.)

Now to think: how to change it all?

-Matthew Koutzun

Translucancy: A day

Translucancy: A day

Held up to light
transparancy to brillance,
a red glow fired
in the heat of a sun.
A cold breeze froze it
and a steady hand opened it,
and a passionate quake tore it apart.
Took to seed
and green in season- grow.
Yellow mists of mourning,
when the sun brings back brillance.
Oh, begin again-
hold it out once more.

-Matthew Koutzun

How To Tell

How To Tell

Hitting the lit crossroads I see Poverty:
her: cross legged
blanket covered
multi-layered clothes-
barely warm still.
She speaks to a "City Ambassador"
(It says so on his jacket, while on one knee)
They speak,
him asking her what she wants.
"Release," she says,
"release,"
something to end all of this:
her,
and the people around her.
It could all go away she says.
Perhaps forever.
I stand listening
waiting for the white man to grant me crossing.
I should act:
bending down,
both her and the ambassador
bewildered-
as I kiss her.
Lips locked.
Teeth clashing.
Saliva mixing.
Permanence.
I stand again,
tears welling as I speed my way across,
the hand flashing red,
but pacing faster anyways- away.
She stands- all smiles- screaming- waving:
"That's how we'll save the world boy!
With love.
With love!"
Walking faster- harder;
need to wipe it all away-
need to get away-
how to tell a girl she now has hepatitis C?

-Matthew Koutzun

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