Tag Archives: imagination


We are all alone

Unique, in our perceptions

Which live inside our minds

We can never really share the intensity or depth of colours

In rainbows that arc across each others sky

Even if we agree on names for what they are


It’s been said that in ancient Greece

There was no word for green

Yellow was yellow and blue was blue

There was never any need to hold them up to each other

They managed to build a civilization

Without a word and a concept we take for granted

Perhaps we should be envious


Really, colour is just a clever way for our brains

To display the electro-magnetic spectrum

That radiates from everything

Until we slip under the covers with dark energy

Playing footsie with the inverse of brilliance

Getting primal in the dark

Finding spaces inside spaces

Slippery spaces

That curl over and under

Until you just have to grab on somewhere and push

Frictioning a fractioned feeling into being

Which can only be described and never shared

Beyond the boundaries

Of our imaginations



David Trudel   ©  2013



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Today I won’t let my fantasies run wild

I won’t think about your open-toed sandals

Or unslipping them and raising your foot to my mouth

To kiss your high-arched instep while fondling your toes

I refuse to think about your hand reaching out to the back of my head

And pulling me close

Into the best kiss I’ve ever tasted

I won’t dream about unbuttoning your blouse

Or slipping off your bra so that I can run my tongue

First this way then that around the velvet smoothness of your aureoles

While your nipples rise to attention, which I give them

I won’t imagine my hand rubbing your crotch through your jeans

Or your hand pressing down on mine

Worrying that you want to stop my naughtiness

Until you start applying your own intentional pressure

Teaching me your rhythms and tipping points

I won’t dream about belts unbuckled and the sweet over the hip slide

Pants pooling on the floor

I won’t visualize your panties already darkly wet

Or skin shimmering with the perspiration of hot pleasure

I don’t think labial lapping thoughts today

Or wonder about the sensitivity of your clitoris to my fingers and tongue

This isn’t the day to breathe your smells into being

Or to taste you on my lips

This is a day to pull back from fantasies

To a place where smiles are just smiles and not an invitation



David Trudel    ©  2013



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Garden of Earthly Delights

When you unfocus your sight

Just so

Like staring at those 3D posters that just look chunky

Until they slip obliquely into view

For me at least, pausing in the middle of an oak grove

When I find the right unfocus

Bent and twisted branches

Transform themselves into a profusion of

Bent and twisted scenes

Where figures cavort in naked chases

Limbs akimbo

Open to the wind

I surmise that Hieronymous Bosch must have visited a grove like this

Before imagining that garden of delighted earth

That has charmed so many ever since

Except the prurient few

Who avoid gardens and earthly delights with equal displeasure

While I take the time to imagine new delights

Unraveling around me

Ancient pleasures of the bent and twisted



David Trudel   © 2013



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Feature This

Someday I’ll be the featured poet

Not relegated to cattle calls but given top billing

Even though half the audience will bleed away at the break

Narcissistic preeners who have no interest in anyone who might shatter their self image

So good riddance

The crowd that stays knows quality when they hear it

See it

They’ll table thump and shout out the next line that they’ve learnt from Youtube

Where I’ve gone gangnam viral

I’ll let my words spill over the room like the best orgasm I’ve ever had

There’ll be a roomful of nodding heads

Mouths slackjawed open swallowing every word

While I let the stains soak into sheets of pure white paper

I’ll joke about the last award I never got

Or some festival in an exotic location like Drumheller

Where there was a festschrift to dinosaurs to die for

So I wrote an ode to albertasaurus that reanimated the fossilized remains

Thereby causing the death of a dozen poets and fans

At the point of a sharp toothed grin of a hungry Barney

Who was only penned in by a hundred rhyming couplets

Which refossilized the brute

Then I’d crack open another book and the words will self combust

Singing my lips as they burn ears

Carpet bombing the room with thoughts that might be the child

The child that Rumi would have had with Isadora Duncan

Living  model homed on Tralfamadore

In another parallel universe

The next one over from the one where I’m the featured poet



David Trudel  © 2013




Filed under Poetry