Tag Archives: perception


My Cain and Abel are my words

Battling for the give and take of perception

They circle themselves

Poised to lash out or swiftly defend

I have used words as shields

I have hidden behind their illusion

Used the ambiguity of meaning and intent

To prevaricate and dissemble

Not from deviousness

But unconsciously

Or to mask my own fear and insecurity


Yet I find great joy in words

They are my playground and delight

Dancing meaning into dialogue

Reinventing clouds into rain

Or mining seams of elemental truth

I turn words into bouquets

Or scrawl them on signposts and sidewalks

Like some mad tagger

Illuminating the gray sameness

Of blank canvasses at midnight


Eventually the words turn me

Into a question

That I cannot answer

Feeling walled in

By the discreteness of each definition

Stamped out by our shared accommodation of

Conventional language

Which isn’t drunken shouts of expense account delegates

But a common delusion

That we can trade perceptions

Without trading our inner selves

Uncentering from each private strand of individuality

Into some union of sameness

Believing that words can be shared with exactitude

Forgetting the magical glow of transitory sunsets

And how impossible it is to grasp that moment

Let alone use words to describe the indescribable



David Trudel    © 2013



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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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In my interregnum standing timeless

Watching the evolution of madness spin this world

Unpledged to any vested interest or reward

Judging only what I see and understand

Watching the evolution of madness spin this world

Freedom needs solitude to expand into perception

Judging only what I see and understand

Drifting in uncharted waters

Freedom needs solitude to expand into perception

An adventure counted in smiles

Drifting in uncharted waters

Where anyplace you get to

An adventure counted in smiles

Is a destination in itself

In my interregnum standing timeless

Unpledged to any vested interest or reward



David Trudel  © 2013



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These are not the right words

Write words

These are just approximations

These are consignment store words

Worn by others and cast away

A little threadbare and faded

The words I’d like to use don’t exist

I need to cut new cloth and stitch them together

But the closest thing to an atelier in my mind

Is memory

So I take the easy way and use these indicators

To proxy my feelings and perceptions

Instead of inventing new words

New language

To transmit the feelings that flow through and over me

Or the look in your eyes when we’re nose to nose

A blink away from eternity

I can’t capture a sunset or a surprise

Not that I’d want the responsibility of taking prisoners

I prefer wild freedoms to careful domesticity

So I use wrong words for write reasons

Approximations of shadows rounded up or down

Calculated words that hold a caricature of truth

Approximations of what I’d like to say



David Trudel    ©  2013




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Ideals are always hard to live up to

Our mainstream ideal of womanhood is a false construct

Dreamt up by gay fashion designers in Paris, London and Rome

Who like the skinny hips of adolescent boys better than voluptuous curves

So they starve the girls into scraped and angled versions of an unreachable vision

And photoshop the images into Barbie doll perfection

Leaving countless women in despair

Because they have hips that are real

Shapes that are round and soft

Curves that flow

Breasts that function and nurture and don’t just titillate

So let’s celebrate the curves of real women

Who aren’t molded in plastic

And whose reality needs no airbrushing

Because real women are eternal

And ideal


David Trudel  © 2013



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