i sat in the shack, above waters,
never such a simple structure

we waited for the lines to move,
for the fishes to bite
currents racing away from ontario
to St Lawrence.

how simple the gesture.

I have never dipped my hand in the St Lawrence River,
but I picture it cold.

Out in St Lambert, they were foreign to the city
or were we?

Les Anglais, they always hear Lawrence when its Laurent or Laurence,
don’t they? They butcher it don’t they?

Here, I have used your language so,
so much so, that I have forgotten my own.

Perhaps the waters, in spring, will no longer be ice cold.
Perhaps one day, I’ll return back, one of their own.

Our lady martyr,
miraculously found in year 800
had hair 800 years long.

Of her skin,
they extracted oils,
removed her fingers
and placed them in a glass.

Our Matron Catherine,
our virgin saint,
swore of her living,
to forsake.

Herself only,
to one wiser,
wealthier,
and more handsome
than herself, only 14.

Our lady,
Catherine of Alexandria
in all sacrifice, remains
near the foot of St Lawrence
where blossoms voluptuous
short lived loves, the same.

Red Light District by Marie Jane by The Room 22

I wish I could say that Zoe K was a room 22 lovechild. Proudly holding her up for the world to see. Her little musical fingers and gorgeous voice putting all the other children to shame. Despite my deranged fantasy, I can happily say that Zoe is a good friend of 22 and an excellent musician. Beautifully damned be those who catch one of her rare sets in Montreal. Here lies a video to accompany her music. Its metamorphosized numerous times but i’m happy it’s finally settled. And with any luck we’ll collaborate on future projects strange and lovely.

V3IL

Lawrence, dearest,
in redistribution you
appointed riches to the needy.

At the heart of the river,

you certainly must have
swallowed more than one life,
while providing for masses.

At the heart of the river,

lies the jewels of Saint Lawrence.
Surely the church is truly rich,
far richer than your emperor.

Dearest Lawrence,
you’ve had men race on logs, in your waves
and at this time of the year,
you’re ice up like a crème brulée!

*He suffered! He was roasted!

Lawrence: The Martyr by Marie Jane by The Room 22

Ours, alive as ever,
does not foam,
nor scream,
nor yearn in ardent ebbs.

Lawrence, how docile!
How did you come to such silence?

Lawrence,  it seams
even the French have discarded you.

Our Lawrence by Marie Jane by The Room 22

I, engaged to silence.
In silence, our bodies succumb,
I swear, I could not grasp this warmth, even as it burns.

There is no light as that of January,
such greys only known to madness.

All, but lukewarm waters.

Do you feel this invasion, as I?

I remain unsure if I am of those who invade
or the invaded.

In myself, a reconciliation of language
begins with forgiveness.

It is our hill after all, which bears a cross.