Nick the Art Kid


Nick the art kid

Who introduced me to whorehouses and cocaine

Showed me that hedonism was a sinless path

That pleasure was the only true pleasure

And that we live inside a dream


We would dance all day

Bacchanalia tunes


While slurping spilled wine off the floor

There were togas on every body

It stunk of bisexual hormones due to 

The tongues in everyone’s mouths


The horny art kids would ******* up against each other

It would get too hot in the room, especially once the molly kicked in

So we would have to escape to Nick’s dorm

Crunch up some caffeine pills and snort them

Tell the crowd we were giving each other head

Because we didn’t like to share


We’d be all like

Whatever this

Whatever that

It was a couple of kids

With edgy black hair and tight jeans

Playing shitty punk rock at the local dive

We would set up the shows, collect at the door

Spread word so that people would

See what we were about


Whatever that was about

None of it meant a thing once the high wore off




I got attention

I’ve got attention

   I’ve got attention

I’ve got

Attention has got

Me all because

I guessed she likes to be pet?

Like a dog, a golden retriever she said

I’ve got attention cause she likes to be pet


I left Siberia a couple days ago

Trying to find myself in

Rural white trash

East York


Found this alley way

That reminded me of the mazes

Verbal and geographical, I remember

I’m in East York and I –

An opportunity to indulge


East York baby I do have to say

The people are sick and they don’t talk shit

This is my place to stay


The band and I

Ziggy, Iggy, Boogie and me


We’ll beat those bongos

Until the street smells like gasoline and nicotine

I’ll be singing in the mic while holding some heart

Feel its beat pulse into my wrist

Into my shoulder into my neck

And throw it into the crowd


Found myself in between her legs at St. George

Still overthinking everything

Am I just some dumb mule

Slobbering for piddle

What absurd mannerisms we’ve locked ourselves into

Why even bother trying out for the football team

Oh you sly son of a bitch you


She trusts me so she shows me some music

I’m pretentious about my music

I can’t help but laugh sometimes




Thunder and


See, look outside,

     now it’s dry


Sun down

Rain fall,


Vicious cycle, I

                            want to rest

Wake up ready to watch rain fall


We’ve stood here for hours

Waiting for the rain to transform into something

That better resembles the space between Earth and Heaven

My beret won’t keep your head warm, it’s just an accessory

What am I doing with it?

I’m trying to be a poet, I guess

She said she could see why that would drive me crazy


ugh, fuck you

fuck you and your nonsense


I spend most of my days escaped in daydreams

Like a lady of shallot

Looking through a mirror

     pointed at the city thinking

How nice it would have been to have

Walked under that sunset


So delicately blue, a 

     slight fire brewing within the clouds

I have too much more to write to be out


Tell me what my nightmares mean

What horrors have I bottled away, deep

Only to spill out when I least need them to

Really? Ruin the alien? For what? A chance to win?


You look like such a lovely person in photos

The type of person I’d like to try to keep warm on a January night

You make me want to play major 7th chords

While catching strawberries with my mouth

Like a Venus fly trap closing its mouth on prey

Slow and vicious


I’m scared that you’re more self-centred in real life

You come across like you’re obsessed with yourself

She said she feels stepped on by everyone around her

So she felt the need to compensate

I’m sorry that so many people have stepped on you

I’m wearing heavy boots

But I’ll tread lightly when I’m walking around

Just help me get rid of the bad dreams

And I’ll let you in on a secret meditative technique

Close your eyes, fade away into the black, and contemplate blindness



At first, the music makes me feel out of body

In moments of pain

The closest thing I have to escaping

Where I am, who I am

On subsequent listens, it brings me back to that moment

And in my current pain, I long for those simpler times

Happiness is an illusion, you do get that don’t you?


Music, right?

Music is why we do any of this

Music is all that brings us together

I felt the rift form

Once we were all in our rooms

Listening to music privately, separate

Our dissimilitude too large

For us to try to force it all together


Now you listen to house and I listen to outsider music

You like songs without vocals

And I think that the pain in the voice

Can grab you

  Can stab you


I can’t get myself out of the loop

Of sad song after sad song

Why am I so addicted to the melancholy?

Why do I live in the sadness?

Will anyone ever be able to put up with me?


It’s all so empty, what I find myself working towards

Being put up with

We aren’t inherently worthy of anything

We need to earn it somehow


And that part hurts a little

I showed promise and I failed to deliver

It was an unfair trade-off, what you and I had

Now I see it wasn’t me that was duped


That really was a nice day we had

When we first were discovering the area

I remember feeling like I could

really make a home out here

going through a maze of alleys with you

It was a little escape from my responsibilities at the time



I’ll drain away into this bed

Marijuana psychosis rotting away

Fat from fast food and

Chill consuming chronic

I’ll rot away like a corpse

My eyes dangling out of their sockets

Foaming, an angry, almost gnarly hue of yellow

Thinking whether or not I had been abducted into a strange world when I was younger

A circus  for freaks, botanical wonder, so many colour choices

I didn’t know which one to pick


I stewed in it for so long

That I’ve become like old Titus

Saturn devouring his son

In rich HD I tear apart at the baby cow

By candle side, slathering it with garlic butter

A romantic feast for one


What did you show me and what did it do to make me feel this way?

I’m draining it away

  I’m smoking it away

    I’m pray it away

I wonder if I’ll go to hell

When this is all over

I haven’t been too negative a force on the world

But what if society as a whole is nothing more than compounded plasticine?

what if it really is the choice between suffering and hell

Is that what you consider a life free of partying to be?



What then do I do when I see St Peter

I’m dreaming, aren’t I

In the large brass chair

Buzzing with electricity and brimming with flowers

I beg thee Peter

I beg thee

Trotsky Pliskigate

Trostky is a writer who enjoys all that is beautiful and poetic in life. He enjoys taking long, winding walks in the attempt to stumble upon some new poetic phraseology that’ll make readers quiver. Trostky was born and raised in the snowy outskirts of Toronto. Trotsky wasn’t breastfed as a child; this has made him feel insignificant to other boys in his age group. Trotsky hopes to one day feel warm without the assistance of narcotics or a jacket. In Nick the Art Kid, Trotsky explores the many feelings and events perpetrated by his alternative campus life. Stumbling through this Hunteresque narrative, Trotsky writes as his conception of his friends and his habits shift into something uglier than how he initially interpreted. Will hedonism ever leave him feeling fulfilled? Probably not, but at least he has this cool poem to show for the mess.

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