Archive for November, 2010


15 Nov


the THr33 moVement$

The Muse Symphonious –



I love my God, I love my girl.

Light, sweet transcendent light

Sweet god in sweet salvation…

She brings

She is…

Allows: “you love your God as you love your girl.”

She is the only revolt against the darkness within me.

The Only I have left, missing…

Paranoia –

The moon, hangman

The moon – a scythe

… the executioner of days,



Succinct in glory, speak

Like a man missing a tongue.

She walks while her dress falls

Slow motion

The velvet, black, descends to the floor.

I wait to watch my own performance.

The Muse in Repose –



She waits like a canvas or a witness

I wait to produce her words,

Which, though mine – are hers…

We speak without breaking a single movement

We touch without a single stroke



Awaiting without the benefit of doubt

As soon as she becomes


08 Nov


I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to Art. But lately I’ve been confounded by a lack of inspiration. I’m barely able to come out of my fucked catafalque to microwave myself a mini-pizza. Though this morning, while still in bed, I’ve managed to polish off an entire bottle of Evan Williams – and although it tasted like bile – it is, after all, the top of the bottom-shelf.

I’m returning to that shadow of existence where I used to be found six years ago; the place that prevented me from publishing at eighteen – an age that would have qualified me as some cuntish wunderkind of the literature industry – while instead, now I’m just another ex-junkie that writes well, who still sticks needles in his arm when he feels like mopping up any feeling of dejection with a nod, when he doesn’t feel like it’s worthwhile to work on his craft, much less thread the manuscript properly.

Some chick was so nervous hanging out with me and my friends the other day that she picked up my notebook and wrote something that she told me I had to read immediately: “I’ve wanted to sleep with you ever since the moment I first saw you”. But then again, she says she writes erotica – and aside from De Sade and Nin, no one’s really put too much eloquence into the language of that literary niche – but that sounded like a beginning simple enough to be published by some liberal art college underground press.

But, fuck! I though I was accessible enough that shit like that wasn’t necessary.

I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to Art. But lately I’ve been confounded by a lack of anything inspirational to be found in my surroundings. I thought that it was the lack of a Muse, someone specific in my mind – but it couldn’t be her. Because hers are found all around, and sometimes they wake up in my bed, and sometimes they scribble silly notes in the pages of my notebooks.

She was worth it, they weren’t – but all in all (as Cobain put it – is all we are) they are of similar origins, shapes, wants, needs, intentions. They all choose to find a way to influence me, my life – thus my Art… until they no longer want to do it anymore. Although, I understand – as an artist I’m only an ex-junkie that writes well; one that still sticks needles in his arm when he wants to mope in a nod. When he wants to make-believe that lethargy is as comforting as death.

Some chick used to be my Art. Everything I wrote – I though of her in my words. But it can’t be like that anymore. Of course I’m scared that the work won’t work the same way. I just wanted to love someone, because it was a rare experience that was worthwhile; loving someone and describing that feeling through an overwrought vocabulary. Even while I write this I think of her. But it can’t be like this anymore.

It’s time to get up. Out of bed.


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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