Archive for July, 2011

more of the sentimental

31 Jul


She Told Him


Where’s that Shangri-Las record you wanted to show me?

You don’t even have a record player!


I never really loved him

Took too many pills

But I didn’t love ‘im

I was just attached

Like the world or the button sowed

I grew tired


Now I’m alright


Got anything to drink?

Since I’mma girl you take the scotch?!


Let me pour


None of my boys play the trombone

No matter what you heard

They don’t listen to Beefheart

Or wear the nice shoes he did

Leather gloves when it’s cold

As always, as he should be in the head


The heart ache is faint now

Now, now, no


I have to hold my breath to jail the hiccups

Pardon me, but

You look a bit like him

It’s the chin and the mouth above


I’m sorry

I shouldn’t talk so much


So, what do you do

With women over here?



some shit

31 Jul





We’re writers, baby

We use Stephanie Meyer for toilet paper on early mornings

We make junkies cause we’re that dope

But right now –

We’ve got to talk:

I don’t think this is working out anymore

And it is you, not me

You always buy me ties of bright colors

Shit, have you ever seen me wear a tie?

Nietzsche said that clever people are

——never credited with their follies

Well, for that, I’ll make amends

Not the first time I’ve disproven a cokehead

Which you know and likely remember


Baby, we were writers

Now I’m the only one left

No painkillers

Cause I still enjoy the pain

I like the fire

Now missing from your eyes

I like the black

Of sleepless nights spent on words

I like the music

Of our past

Now use the postern

And walk away

You know the scripting

You’ve rehearsed it before



As our bodies break

As they will

At least I’ll still have something

That I’ve created

The only, lonely left



Aside 11

30 Jul



Yo, homey – I still say that it came out better than the failed abortion of Rebecca Black.  Next time wear a bigger afro.

tired again

29 Jul



This is where the insane go to die

where the lively go to flourish

where the artists find oblivion

where the lovelorn find an empty home

we are all dazed and found in necessity

unending stagnancy

unfortunate fragrancy

this is when my seedy scrawl

becomes me


Aside 10

27 Jul


With my gums numb with Novocain instead of cocaine

I smile

With a short drink

I would like to share

Why the worst Leonard Cohen song

Is still better than anything

You or I will ever write:

enjoy “Don’t Go Home With Your Hard-On”

(forgive the unfortunate exuberance of the Phil Spector production)

(fuck the Wall of Sound)


good morning, all you lovely bastards!

27 Jul



watch her when she cries

for no reason at all

that’s the important time

in any girl

sane or not

lovely and fragile

and strong

scared to falter

watch her, man

she don’t need you


if you love her

if you know

let her cry

but be beside her


like a humble prayer

26 Jul



The blank screen screams out

“I am Prufrock!”

That fucking bastard –

I’m supposed be busy

writing a Künstlerroman

about a young man

growing through the blindness

and mediocrity and promiscuity  

(all those promises skewed)

of love to create

true pulchritude in verse.

Sing for me ladies,

I beg you –

I need each sturdy vowel

each flexible, majestic consonant.

It’s not for me

it’s for the boy.

Let the stalks whine and wilt

let the wind give no sanctuary,

but let me write.

I promise

it’s really not for me

it’s for the boy –

he needs a home

like we all do.

He needs to feel the pain

it takes to be a man

to be an artist.

This night needs to close

on something made

on some experience shared

of peace found

of a song sung

for two lives to breathe –

because that’s all we have

each other.


does it turn you on?

25 Jul



She left me a glass of scotch by the door

with a note

letting me know the route to her bedroom

to the right

down the hall


the purple cotton panties that I like

nothing else

besides the smile



I took a sip

kissed her neck

then slid into

the warmth

the womb of the bed


A Dedication and an Explanation

25 Jul



Give me five minutes to explain

A murder of crows

Surrounding the woman singing

This crowd that sets the mood

This voice that makes it cost

The commentary that makes the sound disperse

But where’s the time

To answer why I don’t rhyme anymore

Just listen to the music

Try to see why we find the morning

Try to forgive every drunken, rambling call

Write out the stanzas

Because the voice becomes the verse

Just give me five minutes to explain

Black coffee then dark beer

Light the smoke then put on your rings

Find a bit of solitude then write about it

Longingly and pitifully


Because you don’t feel it anymore

But find it still

Spend the night

But give me five more minutes

I’ll explain it all  

I’ll make you remember your own heartbeat

I’ll set the meter



and a beat… space

24 Jul


we’re all fucked


the space


another fatalistic grammatical remark


another bitch to fill a rhythm


another fucking space to make it

and another worth the while

we find it

but who’ll give a shit


Finally an End to the Day

23 Jul



No Name: 7/23/11


Romeo faces the apocalypse

——and no longer needs love

——in order to worry

——in order to die young


You’ve heard my complaints

——longer than my age

——likely now unbearable

——for the both of us


Come on now, darling

——let’s look for beauty

——let’s take the car and drive away

——we’ll quit smoking and listen to the radio instead


One day, you know, the lights will grow dim

——we’ll grow old and tired

——we’ll no longer worry about the survival of the words

——all we’ll be given will be arthritis and a glowing happiness


Rest in Peace to Amy

23 Jul



Immeasurably talented, Amy – you will be missed. We haven’t had an artist as emotionally raw as you in a long time, and likely wont have another one for a long time to come. 


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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