Archive for September, 2011

New Poem II


28 Sep

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Curiosity

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It’s a curious case

I went down to the docks

and didn’t find a whore

instead, I saw dirty men

cutting the heads of squirming fish

gutting them after the scales are taken off

It’s a curious case

how expectations turn

how days truly pass by

away

for all of us

I went down to the docks

and didn’t find a whore

instead, I discovered a river

an old one

where I could gaze at the reflection of my youth.

Yes,

it is honestly a curious case

how the smell lingers like remembrance

how the views dissolve to thought

how they all become like passing truck stops

along a highway

while you’re driving to your death

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New Poem I


28 Sep

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Rick Perry is a Daft Cunt Who Proves that Believing Jesus Saves the Hillbilly Turns One into a Republican: A Long Poem about Poverty and Love in NYC” is done. Has been sent out. Now, I took a few minutes to write some new work. Two new poems for you folks, both posted so that my being away for the next few days won’t be taken to issue.

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Fuck Augusten Burroughs

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Someone asked me about my book

I told him

yes, three years

off and on

like a slow heart

it’s hard to work

when you don’t have enough money to drink

when you don’t have a woman to love you regularly

when that pull tightens instead of setting you off

So keep waiting

it’ll be done someday

soon

maybe

and then the years will become seconds

and then the beasts will learn to read

and I’ll disappear to write something new

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A Notice Posted at 3am


27 Sep

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Finishing touches being put on

Rick Perry is a Daft Cunt Who Proves that Believing Jesus Saves the Hillbilly Turns One into a Republican: 

A Long Poem about Poverty and Love in NYC

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Those of you still twiddling, waiting to request a copy, get on it… this one is going to be a good fucking reminder why poetry used to be subtly revolutionary in the times when people still used to write.

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Just a Thought


26 Sep

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“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”

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This simple concept seems to always be true, despite that at times – people don’t seek it out, don’t care enough to find it, or see it, something alike. Romanticism, in it of itself, is dying anyway, from within like a tumor in a stomach secreting it’s painful cessation of professed eternity – it seems quite like something sophomoric and dangerous to believe in. But even if it’s an illusion – or just another casual delusion of the self-sabotaging aesthetes – it’s still something beautiful, if just enough, if just a holy lie, to believe in. 

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P.S. I apologize for the lack of new work posted. A lot of work has been maligned by my procrastination, and I’m still yet to catch up. In the mean time, you can check out my old friend’s Lydia Slavutin‘s new blog – I suggest that all of you get on her bandwagon now, while she’s still starting out as a writer, before she becomes a household name.

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After a Three Day Drunk


25 Sep

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I loved you more than life,

but that was yesterday –

Today, I want to forget you both.

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I’m out of cigarettes and any energy to turn into function. Hungover, but I still got cummings – here’s an example:

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love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

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it is more mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

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love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

——

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

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128


24 Sep

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How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,

  Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

  With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st

  The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

  Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,

  To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

  Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,

  At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand.

  To be so tickled they would change their state 

  And situation with those dancing chips,

  O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

  Making dead wood more blest than living lips,

    Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

    Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

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W.S.

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Dusty roach clip,

Why do you hide at the bottom of my cigarette pack?

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Getting stoned

Getting loaned

Finding a grin to meet the lull of dreamless night

Skinned and utterly aware

Barely a quarter for a beedi

Tired and lackluster for a decade to come

But that’s your prophecy, sweetheart

And pleasantries aside – I don’t want to owe you anything else…  

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An Excerpt for your Pleasure – JDS


22 Sep

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——–“We were on the train going to from Trenton to New York – it was just right after he was drafted. It was cold in the car and I had my coat sort of over us. I remember I had Joyce Morrow’s cardigan on underneath – you remember that darling blue cardigan she had?”

——–Mary Jane nodded, but Eloise didn’t look over to get the nod.

——–“Well, he sort of had his hand on my stomach. You know. Anyway, all of a sudden he said my stomach was so beautiful he wished some officer would come up and order him to stick his other hand through the window. He said he wanted to do what was fair…”

J.D.S.

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Aside 17


21 Sep

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The minor epicRick Perry is a Daft Cunt Who Proves that Believing Jesus Saves the Hillbilly Turns One into a Republicanis forthcoming. Done in a week.

Request your copy today.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdfkdVmmLeA

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Thank your gods for lighter fluid and witchcraft…

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Drawings from the Washington Sq. Park Shoot


21 Sep

One of the interpretive illustrations of our last drunken shoot in Washington Sq. Park, as done by the very talented artist: Rebecca Shenfeld

[Note: the censorship is mine – personal information neurotically protected]

So, let me explain how this went down. We were a few drinks down, finishing up the shoot, then this little brilliant pixie approached us and asked to draw our debauched menagerie in the process of filming. We acquiesced, she drew. The reason that you will find the excerpts from the lyrics to Bright Eyes’s – “Landlocked Blues” is because I accidentally, unknowingly cribbed some words from the song in a poem that I wrote for her (to which she added her admonishment – the “stuttering and blubbering”) – although it’s one of my favorite songs written by Conor, at that point any idea that came would have been just random drunken bursts of neurons:

Case in point. What do you think – pretentiousness or intoxication at fault?

Anyway, my thanks to Rebecca.

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Something Sentimental, Possibly Dated


20 Sep

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The Difference of Time

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I had a young love years ago

who she tasted like a tangerine;

We walked along Morning Side Park hand-in-hand,

and from time to time she nipped my neck with her lips;

I smiled and thought: ‘my lovely girl, oh – my lovely girl!

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My young love across the years became a woman grown

and now she tastes like a blood orange;

Now we walk along Central Park arm-in-arm,

and from time to time she squeezes my arm so that we can stop and kiss;

I smile and say: “my beautiful girl, oh – my wonderful girl!”

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[Dedicated to LRS ’09]

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Aside Regarding the Concept of the Muse


20 Sep

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“No Muse-poet grows conscious of the Muse except by experience of a woman in whom the Goddess is to some degree resident; just as no Apollonian poet can perform his proper function unless he lives under a monarchy or a quasi-monarchy. A Muse-poet falls in love, absolutely, and his true love is for him the embodiment of the Muse… But the real, perpetually obsessed Muse-poet distinguishes between the Goddess as manifest in the supreme power, glory, wisdom, and love of woman, and the individual woman whom the Goddess may make her instrument… The Goddess abides; and perhaps he will again have knowledge of her through his experience of another woman…”

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– Robert Graves  


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Italian epic poet Dante Alighieri figuratively walked through Hell, Purgatory and Heaven for his beloved. The Divine Comedy features Beatrice Portinari as the author’s guide through the last book of Purgatorio and the entirety of Paridisio, replacing the pagan Virgil. The real Portinari’s life was far less charmed than her literary counterpart’s, however. Born into a Florentine banker family, she only met Dante twice, though he pined for almost an entire decade between encounters. Portinari died at age 24, only a few years after marrying Simone dei Bardi, but continued charming the poet throughout his existence. And it wasn’t just The Divine Comedy upholding her memory, either. The collection La Vita Nuova bursts completely under Dante’s love — even after he himself had married and sired children.

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In Greek mythology, Erato is one of the Greek Muses. The name would mean “desired” or “lovely”, if derived from the same root as Eros, as Apollonius of Rhodes playfully suggested in the invocation to Erato that begins Book III of his Argonautica.

Erato is the Muse of lyric poetry, especially love and erotic poetry. In the Orphic hymn to the Muses, it is Erato who charms the sight. Since the Renaissance she is often shown with a wreath of myrtle and roses, holding a lyre, or a small kithara, a musical instrument that Apollo or she herself invented. In Simon Vouet’s representations, two turtle-doves are eating seeds at her feet. Other representations may show her holding a golden arrow, reminding one of the “eros”, the feeling that she inspires in everybody, and at times she is accompanied by the god Eros, holding a torch.

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Brevity, think?


18 Sep

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Run-Down

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“It is not possible to eat me without insisting that I sing praises of my devourer?”

Fedya Dostoebsky

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I’m tired of being so weary

I’m tired of going to sleep

I’m tired of waking up not at home

I’m tired of walking into my apartment and her not asking me where I’ve been all night

I’m tired of making phone calls and waiting for an answer that I don’t care about

I’m tired of the Pixies not making another album so that every goddamn hipster can shut the hell up about how innovative their band’s sound is

I’m tired of going to the same record stores, looking through the same records still swallowed by the bargain bin

I’m tired of fat white drug dealers calling me their “nigga” when I buy their weed

I’m tired of paying taxes on inhalable death

I’m tired of voting for vultures and fucking hyenas

I’m tired of the process

I’m tired of the intellectuals, just as tired as I, swaying in lubricated circles talking dreck, jerking off a snifter 

I’m tired of being drunk

I’m tired of the Brahman that didn’t come

I’m tired of the sinister smile at the liquor store, honest  

I’m tired of how they motion, and how she doesn’t know who I was with
I’m tired of sitting still

I’m tired of moving

I’m tired of insomnia

I’m tired of dreaming

I’m tired of being so weary and so healthy and so sweet

What do you think, baby, all writers aren’t the same?

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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