15 Jan


Waking up feeling as sore as a prison bitch, I sit behind my computer with no words floating in my weary head. I wonder the various fascinations happening in contemporary music today: D’Angelo has a demo leaked of his neo soul take on Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun”; Feist has a video online of her beating up a piñata while her band gleefully plays “November Rain”; Jay-Z is recording songs with his newborn… shit, what’s next – is Iggy Pop gonna do Grace Jones. Oh wait…


Here’s an oldie but a goodie (’77):



Since I’m not going to write anything new today, I feel like extricating that pressure from myself by throwing up something discarded. Enjoy it while I find out the nutrition facts on this whiskey bottle. Going Faulkner-sober for a month tomorrow to get back to form.




She was dressed for a nuanced demise or a divorce

fitted in looming elegance

Her seductive eyes were full of acrimony

and glorification for a mute god

I stuck around because I could

because I had nowhere else to be

because she was better than alone

Now she strips and ripens  

the last drop of Campari

a touch of gin

She grows like monotony

becoming my Amazonian sedative

my last cigarette in a happy family

Her hips walked to the bed like saxophone notes

as complimentary as exploitation

and I found myself unfulfilled

just as she expected

as meaningful as a prayer at an RNC convention


no more honey for your tea, darling

this is, after all, the desinence

you can find all the evidence you need

in her sleeping breath


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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