Archive for October, 2012

Sandy by Candlelight (Part II)

29 Oct



and if I stopped writing about you


and if I stopped writing about you

would you denounce me

turn celibate

smoldering long in a dress the color of coal

and aberrations

and if I stopped writing about you

would you forgive me

turn callous about the work

watching me hunt for words as cruel as ivory

and the eyes of the rest of the elephants in mourning

and if I stopped writing about you

would you still stay

keep on existing

turning around as sensuously as bread and bankruptcy

and the birds you conjure up to caper like sweet aurora

that keep me awake

still writing

searching for new topics

that will erase themselves politely

as easy as gasoline

and a short vacation in Bhutan

where you wore your moccasins to walk

as gently as fleeting orison



Sandy by Candlelight

28 Oct



                          Detective Story                     


            Which of us is searching now?

            Which one of us drew the short coke straw to play the role of the one found? Were you looking for me while I was looking for you? I’ve been writing like a mirthless Dashiell Hammett. We should have gotten together just to save time. But we were always restless and careless about how time dangled.

            Too depressed to function outside of a few months at a time.

            Now it is September in the end of the unfinished Hemingway novel, but it is already mid-October over here. And she threw out his stories and his clippings and he grew bored with her madness and took the dark girl for a ride along the Spanish countryside.

            There are lines and contradictions that made us consider the practicability of our fantasies. Because you know what they’ll all say: “not again”, “she’ll destroy you this time around”, “isn’t it time for something new?”

            They don’t know that I’ve gone through the new and the old and the other like an eager chronologist. Get the condoms for free, when you don’t have money and the Duane Reed-time to waste while they’re fumbling for the keys to open the glass case by the pharmacy aisle, in Village gay bars. In and out. They don’t seem put off. They want to be helpful and see if I want a drink. But, no, I have places to get to. Leather-adorned, festive company wouldn’t cheer me up. I have to go and find her.

            Restless and careless about how time dangled.

            In the memories that faded I’ve forgotten her skin as it glistened displaying the caveat emptor asseveration, like a clinical bit of risk meant to frighten and to arouse, like a religious observation perverted underneath my heathen fingertips. I guess this is why simple people freely admit that dangerous situations excite them.

            I kissed the line of her back years ago searching for further clues along its curlicue. I though for once I had an answer. A lovely Arcadia in our bed, wild as her hair on late mornings, where Pan is serving drinks.   

            But she finds a new truth about once in a season. This one a crumpled dollar bill breaking the pill into a powder. I submit and kiss her like a paternal blizzard.

            We’ve been building towards a savage cold, but we might find a night to be warm. It will get here with the approaching storm.

            Exposed then covered in my arms and my new words; because it’s been so long, and I have nothing else to add. Just old promises to reiterate.

            So, I’ll smoke a cigarette after a dirty dream and play that Leonard Cohen record from the year you were born and laugh a bit at a coincidence that isn’t particularly funny. I’ll remind you that they’ll never catch us – and each new day will be like primetime, like a gelastic cavalcade of freedoms pawned to us for a few pieces and gold chains.



The Trip (Ignis Fatuus)

21 Oct



 Ignis Fatuus


            I took a trip last night where I discovered that we are all passing saints, tired and endless; that some become demonic sprites that spire out in the dark like meteors mistaken for a game of Cee-lo by deities addicted to taking chances with the world, reflected in all of us.

            I discovered that some need to take on paternal roles during communal hallucinations. That some need to be taken care of, protected when they’re at war with their minds. It is the last battlefield left for the hedonistic pacifist.

            Now I am left to remember what I saw.

            A lightning storm of sound that came from her mouth.

            Wet. A wonderful hubris of irrelevant bullshit. Something spoken about the relevance of silence. That time of the night.

            A spliff to bring it all together when it all moves around you.  

            And then I write in the dark:

            “I miss you more

            is the most tender thing that a man

            can ever give to a woman.”

            I don’t know whether I woke up while I was already awake, whether I became rejuvenated or merely forgetful.

            And then the recusant morning.

            And then the discussion of that which we think we saw together, apart.

            And then breakfast. Coffee. Toast. Capitalism, insurrection, hope, resistance, the way she danced, rare as the body that fits yours, golden, memorial, boring.   

            I miss you more. And if that is a revelation then was this all a foolish fire or have I finally been brought back. The future began through a fever and the stroke of a pen.



Making Mistakes Until They Inject the Lights

15 Oct





it’s been years since I’ve been intrigued

writing a poem about a meta dream weeping into waking

but this morning is like a greenhouse in the days of wine and roses

and a girl with her ruffled hair in tawny locks is rushing to me on an early F train

like a coke rush coming along a Brooklyn route

an otiose spark in an uninterrupting nocturne

with a flask paunchy from malted barley and an epicurean spontaneity

that cools me like a lost fur in those last years

where every day is Tuesday


I Guess It’s Time to Educate Like Cunnilingus that Resembles a Zinger From Heathcliff

08 Oct



Although I will never apologize for offending anyone with anything I’ve ever written – because I don’t care much for the sensitive types that can’t take the time to read through into the intended meaning of something I’ve ever published here and will instead only get themselves foolishly riled up by a few four letter words I might have chosen to sprinkle in here and there like paprika to spice up a crowded text – I will say this instead:


Though certain things written here are composite sketches of people that I know; exaggerated, abstracted and lovingly manipulated so as to seem amusing or tempting or entertainingly subversive, they are never exact replications of their biographical realities. But if I ever write about a hypothetical person and call them “humorless” or “only of mediocre creative capacity” or “a good fuck but barely memorable outside of your imaginative use of hot sauce” or “full of a self-assuredness that can only be a later hindrance” and you see yourself in these lines – you should probably take a look inward, rather than at me. Most likely, that wasn’t about you, you arrogant child. I do not think about you when I write, because someone who takes themselves so seriously can only be a target of easy mockery and I am not in the easy mockery business. I create what I see as Art. I write because I am a writer and because I am capable of capturing the world for myself and for others in a surrealist, lyrical, acute perspective that seems to make more sense than the senseless reality we’re sifting through on our way to the next inevitably meaningless plateau. Enjoy it and learn to take a fucking joke – you should see how funny Freud found that one about the pedophile and Catholic priest at the petting zoo after he shot an eight-ball. Dennis Leary once said in his stand up set (likely stolen from the far superior comic writer Bill Hicks) that life is composed of little pleasures: “it’s a cigarette butte, or a chocolate chip cookie or a five second orgasm. You cum, you smoke the butte, you eat the cookie, you go to sleep, wake up and go back to fucking work the next morning – that’s it, end of fucking list!” All relatively meaningless in the mesmerizing quandary that is the universe and our shared existence within it, especially if we consider the span of this meandering sea that we call time. So, trust me, you are feckless too in this futile schism of the revoltingly revolving unimportant – meaningless to me and to the apathetic world. The people who still nest inside my head are all mere ghosts now, trust me – and ghosts aren’t real. Go get laid and forget about it.



But just in case, for the ones who are slow and unnecessarily delicate – I have provided a notice in bar to the right of you regarding the fictitious nature of all work published on this site. You’re welcome, you touchy cunts!



Do Lawyers Have a Sense of Humor?! Hire the Filthiest Fucker You Can Find.

06 Oct



            Working on a Nickelodeon show for a week: already shooting coke in the office bathroom at 8am while everyone is circling the kitchen coffee pot brewing slowly like the CIA around a Mexican cartel that believes in the preservation of free market capitalism, already known as the raging alcoholic of the kids-animation scribes’ facility on the 7th floor with bags under his eyes and blood along the whites like hostilities in snow – at least, now Spongebob isn’t the only drug addict in the building.

            But with steady money coming in, I’m getting the anniversary sex like Obama every night, that’s why I’m looking distracted and a little nodded like it was four years ago.

            And speaking of heroin – the Yankee postseason is coming up tomorrow as the constant TBS commercials prophesize – so, fuck Baltimore! Lets do it in three games, get it up and get it on like you were Gaye or Heavy D.  

            Now it’s time for a glass of milk and a splash of vodka down my gullet. I think there’s some Canadian hash coming in this week and Robbie and I will be sleeping outside on his balcony again like we were tech-junkies waiting for an Apple product.

            Sleep is not required, but October is getting cold.

            Where will we be in a month?  


Closing down Barnes & Noble once they hear that Tumult is starting to read there…


She’ll Get You Exaggerated, Just Stay Away

04 Oct



an offering, obtusely


a couple of dreamers

stretched like party streamers

worn out by a long holiday


we were the decorations

resting hushed on the couch

but when I spoke

it was as though there was a purdah separating us

and you couldn’t really see me clearly

and couldn’t stand it

and then misunderstood

so after I walked to the bathroom

you knocked too quickly

and walked in stubbornly

“to talk about art”

without panties to make you stumble

across the point you wanted to make

and after it was all done

the edible woman wept

because her fig turned into desire

with no tongue erudite enough to taste its fruit


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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