Archive for January, 2014

Reading Announced

30 Jan


Reading Announced:

I’ll be doing a set at the Street Poets NYC Open Mic tomorrow night

80 Vernon Ave. (Off the Myrtle & Willoughby G stop)

7pm – 2am

21+ Show, $10 Cover (includes free “Poet’s Punch”)



(short story) love

28 Jan



Short Story (Love)


            The only truly beautiful landscape he’d ever seen on this earth was her face as she slept, wrapped up in dreams of mirror neurons and other empathetic things. She loved him for the grotesqueries of his past, and how despite them he had too many eyelashes to look dangerous.

            “You know, it’s what they say – the only second chance we get is to make the same mistake twice – so, think you want to make another mistake with me?” He smiled and brushed the backs of his three middle digits across her left cheek.

            She took his hand, which trembled slightly now, and kissed the scar on it she didn’t remember, as though trying to discover what brought him here, for her.


(always for you)


Anton Newcombe

25 Jan



Anton Alfred Newcombe



This is the mercy of my idyll:

that which grew paved over

by bruised hands beaten

from above and from below


creating your new soil

for the next generation of princes

waiting to get FUCKED…


            with green eyes

            cocaine chopped up on the table

            (better than a shot of speed

                        or an espresso

            to keep one motivated)

            they lick it off in order to spawn and spire

Oh, the lovely urban bohemians, raw pain –

everything that comes out sounds either pretentious or honest

theoretically mutually exclusive by definition

but much different in practice,

to wit:

a jug of piss, a vein of vinegar

a heap of clairvoyance,

burning, Hegel writing about sublation on my wall

(not the digital one, the one standing sturdy and tall)

the giest dancing through the microfiche

with the two replicas close by

they touch each other, smoke enters

in and out

out and in

and I say

“if this is the dream sequence,

I don’t want to move pictures


but hey, don’t worry – you can stay

– you’re one of the Germans I do like…”

(both misunderstood)


The Taco Bell of Lyric Poetry

24 Jan



toothpaste (eat your religious figures)


all we have at the end of the day is our seemliness and our self-respect, but fortunately for me it was the morning, marring me like a smith, and I was nursing one of those perfect hangovers that makes one feel as though they were on the fast-track to sainthood

my ante meridian ablutions commenced around seven

the water ran through my fingers like a debut

through the pipes of the sink it sang

but I knew the melody was ending

the bob of the de Musset rhythm was subsiding

and my head stabilized   

finis coronat opus in the steam of the new day

and yet the mirror revealed

that I had toothpaste residue

on the right, and usually quite deferential,

terminus of my moustache

–  and now I had decisions to


my apathy strained me when


the endurance it would require

to wet my hand again

and brush it off

then rewash said hand

and then, lamentably, drying also takes some time –

maybe, since this toothpaste hues green

I’ll embrace it and

reintroduce it as performance art –

I’ll add a dab

of a little moisturizer too

as tender as a drop of sauce as surfactant

on the tip of my left cheek

right where it meets the skin that rides the zygomatic slope

I’ll let them both stay

like friends with nowhere else to go

and simply let the world

feast on us

at will


Remuneration or Rations

16 Jan



pop tune on the radio, tea with the pinky up


I’ve seen a little girl as pale as the blind sun

with death in her belly growing like a whip on skin

she dreamt of cool ice cream under warm banana syrup

and she smiled the way that children do


I’ve seen a man who’d wronged a few

have cheap vodka poured on scowling wounds

that stung at him worse than false contrition could

making him writhe in pain and bad alliteration


gurgling, bubbling up

they tattooed a pen on my right hand

so that I don’t forget my trade

Hell, they say, is somewhere down in Norway


I’ve eaten mashed potatoes and met God

the experiences seemed much the same

to me, a sentimental heathen

made nostalgic by a company of beasts


I’ve met with masters and made men

killers, tyrants, bankers, those of leisure, monsters of all stripes

drunken magi, magistrates, swine-bellied Masons without secrets

miserable scoundrels with good taste

the beggars were my favorite, waiting for a Christmas and a christ

they’d freeze in the park while ya’ll passed by

talking of westbound trains and music


gagging, bursting out

they tattooed some numbers too so I remember deaths and births

but when I’m at my best, I don’t remember nothing but a taste of her I lost

(and yet) Hell, they say, is somewhere down in Norway


No Swimming

14 Jan





call me when you want me again

just don’t wait too long this time

because losing a name

happens so quickly these days

and as I write this

I’m watching a timeworn man

wading through green thickets

led by hardened nerves and a rope

that webs through this sea of trees

like solifugae silk

suddenly he halts and looks grievously at the camera

the flashing red demurs a second take  

he points to an overgrown bush by his feet

and says that she left a note and a hand mirror

before she took her life

another name disappears for an empty reflection

so, please

call me when you want me again

you know it gets lonely in this space

there’s too much freedom here to be wasted in

the screen smiles like a dead televangelist

inviting me

fanged and fangled as a crackhead in the L.A. sun

to fill its emptiness with my ambition

but I’d rather be in your bed, baby 

completing something worthwhile again   

in our room that they only built for two



11 Jan



PROTEST (Janus Ponders)



legion of


unified by ideology

need to die


to change the minds of


(protest, provoke, then wait for pity)


hope is hope in peace

but, unfortunately


is hope with tired, bloodied hands

and the tears of the choiceless

preaching against violence

before another execution

for your evening broadcast  


my peers

with puffed out chests

talk of revolution

in the sanguine classrooms of open minds  

without knowing the difference

between death, politic(k)s and murder

without seeing what it looks like

smells like

feels like

the way it’s due to infest and haunt

there’s no more Panthers (despite what you may have heard on FOX News)

no more SDS

just us

the weary and the hungry ones

to question our history books

to work for a better world

but yet, like all the rest

I just don’t know how

to salvage this savage howl

of bad and worse decisions


Reading Scheduled

07 Jan


Will be doing a reading of new material this Friday, January 10th at the Brooklyn LaunchPad

(721 Franklin Ave, Brooklyn, NY)


No Cover ($5 Suggested Donation)

*BYOB (Bring Your Own Bourbon)*



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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