Archive for March, 2014

cigarette break


27 Mar

————–

————–

honey

 

… as much as you’re a lost cause

I am one too

yet I still can’t get over you

 

hurt me, hurry

I’m not going to stay for too much longer

inside this life as an Ibsen play

as soon as my train is here

purring

I’m on my way

an unintended rhyme

conjures horror

and shame

and the dust of an untended ghetto

a tender ballad on soft breath

slowly fading

slowly fading

slow

———–

A Triumvirate of Shows


26 Mar

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3/26 Wed: The last Suvoz Salon (122 1st Avenue, btwn 7th st. & Astor)

8PM – 11PM (FREE)

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3/27 Thurs: PORNOETRY Showcase (459 Myrtle Ave.)

7PM – Whenever ($10 Cover)

—————-

3/28 Fri: Street Poets NYC “Forward March” Thee Open Mic

(email RSVP@StreetPoetsNYC.com for location and password)

7PM – 2AM ($10 Cover – includes FREE Poets’ Punch)

—————

finite, you know it, and he told me…


24 Mar

————–

————–

the last kiss

 

the last kiss

becomes an egoistic memory

because it is one

that she will have no means

to remember

I,

on the other hand,

rushed to her hospital bed

out of lack of things to do

and

because I wanted to imprint myself

into her next step

be in the darkness with her

become a part of it

a continuation that I could join her in

I was already getting tired here, as it was…

the last kiss

made sense

because my company

strove for a post-modern immortality

one that  remained nostalgic for what it used to mean

briefly

yet this existed beyond the realm of the hypothetic

and hyperbolic

and I just wanted to taste her lips again

always a guilty man

on the run from her conclusion

leaving my soul broken like a doorbell

a lute that will never sing again

I want a home, her home

I want her home again

but fantasies kiss only children well

and now there’s no more bliss to seek

only ego left and a woman dying

and

I just wanted to be the one to taste her lips last

as definitively and delicately as a new crown placed on a virgin head

make myself a part of her escape

play a role inside her ghost

feed her chocolates and raisins inside that heavy mist

hide there with her

with just a couple of pens

a few carbons of my work

a pack of Camels inside her baby blanket

because like her

I was tired of this

and now I rushed

to taste her lips this final time

like a musical note stretching

drowning inside an eternal silence

the last kiss

the only one to matter

—————-

sherm scream


23 Mar

———

——–

angry pony

 

while the cuckold is sleeping on the couch

his woman is fucking her new daddy with her painted mouth

I’m hanging up next door

in my own four walls

ready to make my day a drought

a bit of whiskey figuring out

how to find a kingdom in a Brooklyn half-way house

a friend of mine’s been trying to find a place

but when you lack a pleasant face

and your former landlord ran you out with a can of mace

to erase your space

completely,

like last week’s freedom

like a paycheck forged bouncing along a dope shake

like a grapefruit gutted by a metal spoon

well then,

what the fuck can you do, my little angry pony?!

————–

Killing the Day


09 Mar

—————

 

—————

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pink-slip

 

tonight,

I resign all my former muses

they were conceived in haste

they were mistakes that I believed in far too greatly

I’ve become distracted by them

like by little girls who recite Pasternak

unprompted

like little faith

I rescind their obligations

and hope they leave with no remorse

no empty feeling

no regrets

I’ve tried to fill them out

as best I could

with myriad harmonies and every different sun

I could conjure

just so I could see a different light

playing off their sleeping cheeks like aubades

in my bed

in my head

I need to quit this deleterious drinking

and make this hood ideopolis my motif

instead of how beautiful they looked

and how falsely uncapturable it all seemed

at the time

never lasting longer

than a pretty-fingered vocation from a temp agency

————–

 

the issue of memory


03 Mar

————-

————-

the man without qualities (robert musil lifting weights)

 

there was a small, leftover

piece of chalk

on the concrete

from budding fingers that drew

and abandoned

 

there was a softness

a summer six months and six years

ago, that rustled and wrestled itself playfully

to a flocculent bed

clouded

with a manuscript full of medicine

the pages loose as

soldiers strayed in a madness

oceans by each window

water and so much sand

that I lose time counting it all

and remembering

 

there was a lot, there

never again

coming back

more and less each time

always leaving

————–

 

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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