Archive for March, 2015

do you miss the fever?

26 Mar





this is the one that I wrote
before the narcissists went to bed
before my own humble sun dared to take a peek
there is so much that I can’t see anymore
maybe I’m not drinking enough
maybe it’s because all the women I want I tend to miss
and all the ones I don’t tend to spend the night
this is a small island
that’ll spend the next decade going underneath the shore


this is the one that I wrote
that’s not about heartbreak
this is the one that got away from me
more musicians than the room can fit
not enough music
my friends run this joint
soaking in it until nothing can be heard
nothing can be felt
I’ll twist my ankle careening down the stairs
and wake up slightly bruised with the pills still in my system


this is the one that I wrote
because I didn’t aim to please
no poetic cunnilingus, this is no song of songs
tongue wakes at the inner thigh
no, this is merely the expectoration of some spirit, glowing
the hue of an honest sickness
no money and no work ever again
I’ve been called to wait it out
for the narcissists to go to bed
for new cognizance to bring me something to dream about
a cogged suitcase full of suicidal gambles, unopened
a little face that says ‘I do, I will’ somewhere down the line
this is how goodnight spreads across our earth


Weekend Show

20 Mar



homicide, then off the chalk (another love poem)

18 Mar





I saw son under the streetlight
then lights, then chalk…


just because I lost you
doesn’t mean that I want you back
no need to feed the process of the abattoir
I’ll be minced as it is
whether by weary machinery or by its tizzied proxy


as long as you love me more
when I’m gone
then this tired, timid, underwhelming living works
bourbon and ambition will get me by
even though you’ll be the last woman that I got to kiss
unlike every next one
which will be just tongues and lips gyrating til’ the little death
(or until another easy Barthes reference)
vibration, hearts beating just because
unsputtered by anything resembling destiny
perceived or bona fide
more akin to a deal with the DA where we all get fucked


never liked these small rooms
the hands hurt
from tapping at the table
keeping the beat inside my head to pass the time
the trumpet part from SpottieOttieDopaliscious
but as long as you love me more
I’ll wait it out here for now somehow
there’s enough music in my head to drown them out
as long as I don’t find you when I egress out the postern
not this one that you’ve pretended, at the very least
I want a new one, the one that got shined off
but that’s just futile speculation
too much imagination, too many hypotheticals to keep straight
might as well wait for son to reappear
lift off the chalk
to walk away


this is how we almost feed ourselves

15 Mar



Less Tense Than I Was The Last Time I Confessed


it’s not your fault that you don’t love me

don’t want me

I, of course, am an acquired taste

a factory of fantasies and fingers

a taste of liquor and sincere, black rabbit sweat

and I just bought a beer

and I’m too tired to either be complacent or considerate

more so than this

in other words, I’ll be fine

elusive in the ether, we only find illusions

it was my homey, not me, that ripped his hand apart

I’m no romance-stigmatic

and besides, your brand of bullshit no longer stings as much

as it did before

now I just write it out in a night

quick poem, reflexive now almost; no six hundred page tomes begun

the other one (the one that was for you,

                         your hand, your button, our little button, a tiny face

                         that looks like mum – because she’s the prettiest star,

                         like the dance I should have accepted when you were sick –

                         for your ebon curls down your back, bared,

                         I massage you, oil, a stoner comedy on the screen,

                         something with rogen probably, but that shit

                         was long ago, and now the one that was for you

                         is a relic of warning, mourning, desperation,

                         sex as sacrament, bad vibes, nervous hands,

                         sangria at some west village Spanish spot,

                         some dress you wore and then took off…)

yes, that other one, motherfucker’s still going, you’d be surprised

and maybe when it’s done… ah, fuck it, princess

no more crowning the authors no more

casually, you know why my hands are eventually coming off

not like my friend, but sort of

the reasons, now, seem strikingly similar

but none of this is your fault

I get that

I guess I’m older now

and priorities have been forced on me

because of mistakes (the miserable sort)

because of madness and pride

my big head

my feeling of entitlement to affection

my lack of time


if you change your mind

and you want your man to cook your eggs for you

I’m two hours away by train

come see me

you know where I am, keep shining



for the new piece, smoking

10 Mar





the paint of the sherlock sheds

with every chamber consumed

soon the cerise will slink off

like a bad impression

leave the party

layla, (though aside from cream I never liked clapton much)

the bowl will soon turn black

decisions, decisions

girl scout cookies, og kush, jack herer

the paint of the sherlock

layla lets her shawl get carried by the wind

produced by rumbling, dusty lungs made of some obsolete alloy

a chamber is consumed

smoke is everywhere

clouding the glass of prying eyes

soon she will be nude

I will be stoned

and spring will begin again somewhere

underneath new feet


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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