Archive for December, 2016

catching the L like what else is in your pocket (new golden bed piece)


28 Dec

——8——

——8——
golden bed pieces 02
 
don’t be mad at mickey mouse
just because he eats your cat
and then your family
all the blood and treasure that lies therein
a crime of opportunity
such as this was
obviously
was based on free market determinations
the dimensions of these decisions
are far beyond a layman’s grasp
and don’t forget
that mouse has had a lot of fucking pull
ever since he figured out a way to invest the nazi gold
into exxon and bp
oxycontin
war defense, circinate technology   
and so, if he wants to kill you
then the country’s as good as spoken
and there’s nothing left to do
but put a few bucks away into the cookie cutter coffin  
so that you or your family can cover
all the buried fees and taxes required of the eaten few
but don’t be mad
it’s what it’s like
a bored look inside a bathrobe
a furthermore, an afterthought, faint death
a stolen heart still, a slight
indefinable souls fragmented along a limpid night

(you can only ask how cold do you feel so many times)
——8——

Ecdysis


18 Dec

————7————

————7————

wedding invitation

 

Just as Houdini busted Keaton
I want to name you Love
because how long your neck winds into your hair
marengo, war on wet asphalt smolders to gunmetal; below, each
iris shelters smoke like a blissed out execution
like those lungs of collapsed literary work
do now
but, miss, what inspiration
have you given me of late –
I am a beggar for such light touches,
any, really, would do the trick –
but aside from any causal belletristic sentence
spilled across my lap like a late last call
I have hated breakfast for three years now
because I haven’t slept and woken next to you since then
no matter how many nihilists and martyrs that I’ve played
in the intervening time
and I haven’t made eggs and pasta for anyone else since
the paprika and the parsley really made the dish, it was a good one  
obscured like the singing of the books stacked by your bed
milk thistle, milk thistle – lead the way across the divided west
this dish no longer exists inside my kitchen nest
but after a protest and an election day
it was all a paranoid dream like hey, hey, hey,
SDS or SLA – tell me kid, what revolution do you want to start today
and it was weeks after
that all the newsmen seemed to ask for mercy
and gave their own begrudging curtsy
to the atomic tangerine-hued vulgarian with the political ambition of a hand grenade
and, again, after drinking for a week I made it home too late
to catch the show because that particular night I had thought that I had seen it played before
and right then
just like how Kennedy won Ochs his first guitar
I had won myself an actress
that looked like she could be cast as either a ballerina or a chipmunk
depending on the look that they had wanted when they dressed her
and I had read into her well
and saw in her all the blood of manifest destiny, terrified, and was mesmerized by
that false greatness
like all great bloodthirsty narcissists, in fairness, do
and I walked away into dripping speculation
that told me I was right over and over, right and right again
and made me hate the piss inside the jug
and the new history that will have to be written over night  
but then again
now Adlai Stevenson has schools named
after him in states he didn’t win  
as a two-year presidential nominee
and Kafka has been resurrected to build a cabinet
and I am tied to my time
forever now
like a wedding invitation
sent out before an ending world

————7————

Ecdysis


04 Dec

—-7—-

—-7—-

all fragile myths

 
the
      great
                art
only requires the audience
            of one or two
            sets of eyes
stir, stir
            wild love
we will all be
forgotten
like
            the last goddamn kingdom
            that our doubles built
ground down by the weather of years
the trials of tempest
spent in chaos and lost poetry
the
      great
                art
forgetting
            requires only your conscience
(tired eyes and glasses on the nightstand
(by the cigarettes, ashtray in lights)
—-7—-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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