A Poetaster’s Critique

31 Jul


A Poetaster’s Critique


Literature is going to die like jazz

as the smoky whisper of maladroit fingers culling

with only a small middleclass white audience

to adjust

to mourn the loss as fetishists

caressing the binding leather blistering their minds

inspiration deacetylated from creation to form that






totemic maggots in the brain without the funk

a retching bitch in the alley cold

6-Monoacetylmorphine for those that treat a Real Housewives marathon on Bravo

like a lecture from Spalding Gray

but, fuck it, the analgesic warms the workday of the dead

Coltrane, Davis, Parker – gone

The New York Times 10 Best “Books” of 2012 list can give me a sloppy rimjob

because it doesn’t matter anymore

we’re in the intellectual fading dawn at this point

and the day draws quickly

as it did on the New Wavers that danced to old Suicide records, without any irony in the

glittery glam 80’s,

in moody, nebbish polyester soon to be plaid rebellion:

blinking in Morse code like impotent oracles:

W E  W E R E  N E V E R  S P E C I A L

but at least we used to think rudderlessly

with a direction everywhere

a new dull beauty to explore in innocent latency

but these inelegant fingers that took the bone from its case

are reaching for all the same notes that were played before

better in the all-too-apologetic, retrospective nostalgia


when poverty used to mean something

besides a funeral march to

smiling apathy


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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