Anton Alfred Newcombe

21 Jul


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)


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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