cigarette burn 03

21 Jul


“And for this imperfect immortality, what prices have been paid? How many livers, lungs, and veins? Shredded, polluted, shot? How many children deserted, family secrets betrayed, sordid trysts laid out for strangers to see? How many wives and husbands shoved to the side? How many ovens scorched with our hair? Gun barrels slid between our lips? Bathtubs slowly reddened by our blood and twisting rivers that drowned us? How many flawed pages burned in disgust and reduced to ashes? How many flawless moments observed from just a slight distance so that, later, we might reduce them to words? All with an unspoken prayer that these hard-won truths might outlast the brief years of our lies.”

                                                                                                  –    Kristopher Jansma


cigarette burn 03


it was written on her body

on her skin the city dreamt

a geography of delusional, cursory delight

a map where borders shed their dresses and no longer offered their consent

I ask her

– why are the ballet slippers hiding in the closet?

her branch drips off the arm of the divan

like it was a new season all of a sudden

and perhaps it was

(I don’t remember these prisons being free)

she answers

that they’re simply

waiting for Anaïs

I kissed her

and she was still cold

I said

– the book is nearly done

and I feel that it all was merely just a hash dream

standing on a train platform

only she and my phantom audience knows what I mean

marriage and a little Vera

born wet, we both wake up alone

but because, as a writer, I still read

for fear of being dubbed a hypocrite

I know all too well that

it was already

written on her body

and now I have nothing left to do

but have another glass of wine

in the midnight of lost children


Leave a Reply

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

Copyright © 2010 - 2018 All Rights Reserved.