03 Dec




The police are shooting civilians in the street

The villain takes a nap

I wake up and find religion

Put it away for a rainy day in Hell

The smoke rises

The pulpit emanates the profligate smell

I feel high, but not like before

I feel the tar and the carbon in my throat

I don’t know what this is supposed to be anymore

A preposition with no subject

A writer without a muse

A cliché without accepted truth

The coffee is stale and the night is long

She says she’s troubled and as fickle as absinth

I take her anyway

Because I know I can

Because bad company is better than a copyrighted hush

A sinner wants a lover to distract them

and I want you to distract me,

derange me,

then despise me

It will come

Just don’t wait too long

I want to still be high when it happens

Because the death of the pen is surely nigh

No, never more of rhyme for now

We have to save it

like a diamond from volcanic breccia

like a saint from the bottle and blood

like the concept of love from the reality of death

like you from I in surety and in expulsion

I can surely go on and on

I can surely find more responsibility in insomnia

Writing something new over and over


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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