darling heart

18 Sep


darling heart


“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”

– Arthur Rimbaud


come to me

someone who’d become

the darling heart

opening my epistolary

my glamorous dark beauty

of angelic vices

with a severe haircut

starting trends

like middle-class fingers start grocery lists

moving me to write something new

against myself

against that self I know so well

when I get characteristically lazy and bored with aspiration

and want to hide in bed with a bottle of cheap gin

and the breadcrumbs of an empty meal

an ashtray and your distant legs

somewhere along my ruin  

sensate no longer

like when a young friend dies tragically

on a wild and lonely night in Queens

(a frenzied flash through Flushing)

and people meet to barter their embrace

to struggle with compassion and finality

and all I see is the nonsense of posterity

in every line I strive to write

on this fresh and fickle morning

poor enough for an effective adulteration

ambition and failure interlinked

enough to make you want to abandon all

like some childfaced symbolist waiting to turn thirty

after a season in hell left him to search for further illuminations

pondering the words and their hypocrisy of treasure

lost in a cultural coincidence

a brutal bit of luck and clever marketing

like will-o’-the-wisps that promise splendor

to weary travelers long lost along the marshes

so here I sit

in heavy coughing breath

so barely steady and barely sober

waiting for something to make sense

waiting for you


come to me and make it better

try to make it work again

in a new face with new eyes incandescent

the aching heart of my epistolary

a madness to help the poet see


(For the memory of our friend Kiyanoush “K” Asif – rest in peace to the illest mc not to be…)


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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