03 Dec




“It is not possible to eat me without insisting that I sing praises of my devourer?”

Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoebsky


I’m tired of being so weary

I’m tired of going to sleep

I’m tired of waking up not at home

I’m tired of walking into my apartment and her not asking me where I’ve been all night

I’m tired of making phone calls and waiting for an answer that I don’t care about

I’m tired of the Pixies not making another album so that every goddamn hipster can shut the hell up about how innovative their band’s sound is

I’m tired of going to the same record stores, looking through the same records still swallowed by the bargain bin

I’m tired of fat white drug dealers calling me their “nigga” when I buy their weed

I’m tired of paying taxes on inhalable death

I’m tired of voting for vultures and fucking hyenas

I’m tired of the process

I’m tired of the intellectuals, just as tired as I, swaying in lubricated circles talking dreck, jerking off a snifter 

I’m tired of being drunk

I’m tired of the Brahman that didn’t come

I’m tired of the sinister smile at the liquor store, honestly

I’m tired of how they motion, and how she doesn’t know who I was with

I’m tired of sitting still

I’m tired of moving

I’m tired of insomnia

I’m tired of dreaming

I’m tired of being so weary and so healthy and so sweet

What do you think, baby – aren’t all writers just the same?


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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