21 Jul


“This was no season for lilacs, but rather one for a sleepless inanity, something like a lost record out of radio play; there was both finality and infinity in it. There was life in it, but it never kept me, at least never fully.”

–          One Face




a terrycloth bathrobe with a skittering mind

who’ll ask you whether you believe in God

what you thought of Heathcliff in the Heights

then take you on a long stroll along a short beach

a humor and a horror with thick dark brows

still melancholy over a proofread comma

from three years past




my writing,

my writing,

all my writing

for a woman

a truly exceptional one

I’d give it up

all of it

every word

just like any other addiction

for a different one

that’d keep me alive

(because a life

simply through words

is as thin and ageless as a page)


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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