fish paella

18 Sep


fish paella


a warm rain

led us to our bed today

as though intimating

that something needed to be washed away

but all my lips sought

in their romantic nihilism

too used to disappointment and empty gestures

was some truth along the crest of your left thigh

near the tattoo  

all petulant youth and fading black ink

and as I wandered manic and impulsive

there in all that familiar mystery

a tongue to toe the line of ephemeral horizons

I thought that I might have found

a smile worth waiting for

in some dream I was only paid to dream

some checks long overdue

and I wanted to wake up there

next to you

and tell you a story

about how I spoke to a friend recently

intimate after oysters and a few drinks

about sincerity in literature

and the dresses that she wore

hanging off the shoulder to reveal a bit of tanned skin

smelling sweet of lush occult

blushing like childhood infatuation  

I told her that it was the only thing worth looking for

no, not in the words of a reliable narrators

because, let’s face it, I’m barely reliable myself

no, that’s not what I meant at all

what I had really tried to say was

like an augur trapped inside a madrigal

warm sun bright like a fictive destiny moving at an unrepentant pace

the truth is in the author

who must reveal something beyond our entertainment

something about the human condition that we’re all learning to adapt to as our own

some wonderful cliché rephrased and recast until it’s cruor  

until it becomes a conscious organism

until it’s singing something true and mesmerizing

something I found once coursing again at 3am

across my notebook

that was written because of you

or because of her

or because of it

or because of them

or because I couldn’t sleep again

or because I was fighting for something new that I couldn’t contain in words

a vision

tentative and fleeting

a memory revised by red editorial pens

that makes the past incomplete and unimportant

that makes the future a terrifying risk

I wrote it then because I felt it

I knew it and I made it whole

I expressed it because I though I was one of the last few left

that could do it justice

in all the crayola colors that my destitute fingers could entrap

in all that your hazelnut eyes could see

a fish paella by the water

a warm rain outside our window

a sedated sea becoming my last life imagined


so soft

so calm and bedded in a bliss

that we rarely indulge in

a modish shame of absentminded repetition

where we no longer believe

that we deserve

that which we really want  


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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