For Further Courtship

08 May

————

For Further Courtship

 

And if I wasn’t a pussy

I’d call it a cunt

And there would be miracles and births

And then I would stoop to making quips with only a little wine

Good stupor is better than good humor after all

It was said

This is what killed Dylan Thomas besides the whiskey and amphetamines and New York and bad doctors and troubles and a mean Welsh demeanor and longing like mourning and when Greenwich Village was gold and lacking the rambling sense and obliteration into some symphonic, reincarnating ellipsis and everything else that could be important but never seemed as such and all I want is a comfortable pair of slippers and a tall glass of single malt scotch that never seems to end with some ice for the throbbing in my head

Not delusions of talent, but delusions of being able to write, like delusions of delving space, like rancorous self-importance preached subtly

And then what would be left

And then there would be a common bit of silver ebbing off the tongue

And then where would we stray

And then who would we become

And then what would be then

And Neal Cassidy could probably write if he wasn’t so pretty and I would be more than slightly upset if you compare me to Kerouac

And where is it written that I have to stand here, holding on to this plastic strap, riding to courtyards overridden with tenements and cocaine and languid horizons and blues resung and some other bullshit that I’ll carelessly mention at a later time

And I do really like that measured death like that woman’s legs as much as I like iodized salt sold cheap at the supermarket because it garnishes so well

And it’s all really a dreary fog elevating where someone mentions Alexander Pope or something out of Milton and you jump up to mention a tenet to elaborate upon

executed wildly, with profuse veins stemming the daylight perfused, in a balletic fashion

And then there’s a utility cigar and a particularly pretty girl with auburn hair that lights it for you and her eyes water with abandoned sentiment and warm wishes

And this is not my last letter written

We all seemed so happy for a while as was assumed

There was no stench and no smell in particular in the city and then you forget the last beating and then you become enamored once again in each step you take on the pavement reminding you about the old honor of blistered feet and a notebook full of passerbys dressed in passing smiles and dusky suits cast by ash that’s payable by overtime rates; time and a half

And then she was strong and took all there was to give

And there was no new Spring to drown

And then you’re mindless of the curtains and the cigarette waved casts a stain burning through and then the sunshine flows in when you don’t expect it

And it’s all fine like flinching at a compliment that seems egregious

And then we drink in the afternoon because a celebration is called for

And then there’s nothing left to be expected because nothing can be that important

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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