For the girl who liked scarlet begonias and the way I cooked my omelets

08 May


For the girl who liked scarlet begonias and the way I cooked my omelets


Where is she, my anesthetic,

my romantic’ genocide?

is she a powder now

a liquid or a pill?

a smokestack swallowed underneath the tribe?

Is she

            in the communes of Clichy

            in the hills of Calvary

            or maybe in Berlin

            or St. Petersburg

            or the island of Lesbos

            or Istanbul where Constantine tried his bloody hand at devotion

            maybe Portland

            Stockholm, Venice, Newark,…

Is she in splendor

or has she been substituted for the betted coin?

Is she handing out pamphlets at Chomsky’s door

like propaganda of manufacturing consent  

or is she grieving her restless childhood alone?

Is she voyage or has she finally become the port?

no anxiety or no imagination

so we strive breathlessly for the new blue paradox

like an ambitious spermatozoon

like a theatrical flash of dawning melancholy

I lightly bite her bottom lip as I slip my tongue inside her

We fuse

as we have done before

in editorial fashion

We combine to soften

in rough process

until we feel unencumbered and exhausted

one in another

to return to the path

along which Venus fell

so brilliantly in a mistaken

tender waltz.

Our morning becomes the shameful daylight

a silent cup of coffee gracefully handled

by fidgeting hands hoisted by tender muscles

and enervated, fagged saints

still stoned, left empty for further voyeurism.

But while we are still unchained and strong

we might as well have another go

before destroying our own conclusion like an angry Sibelius

before declining further rewrites and getting fully numb

before we’re left with simply being polite

So while aroused, as though you were the woman in Blaas’s water,

let me put my palm on your knee underneath your skirt

and venture forth like a hedonistic crusader should

firmly committed to convincing himself that our repetition always turned out well.


One Response

  1. Catherine says:

    There ain’t nothing wrong with the way she moves

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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