29 Dec




a new muse –

because boyhood fancy’s obsolete

and meritocracy is one obstinate and judgmental bitch –

she pales my night

through a new canvas on my wall

the oil paints still wet

(a slate and peach number, a long arm along a lyre)

the morning routine changes too

tomato juice for tea

more Morrison, less Morrissey

a metamorphosis in the biography

a fresh original to passive-aggressively silent me

on Sundays we play midnight checkers and the lottery

and generously act like louts

she, a souse of spectral twilight

myself, a sparkle of what was

regaining strength through part-time sybaritism and virgin myths

(they all look like their dead sisters)

created, rumored,

                            made stoned and simple

now I’ve regained the upper-case and out-of-place

waking up with cold calamari in a vodka sauce –

leftover from last evening’s boardwalk stroll

through wobbly, creaking slats and lampposts with just a little luck

then, to ease into the work

I’ll pour some scotch, the good stuff from the Highlands

a fist lessened of a finger

a spliff of the exotic stuff in gangling rice paper

a documentary about giraffes

an Americanism or two to waste another hour 

and then, and only then

do I sit down and rub my eyes

looking wearily at the blank page created by antipathy

then write four rhyming lines

smile and take a sip

the drink is well deserved

another productive day and back to bed

she’ll have a cigarette for me

dressed like an effigy

mint chocolate-chip ice cream

all savory indelicacy with a purely amatory strategy

the embodiment of my phlogiston theory

all flash and flame with no breath necessary

as such, I do not breathe

instead I compromise and ruthlessly compare

because there were only three women in my life

who’ve kept me nervous and ecstatic

immaterial of geography or situation

each moment a salvation and a sacrifice of form

cucumber cool disrobed into infantile sincerity:

the lead-off was a teenage pop-song crush

brief, but of fundamental impact

the second was a blissful curse

an addiction, my inceptive connection to the world

the third was the separation of time

an impossibility, an intellectual craving, a sessional gift

the haughty and the tender in a soft sweater over tanned skin

and now this knacker of old ships takes the reins

because I need someone else to steer me

(already an icarian proposition deftly lost)

she is the fourth to be

a brand new ceremony of evaporation

a combination where sweat and souls are same

I love the merry godlessness of it

and the sanity forgotten in the taste

capers and white wine –  

my new muse

with oceans on her lips


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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