Ignis Fatuus

10 Jan


Ignis Fatuus


            I took a trip last night where I discovered that we are all passing saints, tired and endless; that some become demonic sprites that spire out in the dark like meteors mistaken for a game of Cee-lo by deities addicted to taking chances with the world, reflected in all of us.

            I discovered that some need to take on paternal roles during communal hallucinations. That some need to be taken care of, protected when they’re at war with their minds. It is the last battlefield left for the hedonistic pacifist.

            Now I am left to remember what I saw.

            A lightning storm of sound that came from her mouth.

            Wet. A wonderful hubris of irrelevant bullshit. Something spoken about the relevance of silence. That time of the night.

            A spliff to bring it all together when it all moves around you.  

            And then I write in the dark:

            “I miss you more

            is the most tender thing that a man

            can ever give to a woman.”

            I don’t know whether I woke up while I was already awake, whether I became rejuvenated or merely forgetful.

            And then the recusant morning.

            And then the discussion of that which we think we saw together, apart.

            And then breakfast. Coffee. Toast. Capitalism, insurrection, hope, resistance, the way she danced, rare as the body that fits yours, golden, memorial, boring.   

            I miss you more. And if that is a revelation then was this all a foolish fire or have I finally been brought back. The future began through a fever and the stroke of a pen.



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Jack Tsoy Tumult

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