29 Dec




you’re a good writer –

don’t waste your imagination all on me – she said

– instead,

imagine beauty in a softy-sung song

born in a softly-lit room

where your guests and future audience will gather;


the night and how it takes

five million paltry seconds

for it to turn the same chestnut-scarlet hue

as the eyes you choose to love

the same length of time, just doubled

expired now

a wisp of elegiac smoke;


bodies humming, small explosions

stomachs like accordions

one sings in Arabic

one sings in Spanish

(I think it sounded like “llanto de luna”)

across from one another in Goose Pond Park

the Jamaican man on the bench beside us screams

“oi, you two, shut the fuck up, this ain’t a show…”

we giggle because the weed is strong

the situation inimitable;


stop and then again


and then it’s just a blade of grass

in the country

where it’s always summer ending thick

a syrup coating the lips

I kiss you again, but it fades

because it hasn’t existed in at least

a year or so

or the last time I bought a used

hardcover copy of Immortality

and found an inscription that read

(apropos to nothing and something ardently specific)

“I’d fuck you in wine

as long as you showed up to my door

in that same outfit

with this book in your hands

talking about titles rewritten

and lives relived as new as could be

forgotten into –

a warm bath”;

imagine it in the key of C minor

and listen to it for a while,

but then decide against it

and simply walk away –

but don’t forget,

you’re a great writer –

don’t waste your imagination

all on me


never let old lovers kiss you on the cheek

or end their letters with warm wishes

a waking from a dream


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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