liricheskaya (if I ever write a song in prison)

30 May


liricheskaya (if I ever write a song in prison)


lay in my arms

like the book that you inspired

the velvet slip a binding

taken off by one passion or another

one more time

sing it with your ambit  

sway against my lips

like a choir of seraphs

that after some drunken revelry in purgatory

(which resembles an overpriced bar I know in Times Square)  

cantillate vulgar ballads about maidens of antiquity

in golden curl and vicious skin

that Orpheus never brought back home for dinner

to hear his lyre twang

fading like everything

beautiful and obscure

within a sandy sojourn

in an arid savage climate

where no one grows

taller than a capitalist  

slowly blown away

farther than the mind can go

and it’s only us

translating into wind

speaking or scarcely listening

to snakes and other animals

that barely resemble secondhand Marxists of some kind

who make you laugh like a laconic port

that turn your teeth to butter

and my hands to parking lots  


lay in my arms

like that nude portrait that you bought

hung on a wall for decoration

to hide the truth of cracking paint

and any resemblance of a life that’s being lived

(another percocet for a new twitch that dances)

and I’ll coo to you

from that mark the nail made inside your wall

and I’ll tell you

slightly muzzled by the celebrity of your churlish quietude  

that you approximate

an e e cummings poem

because it is the Woody Allen movie that you haven’t seen

you are becoming

that soft light that gets stuck inside my teeth

a canicular hunter of imaginative men

who lose it all gambling inside of you

sleeping unaccomplished

they will still be there

ghosts along the sacrilegious highway of your thighs

waiting to be stuffed like pronghorns for your mantle

they will have their own time to crumble

like war torn monuments to independence

so, lay in my arms

for just a little while longer

I’m still writing you, you know

the day is still ahead

and if later

someone calls you with a better proposition

go with him

I won’t get lost

I promise


(for anyone who’s ever been loved before)


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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