06 Jan




walks like a deceased king
slumping into the paranoia of gray
doomed like all things
and unlike all things
nothing gets created or destroyed
except affection and influence
the sound from the next room
walks away
the swollen leg swings pendulously upon each step
he thinks about prosecco
this dime and a half he made through this new centenary
he thinks of cocoa butter on her belly
when he was young
when they were movie-stars
walks like damage
slow, and slower every year
the veins, more prominent, creep in
like light from underneath a door
you’re meant to walk through
because of
the second sound from the next room


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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