New Lost Generation

07 Nov


[This is a short sample from my novel]


——-Welcome, we are a new lost generation.

——-We are guests, uninvited, to the era of forgetting.

——-We drink to numb our pains for different reasons now. We had not lived through a Great war – all ours wars, in close succession, have been filled like a jelly roll with ignorance, capitalism and blood. We drink without noticeable ramifications, and without a passion or a craving for something more; we drink to drink and to find other excusing reasons to remain alive. We flaunt our disrespect for social institutions with a pointless, dull irony. We read about non-conformity on laptops in subways and airport layover lounges from blogs that quote Camus and Sarte abridged and uncited. We are the unfortunate, faultless cancer of the flesh on the face of culture, of human history that retains any true (and simple) beauty once kept safe in bondage.

——-God bless us as the dead that cannot die again.

——-Leave us with the sun burned white and the country brown and dry.


——-Now, here’s a dialogue in two parts for a single madness:


——-“Where are the sensualists hiding? In the holy houses and ancestral tears, of course. Find yourself an inky hobby, brother. Save your dimes. Sweet your dames. Sweep the dirt under the carpet.”

——-“Now he’s tonguing her. I don’t know him, but I think I know her. Private treasures in public places. Merchants also selling their finest wares. We sit here while they’re punting magic over there.”

——-“You’re only a marked man if no one can find you. If you’re available, accessible – no one’s going to pay. Drive the prices up, stay subterranean. Stay unheld and unrestrained. But mostly – just stay away.”

——-“She looks over at me and smiles with her eyes.

——-“Her eyes spoke to me: they told me how cruelty is equitable to passion. How death is the only thing we can control; death is the only thing that ceases to exist if we cease to believe in it.

——-“Her eyes tell me that the traitor is within me. Tell me that the unimportant is more extraordinary, more fascinating in its detail than the most primal and pivotal sample of life. They tell me the score of the Yankees game. They tell me that she hates the man she’s with. They tell me a dirty joke. They tell me nothing I haven’t heard before but manage to sound new, manage to speak exotically nonetheless.

——-“Where do I walk to now? Where do I go? Into the hole of the cuckolds, into the wine red abyss of the mirthless or the unemployed and unemployable. Into the soup of the bored and beat and bought. Is this where I’m walking? Is this where I stand? Is this finally it?”

——-“Slip into pygmalionism. Write her better and stronger and fuller and wilder and as lovely as your imagination will allow her to blossom – she used to be a flower, after all. Make a ceremony out of it. Make a carnival of color out of it. Make it sing.”

——-“I wish I could catch a glimpse of the future – but it does not yet exist, no matter through which Providence you seek it. The vine is torn over time and we glimpse yet less and less of the immediate to come. Our eyes strain and we are blinded momentarily by light, that which comes with hope.”


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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