pop tune on the radio, tea with the pinky up

21 Jul

———–

pop tune on the radio, tea with the pinky up

 

I’ve seen a little girl as pale as the blind sun

with death in her belly growing like a whip on skin

she dreamt of cool ice cream under warm banana syrup

and she smiled the way that children do

 

I’ve seen a man who’d wronged a few

have cheap vodka poured on scowling wounds

that stung at him worse than false contrition could

making him writhe in pain and bad alliteration

 

gurgling, bubbling up

they tattooed a pen on my right hand

so that I don’t forget my trade

Hell, they say, is somewhere down in Norway

 

I’ve eaten mashed potatoes and met God

the experiences seemed much the same

to me, a sentimental heathen

made nostalgic by a company of beasts

 

I’ve met with masters and made men

killers, tyrants, bankers, those of leisure, monsters of all stripes

drunken magi, magistrates, swine-bellied Masons without secrets

miserable scoundrels with good taste

the beggars were my favorite, waiting for a Christmas and a christ

they’d freeze in the park while ya’ll passed by

talking of westbound trains and music

 

gagging, bursting out

they tattooed some numbers too so I remember deaths and births

but when I’m at my best, I don’t remember nothing but a taste of her I lost

(and yet) Hell, they say, is somewhere down in Norway

———–

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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