Rick Perry is a Daft Cunt Who Proves that Believing Jesus Saves the Hillbilly Turns One into a Republican

14 Nov





Who do I look like, fucking Bartleby?!

Come on, baby, get the fix and let’s move on.

I’ve been buzzing about all day –

but on the upside,

I was the twelfth caller and I won a teddy bear for you.

Ah, the sweet bliss of deliverance!


Last time I wanted to gamble

I had to deal from the bottom of the deck.

Last time I talked to you

I slipped, like Freud, all over the bed

and you laughed and I listened to you.

Heaven knows, the sweet bliss of your mercy!


Shit, honey – how long do we have to wait?!

Your shakes are coming off regardless,

Might as well invest in soup.

Know what I mean?

Langston told me to kill him 

let his soul run wild.


So, we finally found a home

and the first thing – you get a fucking bird?!

How many cages do I have to put up with?

At least the seed here tastes good, grows fast

At least we both have a key for the locks and a song to sing.

We bought our lounger in St. Louis long ago

(at the Prufrock-Littau Company) – thank god it’s lasted.


Shame we got Tom Walker for a landlord, though

His properties tend to burn.

That’s why we insure it all with your hips,

That’s why we only kiss the tips, the lips, the bits that stir

and why we pay on time, without inquiring per credit.

We’ll make it fine, alright – at least another night.


But who is this who rings our bell?

Another devil drawn from hell?

We’ve got no booze and no surprise,

No show, no requisite demise,

No rhyme, no entrails, no design

Nor paradise, nor wife with a ring upon a dainty finger yet.


Who makes the noise from beyond the door?

Is it Anita, that filthy fucking whore?!

There’s no money here, you should let her know – 

Only love and a loaf of rye. No butter.

A knife with nothing to spread

Might as well bathe in the soul.






The prostitutes look tired

Paint peeling like a secondhand car lot

The recession hit them hard – bargain prices on handjobs advertised.

While walking home they squawk at me like oiled pelicans:

“hey stranger, welcome to the Ritz:

“we’re shaved, sure and have our mini-bar stocked.”


Broke, both broken

I still buy you flowers

Unfiltered cigarettes for me

Cheap wine for us

Another night to pass

Another shared orgasm to keep us sane.


No job too small to speak of

A particle lost somewhere in the minutiae merry-go

The marigolds standing in the vase always on my case

While you’re waiting on someone’s table in all that empty space

Black nights, gray days, you walk home alone

While I sit scribbling my impotent dissatisfaction.


I’m by the phone

When Anita rings for you

“fuck off, you preachy tumor” I tell her.

Soon the dial tone drops down like water

From a broken sink, fixable only if

it was an unwelcome intruder.


It’s as though the goal is isolation,

Like children happy for a time out.

It’s as though it’s Monday morning every day now,

Like an overplayed Replacements song.

It’s as though it’s just you and I,

Like no one else exists inside this silo.






Ain’t no such thing as violence anymore,

Only silence and necessity.

I owed Jesus twenty grand –

but I took the louisville to him instead.

Needed the bread to pay the landlord,

besides I had no quarters for the bat-cage,

and no wind-up for the clocks,

no teabags for the mugs,

a need for entertainment.


Ain’t no such thing as violence anymore,

Only silence and bare humanity.


The noose tightens slowly

and eventually we all go out to pasture.

The rope chafes the skin,

The burns on the neck like hickeys, like beauty from a whore;

pale skin to give the bruises a stage.

We’re hanging out for a while – so find a comfortable stool to drop.


The teeth like rocks of salt melting,

The heart strikes the coil like a whip,

The feet wear out from immobility,

The sand like nothing in the sky.


Find a plot in frugal earth

Find a spot on the globe to wish for

Find conspiracy in her

in her, in you, for me.


The beat like a shrink’s metronome analyzing from a desk,

The conception like a growing gift unwrapped,

The affections sparse and needy because they breathe,

The stars like memory along the surf.


Find a linear momentum to make it stop

Find a worthy contradiction for self-appraisal

Find an animal in her

for her, for you, in both.







Do you get afraid of falling through the floor,

the foundation of the tenement,

the bottom,

the plate that shifts us all?

Rotating angels in the hell;

The muck, the chiming chipper bell:

spin, spin in that tub of sound, around, around.


Anita called again while you weren’t home

A sister, like a convent or a convict, you were walking from

I cleaned the kitchenette and wrote a lullaby,

waiting for the ringing to die out

(let them cut the goddamn electricity already)

I’m tired of drifting in this heavy air.


We dedicate our moments now

Instead of sonnets or psalms

It’s easier and quicker and briefer,

Yet all you ask me is to dedicate my life

To you, to our descent –

Oh, my impoverished muse, how you make me laugh and struggle!


Your bones do not yet show

You’ve starved on the sickness like a merry Plath

and it feeds well

but you still look good.

You are still the pain at the pit of my stomach:

Delicate, then rough. Forgotten, then remembered.


At this precipice we stand

Fatally united

Neither yet lost, neither yet dead or dim

The crescendo of the light grows colder, turns slower

But we are resolute

as you always come back home.






You were almost a child when I first met you

Eager to play a role

Eager to be the symbol

like a veil over the Goddess of Robert Graves.

You were made for poetry: I felt it from within you,

palm against the heart between your breasts

swaying with your motion atop of me like a monsoon.


You were meant for poetry – I knew it

But it cannot last

It cannot be contained

It is like an audience of thunder

It fades after it shakes the sublunary terrene.


Back then I sought to be the enfant terrible:

Dressed in dishabille from my dirty halo to my tattered shoes,

A cigarette between a canine smirk, held by whiskey breath

Spending my mornings shaving the suicide off my face with Occam’s razor:

Back then I was a writer –

now just a pathetic body of purple prose, another cardboard cutout.


But you’ve forgiven

and so have I

and now you walk home


back to me.





Your bird chitters me awake

I make the coffee

and by mistake forget the amoretto,

the brandy. Shit!

That goddamn fucking bird!

I should evict the bitch – but I’d be fined:

You have always reserved your scorn for the loss of small and pretty things.


While you’re making socialism of pecan pie

I sit in front of another empty page and the TV roaring

Blitzer at the desk with other pundits performing a polyphonic aria

In quali…Mi tradi quell’alma ingrata

A frenzied argument, a mimicry to match the topic and its pace

A minstrel show for open eyes; insomniacs hallucinate in sync

“fried butter… Iowa… a change from change that nearly came…”


If we had only come to nihilism or anarchy with a choice of date

If that dishy nymph didn’t look quite so apathetic

the eyes comatose as a Hitler youth

or a virgin selling off her hymen.

“a change, a change – it might be true”

“like four or eight or sixteen back, add crucifix and meth then stir the pot”


Hopefully, you’ll be back tonight

then we can go to bed

I can leave this meaningless, purgatorial migraine

for your arms, for now

until that goddamn fucking bird wakes me up again

until another page remains unwritten

until I turn back to, in despondent plight, to the electromagnetic seizure,

the blight of basic cable news.


We watched “High Fidelity” on VHS to ease into the night

You asked to explain the reference:

“Jack, who’s the Jesus and Mary Chain?”

 I taste her celestial skin before I answer oh so formally:

“Scottish, Cureish, off the dole like us into the 80’s indie haven.”

 Explanation, then a happy ending filmed and Cusack grinning.


We fall asleep together then…






Don’t you hate it when the thrill is gone?

When, alone, a hair falls into your beer?


We have drifted

it’s no longer instinctual

it no longer cuts through out of necessity

the blood you gargle to spit is no longer lyrical martyrdom

Where’s my Ferlinghetti? Where’s yours?

Where are all the city lights?

Now, no – a dirty glass of beer, an unpayable tab,

a rudderless shine dying out, dying wet.


Too much time.

The mystics define nothing

and where are you, the communal proposition?


Don’t let me experiment because I will surprise you

I’ll use every single color we have left,

So, let’s turn that light off, baby!

“…” she said. “Fucking Anita – she came to your job again?!”

Hide behind the wolves, little queen. “She didn’t say anything,

“as usual, as is commonplace in the manners of those as her.”

I accepted with “alright”.

Now please, darling, turn off the light and hide behind your wolf.


You now look like a young Joan Baez

and I love the voice of your beauty

and I love you the same as the word was created 

Because I don’t really do politics, honey

I do romanticism like a poor man eating.


Yeah, baby, you’re lookin’ so grown up now!

Me? You know me – I’m never growing up:

I’ll be rambling around until someone puts me in the ground

The other is not a choice.

Maybe an interlude to build a seven-digit fist in the dessert

“Some may never live, but the crazy never [truly] die”


Don’t you hate it when the thrill is gone?

When, anew, she comes home with questions?


“Jack-dear, how was your…?”


No cultural-Napoleon to aesthetize the landscape

Instead the boredom makes the list:

Buy the vinegar, shoot the crack, make some potpourri

Check the want ads, masturbate, then listen to some No Name

on Roman Candle to float on self-despair.

All in a lethargic day’s malignant disrepair –

Wishing for revolution, getting billed for poetry instead.


“Jack-honey, how was your…?”


Reading Chaucer with a broken tooth is how it should be done

But not reading the tale of a wife –

rather my own work kept safe in our fireplace for the last century.

It didn’t go well… and no dental insurance coverage provided.


I came back home to wait for you.


I have used all your emptiness and lust

as bookmarks to fill the pages of all my old books and mysteries;

I might fake my death one day, but not today

so lets be still and sink into one another like music for a while.





Some time, as always, passes


With your last hatred discovered and our last dollar spent

We make our traversal into another verse

Five poor lines in a homeless stanza


Our lives have made a bed of it

A kiss between and a locked door; Walker lights a match like a red carpet

I’m abased enough to espy whether Jesus is awaiting outside

But when he saw me climbing down the steps,

he smiled and forgave me his broken head,

told me that I’d feel the path of thorns soon spread up ahead, further in the red

Must have made a benevolent compassionate of him with a donated concussion

(he even tolerated a cigarette and light for me)



I guess it’s back to the hustle, baby?

Back on the moon, back in the delighted spoon.


I’ve still got one more reading at the bar tonight –

you tell me to make it as hopeful as I can, so

I stood before them

like a crepuscular ray or a comet burning up

Their drinks bought, mine still unpaid

(the laudanum in the bathroom might have made me late)

I hate the place, separated, where they’ll return

and I hate the approaching Winter’s burn

Soon, it’ll be time to vote again

Decide which alley will starve the vagabonds,

the tramps and learned men, kind women with their sentimental hearts

I’ve never relied on the kindness of strangers,

and thus being a stranger myself – I’ve never registered;

but I’ll speak my way one last time tonight

because unlike you, darling – I’m sure of what’s to come

because unlike you, pretty girl – I’ve already started treasuring what we’ve lost.


A cough into the microphone,

A soporific glimmer clinging to my eyes,

A taste to ease the arid tongue,

and then and then it comes:


Go grab Zimmerman for me

               get him to write you 

               another protest

I’ll stay next to Cohen

               creating the longing creatures

               made of golden rust.

I do not want universality

I prefer the murky side streets;

I want the nectarine, not the peach

I want the flask, not the bottle

I want you, not her

I want the drunken poet

               not the prolific writer

               the jogger

               the consummate idealist

               the tourist

               the color beige

               none of these.

But you’ve received

               a ring from me

               quickly lost

               like that us

               that was written


And you’d received

               the lyrics

               the same as before:

               like fate

               like hate

               like the opium of your nudity dilating the irises

               I saw, I still see.

It gets so lonesome

               in these words

               in these times

               in this procrastinating heat that sticks.

And what of that amalgamation

               that we do not define

               that no longer defines us anymore?

Like a raincoat

               like a glory

               like a lock of your hair

               on my writing desk

               like a novel

               on the mantelpiece.

Let me stay indulgent, baby, please

               let me shout

               about you

               about how divinity knows you

               by name.

Sincerely, I ask

               the crack-up

               the author

               the me







A silence fills the crowd.

I see Anita standing stout as a scowl before a meal.

I see them all ready for the kill.


Those deaf that listened, they ravage me, revolted

They said the words I speak are dead

There are crises worthy of all sorts to spill blood for

to ululate in mobs and argue over

to commentate and instigate

to record and populate like spores

to make widows and close windows

to jeer and drudge and dream a drunkard’s dream.


They carried me off,

and I know you could do nothing but follow them along the lines.

Your life is still abound,

is still an oblivious deluge of bliss and sadness utterly deserved.


They cut my hands off and let me hang there

The tower of the high rise kept me dangling like a child’s toy,

like a vulture;

Shifting, thinning then expanding like dwindling breath

Like Death’s last hard-drawn hard-on 

Like incubus of us somewhere beyond.


Eventually, maybe the language, the voice

will spread like a pulchritudinous virus through the shell.

Maybe when we’re all devoid of grace, of sanguine expectation,

it shall suffer futile resurrection

and then maybe the cynics will all die

believing themselves to have left their ottomans to brew their moksha.


Regardless, there’s nothing to this silence that we’ve been castigated to

It’s far too noisy here

It’s far too stale

We should seek articulation

Instead of another preacher’s repetitive conjecture 


Show me a prisoner who doesn’t sleep or famish,

that doesn’t collect days

like dust along the wall.


Show me a man incapable of love or poverty

and I will shake his hand

like birth.

Leave a Reply

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

Copyright © 2010 - 2018 jacktumult.com All Rights Reserved.