Untitled (Regarding Death)

31 Jul

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            What a strange and kind bedfellow death makes.

            I wrote of her since such a defective youth; when I was still too young and inexperienced to know the glory between her legs. Each bride she saw me take after I first climbed her myth became but a coffin draped in mournful velvet and fading mystery. She, too humble to drink with me. Too wild to dance slow. I, too weary to rest at twenty-five. Too stubborn to pay her to leave. Too weak not to sleep with her over and over again as though merely nostalgic for what stirs and culminates inside of her. That regal bitch, she suffered all my clumsy attempts to please her.

            I was sitting on the beach again waiting for it all to happen. Waiting for it to overtake me. Remembering her clit, the taste of dry plums and aged single malt scotch.

            The waves roar in broken salvos, crying like reprimanded children. I put my feet in the sand and wonder whether it’s merely a decent day for bananafish. I wonder what death is doing, who’s primordial bed she lies in tonight. She always liked the beginnings of things, just like any other beautiful woman with a tempestuous temperament.

            I have to remind myself that I don’t get jealous. Not anymore.  

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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