Posts Tagged ‘avant-garde’

The Pressure of Patience


26 Apr

-8-

-8-

jokes with a mirror (exercises of the demiurge)

 
most decent writers
in their artistic nascency
attempt a stab at a
love story
striving to make it fatal
striving to make it metal
then they live a little
and a few stabs have been attempted at them
a few slabs of being have been excised  
they might become better writers
they might get hoarse, creatively,
spiritually, whathaveyou
but they never
take a stab at a
love story
again
-8-

uncle frank returns


05 Apr

-8-

-8-

untitled (elvis jesus medgar uncle frank)

 
he said
people
are just messin’ bags of reaction
some wear pearls
some beat their wives
some hurt, some pain
some sleep, some stay and some just barely remain
some steal, some cheat, some are full
some are generous, some are brutal
some become presidents others convicts
all react
as they keep on movin’
retreat, submit, conquer, continue, on and on
rubble to rubble
reactionaries, all of ‘em, reactionaries
people, barely people  
-8-

ash


23 Mar

—8—

—8—

smoke

Oppenheimer loved John Dunn
his poesy, his face, respectful panic
I sit here finishing up
this short stanza, like melting skin
lapping up milk from a cold metal cup
keeping strong, alpha strong and shit
wondering who’ll ignite this world
on my behalf
—8—

confused and rude


19 Jan

———-7–

———-7–

golden bed pieces 03

 
the television breeds numb
with the cash whore
at the end of the bar
that smelled liked that one
shit pearl jam record
and opinionated daftness  
dressed like a pinball machine
and abandoned underneath an
autumnal rainstorm on some
overpriced stoop in new brooklyn
waiting on a crash, revolution
blood and academic buttes uninitiated
to whispers  
 
at the end of the scene
the cast
the director
the money in the background
the little person holding up the boom mic
the dp, the lighting tech, the camera man
all moan
because they care about their audience
they need to set a que
for a collective release  
so, good people –
know when to grab your dicks!
———-7–

Ecdysis


04 Dec

—-7—-

—-7—-

all fragile myths

 
the
      great
                art
only requires the audience
            of one or two
            sets of eyes
stir, stir
            wild love
we will all be
forgotten
like
            the last goddamn kingdom
            that our doubles built
ground down by the weather of years
the trials of tempest
spent in chaos and lost poetry
the
      great
                art
forgetting
            requires only your conscience
(tired eyes and glasses on the nightstand
(by the cigarettes, ashtray in lights)
—-7—-

sunflower seeds have shells


18 Oct

——8—–

——8—–

golden bed pieces 01

 
we were forced
my wife and i
to hire
an international specialist
in the field of equilibrium
mr multivalent
when
the painting
on the wall
didn’t hang
up straight
she said
the woman in the green hat forged
though still no pretty harmonies
made her reflection crooked  
——8—–

the cover version


31 Aug

———-8————

———-8————

the cover version

 

i know that it’s backwards
but i feel like
joe cocker who thinks he looks like morrison
chuckling at belushi
nodding along
– it is a long way down, man
but, jimmy, we probably won’t end up
at the bottom
maybe an empty room
somewhere in a cover of st. james infirmary
drooling spit, bile and whatever bleeds from cigarettes
repeating “baby, baby, baby…”
wishing cab calloway was still around
arranging things uptown
where you know some thing dead just ain’t dead
not always at least
but… let it go, let her go, let her go
god bless her, wherever she may be
i’ll play the live record from ‘72
i think i played los angeles that year
no dizzie on the trumpet
but that was a different time, i had different hair
falling out now
getting old with the rest of time
the rest of it
i know
because they’re already shinnin’ the twenty dollar gold piece
for my watch chain
let it go

———-8————

Enter title here (all goes into Oblivion)


27 Apr

—-s—-

—-s—-

inside the stardust stew
 
coffee on the leader’s face
the newspaper spills the story
the police are on their way

we’ve had a time of it for sure
this flying territory,
an incorporeal place of abject subjugation, landing only
to dispense cruelty, made romantic
by the distance at which we see it
after taking off again
(the earth is always fine when one is in the air)

this is history
if only we could forget it
start over
realize that regardless of how
infinite in truth and truly beautiful
inside the cavity of false hindsight
the past may be
– we no longer need it, not anymore

(for ch)
—-s—-

train-ing… get it?


10 Mar

———-

———-

train lines

new york bodies on their new york shit travelling to find their
new york fix
homeless john plays capitalist scarecrow in the corner
to the straphangers commuting to some sentence
seeming kinder
i want to smoke and i want to read
but all my books and smokes got wet
and now
i’m drying off in transit
finding comfort in that someone
who always watches me
while i yearn to arrive at my destination
every stop, every hop
a body stands apart from other bodies
a self-designation, cultish in performance
forcing the loss of membership from the species
stop after stop, after every hop
i read someone else’s newspaper headlines while their eyes
above
watch me
the words spell out a-s-s-a-s-s-i-n-a-t-i-o-n
a six-year-old near macon, around where my little brother lives
war all the time, they say
they always say and say and speak
and is this the warmth of the transit heating system
writhing my tic-tac-toe poetry into a stoned smile
of passing time
seeming kinder
seeming kinder
drying off with me
shaking like we’re new
at every hop
———-

these are… what d’you call ’em…


06 Feb

—————

————–
Transitions
 
I can’t tell
whether this room is dying or being born again
I’m in here, nearly alone, reading Samuel Beckett
thinking elegant thoughts about stones and hubris
that march like elephants routed roughly across each temple
burning, rubbled
I am driven mad by the wrong smells
you wearing a clean body
specklessly washed
unable to find a fresh towel to wrap around those hips
and yet and yet and yet
I hear a fire inside each nostril
and am left to wonder why
maybe a cool swim inside you will clear this up
a revolution all its own
not a curtain-raiser, nor a bit of literature
simply a clarion whimper, aseptic warfare following
and an ascetic’s revolving anxiety bouncing between us
we scream for love and for renewal
and we’ll kill all those that have hidden the bones of those that came before
screamed like us before
we are the regeneration of the past vying for a future
you are clean, the elephants keep marching
and I must be roused again to fill this room
because, like us, it is going through transitions
————–

So, what’s new about this year?


27 Jan

———-

———-

mystery
 
which mystery did you forget to solve
she asked me softly as she disrobed
atroceruleous smoke filled the room
the blue was deep, it beckoned
and she became a date in ’88
new warmth of winter alabaster
the sky connecting like an ocean
the colors blur, the blush slowly washing off
and here comes again the question from her lips
remaining in the breast like psychic scars and songs from dead ancestors
which mystery did you forget to solve
she kisses me
and lays her clothes atop my writing desk
– for safe keeping, she asserts
though I think it was simply to arrest my marrowy attention
to the stranger changes in the air
the black star, brightest once before
in the dino days of excess
fading with lazarus’s last verse     
the fume of heaven cloaking us
all from births in ’88 and ’47
some light and curiosity to bind them both
just like a puzzle  
affirming its need for an internecine resolution
 
[for db and a dance I should have taken]
———-

The Last of ’15 Poems: III


16 Jan

—————

—————

fifteen line jesus

 

few people manage to eat well on camera

it’s mostly a self-conscious nibbling

until someone makes an entrance

 

pity the weeping man

as he nestles his head into your lap

a sweat through his earth of hair

a sweat like victimhood; a swarming freedom

they keep the laundromats open all night long

for the drugs and the spare change

to keep the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling

lit

pretending that this isn’t all scripted

pretending that this isn’t the place

where the saints get stoned

where the puppets get their strings tangled

where the naked bodies throw themselves against the wall

as he tells you,

“stay here, brother. i’ll be right back.” 

 

few people manage to get eaten well on camera

it’s mostly a self-annulling feast

before a break for advertisement

—————

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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