Posts Tagged ‘comical’

products of the creator, disenchanted

05 Feb



viewing party

fucking profundity and so
the comedic suicide is set
she made the marks with a plastic knife
that came with the butter packets
meant for a baked potato
that they delivered
from the diner down Shore Front
they were confused when they read the order
hurrying over to bring the succor and the spur  
and if you’ve noticed
I’ve ceased giving names or titles
to anyone involved
as I refuse to grant
any further legacy to fiction
needless to say
she was upset
by these events that turned her
a commission drafted incorrectly
no release, the bruised skin like junky paper
and now not even a spud to
sink her teeth


ticketed for parking in the twilight zone

23 Sep



broken lenses


henry bemis’s wife could go get fucked
by a rampaging aarmory of rabid aardvarks
if she’d hadn’t already expired
within the impact of that h-bomb
all the man wanted to do was read, helen
was that so hard to understand
instead you posture, snout pricked up
talking about how no husband of yours should dare rob you of conversation
but, henry, all he wanted was a little time
a good book is all
whether on the bank vault floor or inside his comfy chair at home
shakespeare, shelley, shaw
this year next year on and on
until they build society back up to keep one occupied
counting money instead of pages
but for now, henry, just pick up the first one that you see
you shouldn’t be stacking tomes like that nohow
ruins the binding, you know that
pick one up and read instead
just mind you don’t break your glasses on the pavement
(and all that’s left is for seth mcfarlane to make a witty brain cell joke of you)
so don’t be positioning your head
at any downward sloping angles
instead look straight ahead
at the letters on the paper, black on yellowed white
at this beautiful, angry world, alone
there must have been a reason after all
that the guy that wrote ya in the first place
wouldn’t let any other scribe put god inside a script

(dedicated to rob serling)


I hope you’ve figured out how succulently stoned I’ve been during the composition of the past few pieces…

07 Jul



asshole # 7


despite my general indigence,

I do have some more so bourgey friends

(they though still are of the hedonistic mold)

but here we all are, so there we go

I order first since I know that I won’t have to pay the bill

a ‘bourbon-club’ in Midtown which bourbon aficionados can’t afford

kale salad at $12 a plate, (can’t approximate how it might taste along with the American brown)

anyway, our recent maundering revolved around

the fates of the operatic craft

they all prognosticated doom

the eventual death, or else the aesthetic-retirement of dotting audiences drawn

the ones culturally auditioned or conditioned

(or whatever other bullshit it takes one to wear the pearls)

being no longer capable of keeping up with the seasons

anyway, the concern presented was that this particular parrot

is quite close to that eternal squawkless resignation

the worry thus was that this fardel of prestige was all but lost to the AARP crowd

who’ll soon forget the magic and the repression of the flute (dementia)

but I said, no,

not really, man

I enjoy the opera too

I like Mozart and Gounod

Puccini, Verdi, Berlioz, and the like

so to appease scruffy ruffians like me

first lower them ticket prices

(student discounts don’t mean shit when you consider the cost of a college education)

kill the Kochs off your committee, withdraw their names off any permanent inscriptions

(Met balcony, I’m looking at ya’ll, you surely can find better patrons)

then install small metal cuspidors next to the seats

waste baskets acting as spittoons

for the shells of my sunflower seeds I’m due to spit

in between the arias

while everyone around me

as always

is far too polite to actually applaud


Hard Body

27 Jun



Woody in the New Yorker


the man was torpid, bowlegged
with a port wine stain, porcine-shaped
across the left side of his face
my right testicle seemed like it’s been sagging
so I was feeling particularly frustrated
on that particular Sunday
that man was sitting by a music shop
close to Sheridan
where they sold broken ukuleles
reading something by Dickens
heavy, Bleak House I believe it was
my right jean leg felt tight
and I stumbled slightly
he noticed and he coughed
I caught a chuckle in that cough
and the way he sat there
like the wrong flag in the wrong ground
it sagged my testicle even further to the pavement
I worried that it might scrape along the concrete
so I killed him
the man, I mean
and with the testicle, now, feeling better
I strode off like I produced the play
off to my favorite diner
right there on Sixth
to order some chicken fingers, onion rings
maybe call my wife
cause she gets jealous
just like a cactus


short # 42

23 Jun





never run from a man with a knife

even if you don’t care for the manner in which the homey’s jibbing

back and forth, then straight ahead

(eventually there’s a lack of where to go)

but do no frighten, just remember

he takes steps just like you

head on is the best method

go for the knees

and don’t cut yourself shaving



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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