Posts Tagged ‘Cynical’

The Pressure of Patience

26 Apr



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

What happens at 4am…

21 Jul





exhausted by this eternity

I whittle myself to my barest form

a tired twenty seven

about ten pounds off my fighting weight

my halo just the blurred vision of the other drunks

I’ll fart out a living eulogy

spend my last few cents on airfare to Kenya

buy myself a couple of gas can gallons of Changaa

for my last binge

instead of drinking to sleep

this is drinking to wed

a celebration of my connubiality to this fate

self-imposed, of course

this is no rage

no dying of the light

no good story to tell

a swim in the spittoon

endless shit between my fingers

forcing my hand to put a smile on the body

laying still

exhausted by this eternity


When Culture Staples a Cease-and-Desist Letter to your Forehead

31 Jul



A Poetaster’s Critique


Literature is going to die like jazz

as the smoky whisper of maladroit fingers culling

with only a small middleclass white audience

to adjust

to mourn the loss as fetishists

caressing the binding leather blistering their minds

inspiration deacetylated from creation to form that






totemic maggots in the brain without the funk

a retching bitch in the alley cold

6-Monoacetylmorphine for those that treat a Real Housewives marathon on Bravo

like a lecture from Spalding Gray

but, fuck it, the analgesic warms the workday of the dead

Coltrane, Davis, Parker – gone

The New York Times 10 Best “Books” of 2012 list can give me a sloppy rimjob

because it doesn’t matter anymore

we’re in the intellectual fading dawn at this point

and the day draws quickly

as it did on the New Wavers that danced to old Suicide records, without any irony in the

glittery glam 80’s,

in moody, nebbish polyester soon to be plaid rebellion

blinking in Morse code like impotent oracles:

W E  W E R E  N E V E R  S P E C I A L

but at least we used to think rudderlessly

with a direction everywhere

a new dull beauty to explore in innocent latency

but these inelegant fingers that took the bone from its case

are reaching for all the same notes that were played before

better in the all-too-apologetic, retrospective nostalgia


when poverty used to mean something

besides a funeral march to

smiling apathy


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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