Posts Tagged ‘Death’

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—

Ecdysis


18 Dec

————7————

————7————

wedding invitation

 

Just as Houdini busted Keaton
I want to name you Love
because how long your neck winds into your hair
marengo, war on wet asphalt smolders to gunmetal; below, each
iris shelters smoke like a blissed out execution
like those lungs of collapsed literary work
do now
but, miss, what inspiration
have you given me of late –
I am a beggar for such light touches,
any, really, would do the trick –
but aside from any causal belletristic sentence
spilled across my lap like a late last call
I have hated breakfast for three years now
because I haven’t slept and woken next to you since then
no matter how many nihilists and martyrs that I’ve played
in the intervening time
and I haven’t made eggs and pasta for anyone else since
the paprika and the parsley really made the dish, it was a good one  
obscured like the singing of the books stacked by your bed
milk thistle, milk thistle – lead the way across the divided west
this dish no longer exists inside my kitchen nest
but after a protest and an election day
it was all a paranoid dream like hey, hey, hey,
SDS or SLA – tell me kid, what revolution do you want to start today
and it was weeks after
that all the newsmen seemed to ask for mercy
and gave their own begrudging curtsy
to the atomic tangerine-hued vulgarian with the political ambition of a hand grenade
and, again, after drinking for a week I made it home too late
to catch the show because that particular night I had thought that I had seen it played before
and right then
just like how Kennedy won Ochs his first guitar
I had won myself an actress
that looked like she could be cast as either a ballerina or a chipmunk
depending on the look that they had wanted when they dressed her
and I had read into her well
and saw in her all the blood of manifest destiny, terrified, and was mesmerized by
that false greatness
like all great bloodthirsty narcissists, in fairness, do
and I walked away into dripping speculation
that told me I was right over and over, right and right again
and made me hate the piss inside the jug
and the new history that will have to be written over night  
but then again
now Adlai Stevenson has schools named
after him in states he didn’t win  
as a two-year presidential nominee
and Kafka has been resurrected to build a cabinet
and I am tied to my time
forever now
like a wedding invitation
sent out before an ending world

————7————

first for the broken years


17 Nov

-0-

-0-

i used to think, but now she lives in woodside
 

this is the one that did me in
lenny’s dead, donnie’s president
and to read the post – goebbels has risen from the grave
took up an advisory role
an official propagandist job description is yet to be created
but no,
while that shit hurt – it didn’t cripple
(or at least for no longer than a week – i still have my records and my agoraphobia to soothe me)
the thing that did me in
was woodside
i came
i bought some purple roses
a drink to even out my nerves
obviously, i was in need of some lower case preparation
to tell you all the things you missed
it’s been a while
i wanted to talk to you about my plans
they’ve become varicolored and quite alive
our past
and how i can make you happy
i wanted to listen
to hear you, anything, just anything
to watch your eyes
to kiss you
as though three years didn’t pass
and lenny didn’t die last week
and we didn’t have cause to be ashamed of our country again
but alas
i left the roses by the door
you never heard my ringing bell
you never called to say i’m sorry either
for you or for the world
(and that’s not to say that our romantic genocide ever ought to be polite)
but this, this was the one that did me in
and now…
-0-

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————

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: II


05 Jan

————–

————–

asleep in the sepulcher
 
asleep in the sepulcher
like teenage fantasy
I fancy myself a monolith
of obsolete quixotic or poetic notions
imagined up by romantic mercenaries
who smoked like alchemists
and dressed like they fucked for free
every climactic second a salvo in a virgin war
we’re killers now it seems
and we once used to be oh so inspiring
surrounded by beautiful things like empty pens
souls with long, pale or hairy faces
cut up into pages vocationally destined to become flyswatters
midnight stomach aches, hospital blood tests
cigarettes in adolescent hands, hallway whispers
park concerts like trips around the world from a burgundy afghan
stars like hickeys in the sky made by lecherous gods
big loveless eyes that command oceans and lose travelers
early morning phonecalls that screech with the bombast of backseat harlots
the voice that returns
touches
barely, but I can feel its fingers
it tugs at me like I was a naughty child, by ear tip
it tells me, like a handshake I respect
that all the strong men
are already waking up
because we’ve lost our time for dreaming

————–

any day


20 Nov

————–

————-

ode to the lost, lost

 

there’s a place on a man’s back
a thin strip between the shoulder blades
where if the knife goes in
the arms have no longer a way to reach it
pull it out
the muscles and nerves contract
tense then sting, tense then sting, with each attempt
to ease the pain
save oneself from the heart flooding through its own backdoor
at least that’s the way I was explained it
by my people out in Oakland
when I asked ‘em whatever came of J

 

I ain’t seen him in four years
inquired about him since he left to check DC
like some junkie Mr. Smith in some morbid parody
apparently the scene didn’t work out the way he hoped
and he made a couple bus connections to the West
traded up powder for the tar
and six months ago, apparently, homey tried a grab
heard he made it out the crib with three grand and half a key
tried to barter some off for some action, then some affection
took the blonde and she took him
put the name out to the street
while I couldn’t even remember whether J was James or Jeremiah anymore

 

they say his mama buried him herself
while I assume she used a service
after all, only rumor you can trust
has to be verified in blood
when I found out, six months too late
I asked about the funeral
they told me an odd number of bereaved is thought to be bad luck
maybe that’s why the coffin cracked as it was lowered
but I don’t think so
no bad luck befalls the dead
it’s a ticket that pays out true each time
each time
again
until the next time I make a phone call
inquiring about a ghost, the past
all those things that become meaningless
within a single moment
resting

————-

some of that yeehaw shit


16 Nov

————–

————–

coaching the cowboy

 

there was a last day sometime
not long from now
it passed already
like ink that made the word
it was that day
when the writer sat
and attempted to write the piece
that he fumbled over like a bluffing hand
inside a mind self-impugned as amateurish
he put new ashes in the urn
because his cigarette grew short
and because he knew there was no practical reason to respect the dead
and he began his thought
– why do we all assume
that the good guys need to win?
like the hortatory season when one would keep his holster by the saddle
underneath country of blood and open sky
this is a world for villains and charlatans to claim
all else is delusive affectation
someone to tell you “no dice, kid, not this time” behind a glass partitioning
it’s become too big
new ashes in an old urn
a serum always out of reach because of who put it there
so, is it this quodlibetal struggle that captivates
allures us, the sort of heroes?
that was the thought, at least
and as the writer began his final piece
on this last day
the one that passed by some time ago
like ink that made the word
with the anticipation of one
who had waited far too long
nothing grew along the page
the emptiness maturing into settling accommodation
this was the sky across montana
this was reminder
of what was and has always been
this was no more
and nothing more to come

————-

paranoia, somewhere between conspiracy and knowledge


09 Oct

—————-

—————-

the future is the past

 

the holy children make serpents out of clay
watching evil dick dying sometime in ’22
surrounded by a family that has long oscillated
between pretended admiration and fear
of both the man, what he kept inside himself, and his curriculum vitae
he whispers to his daughter
shivering from this virgin softness on his breath
dry lips nearing her moistening ear
he tells her of his approximations
of how much time he left us with
about how much money brown and root made from making john un-pretty over there on elm
and if estimated for inflation, how close that score comes to
the amount he and halli-halli made
by keeping ubl breathing a decade longer than he deserved
the daughter shakes and sees her father new again
a surrogate head though the hydra seems as though it withers
she walks away as far as history allows her
skipping out on any future mass
the children aren’t at fault for daddy’s sins
and daddy’s sins and daddy’s sins
for daddy’s sins we apologize to audrey and june
above, the holy children pick up their clay
and make yet another shape

—————

The Last of ’15 Poems: III


10 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 tell 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
———–

the sound from the next room


21 Dec

————–

————–

mel

 

he
walks like a deceased king
slumping into the paranoia of gray
doomed like all things
and unlike all things
nothing gets created or destroyed
except affection and influence
the sound from the next room
he
walks away
the swollen leg swings pendulously upon each step
he thinks about prosecco
this dime and a half he made through this new centenary
he thinks of cocoa butter on her belly
when he was young
when they were movie-stars
he
walks like damage
slow, and slower every year
the veins, more prominent, creep in
like light from underneath a door
you’re meant to walk through
because of
the second sound from the next room

————-

What happens at 4am…


21 Jul

———–

———–

tired

 

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

———-

Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


Copyright © 2010 - 2017 jacktumult.com All Rights Reserved.