Posts Tagged ‘Depression’

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



11 Jan



PROTEST (Janus Ponders)



legion of


unified by ideology

need to die


to change the minds of


(protest, provoke, then wait for pity)


hope is hope in peace

but, unfortunately


is hope with tired, bloodied hands

and the tears of the choiceless

preaching against violence

before another execution

for your evening broadcast  


my peers

with puffed out chests

talk of revolution

in the sanguine classrooms of open minds  

without knowing the difference

between death, politic(k)s and murder

without seeing what it looks like

smells like

feels like

the way it’s due to infest and haunt

there’s no more Panthers (despite what you may have heard on FOX News)

no more SDS

just us

the weary and the hungry ones

to question our history books

to work for a better world

but yet, like all the rest

I just don’t know how

to salvage this savage howl

of bad and worse decisions



24 Jun



Peter Pan


A writers’ trick

is a strong declarative sentence

to begin a composition,

so I start it off

with the words:

‘The morning cigarette

is the only thing keeping me

from killing myself.’

I don’t know if I believe it, but

I invite guests over

to leave me more alone

in an hour I can borrow



with a newly empty fridge.

They say that

no one wants to sleep with a saint

the halo is a cacophony against the headboard.

They go for princes

beheaded kings


the executioner writes the litany

like music to set the mood

his voice stretches time.

She was a beautiful girl

but I slept with the other one last night.

She woke up and said,

“what’s the matter, baby – can’t sleep?”

I explained

that I ran out of my Marlboros

and the store

down the block

doesn’t open up till morning.


I Feel as Weathered as the SDS in 1969

02 Aug



When was the last time that God came out and summoned a dude to sacrifice his son on top of a mountain? Why would he change his forte all of a sudden? I’m just saying – homeboy needs to get back on top of his game. Play some tricks on all these atheist motherfuckers walking around all pompous and logical and shit. Where is Yahweh to show his face in the burning bong, proselytize some additional commandments for a new millennia – after all, some shit has changed; we’re all globalized capitalists now and it’s all false idolatry – so where are the new rules and regulations that we need to all abide by? Like:


Thou Shalt Not register as a Republican now that Intellectual Conservatives have all gone the way of the dodo (that would have stuck around outside of the rapture timeline if only Bloomberg allowed us all to smoke again…)


Thou Shalt Not plead innocent because no one’s going to believe you anyway


Thou Shalt Not replace hard earned grammar for a vocabulary found in text-messaging


Thou Shalt Not stop a man from choosing between death and a life sentence of killing inside of a gray-painted penitentiary in order to abide by the savage politics of either being the rapist or the victim while having your animal-tested meals supplied for you like slow arsenic by tax payers who hate you blindly and watch Glee marathons that they’ve recorded on their DVRs


Thou Shalt Not stop me from smoking a joint on a stoop in a more and more pretentious Brooklyn (I don’t care how many galleries you can stuff into a warehouse): in the same neighborhood where I used to get stopped for being white in an yet-ungentrified Hispanic East New York; where I had a friend named Pinky who sold me bags of Off-E at cost (nearly for him, not his suppliers) at $8 a bag and sometimes offered me a couch to nod on for a nastily unimportant week spent in nihilistic self-aggrandizement (I had some grand thoughts on that couch, cheaper than a shrink, with no one accusing me of wanting to fuck my mother)


I don’t know.


Personally, I’m not an atheist – but what’s up with the goddamn Genesis God? That badass Old Testament mamajama full of vengeance and sulfuric rain. The one scared of words (a lá blasphemy), worried about his twitter followers and throwing down some plagues on sanded sadists (yet Ahmadinejad is still chilling without any frogs or locusts parting his barber-school discount coiffure)?


I’m just saying… we’re still a religiously divisive country – but, why? What the fuck?! I’m satirizing Goethe now (more Marlowe and Berlioz, but still), but I know that when I get to portraying God as a black homeless man with more wisdom than the canon, I’m going to get railroaded by the evangelists and the Orthodox wannabe contestants of IFC’s Beard Wars. I’m not even counting the undereducated, illiterate bastards that would picket Sesame Street if a hack like Dan Brown wrote an episode.


What I’m saying is that I’m really lonely, man.

Really. Help me out. Hook me up. Give me some of that good shit.

Show me something that would make feel as alive as I did before. Give me some simple gift that would make me capable to cathect anything besides the shadow of some ancient lover that they used to make music for, that used to flaunt her body in front of me dressed in nothing but smoke and her purple, cotton Fruit of the Loom underwear.


The reason that I still believe in God? In that omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent (a continent on this planet has a third of its populace dying from an immunodeficiency virus, but that’s old news to the non-believers) being – rather, I believe in some sort of cumulating power, energy, conglomeration that put this fucking engine in motion billions of years ago so that we could evolve from single-celled organisms into sentient creatures that were able to fuck up on our own – I believe in It because I fucking have to. Because I want to believe that something wants me to go on a talk show somewhere (because that’s the way that information gets around nowadays) and explain why everyone is wrong: why Republicans are expendable, why homosexual marriage is not an encroachment on a dying middle class family idyll, why if you still believe the bible to be literal you would have to have some slaves (and, no, they ain’t gonna be black – so the Southern bigots can all stop preaching and wishing and look to which of their overall-wearing, toothy neighbors looks hefty enough to pull a buggy likely full of corn subsidies) that they’re willing to beat to an inch of their life and be willing to put their women out camping in the backyard every time aunt flow comes to town, why I don’t care if you’re worried about your values when people in this country are unemployed, hungry, but still sticking it out because they think that someone might have a solution (fuck no), why writing a decent script is more than putting good lines in pretty women’s mouths, why we might understand one another and allow each other time to grow instead of massacring those that believe in fabulist notions other than our own, why we might see that the system that we’ve progressed into is controlled by those that were as coincidentally rich as they were coincidentally Christian, why I think suicide is laughably illegal in this country, why no member of the Jersey Shore deserves a book deal, why there shouldn’t be a why anymore, why I have to drink in order to remain sane and tranquil enough to write, why I believe in a truly free press, in truly free speech, why I think that liberalism doesn’t mean fucking political correctness, why I think that we need to legalize heroin in order for people to stop snorting bath salts, why I think that Kanye is a Mozart-like genius of our generation, why I just want a girl who wants to bunker in with me to watch old Woody Allen films (especially the early funny ones) and laugh at serious paranoia and drink wine and fuck and not care that the world and the culture that built it is crumbling around us as though we were all just pompous Remuses in a Roman creation myth.


Imagine if Shakespeare Actually Lived in the Park Feasting on Literary Scraps and Discarded Half-Macs

18 Jun


Check out one of my favorite West Coast writers, Zarina Zabrisky, at her site (, and maybe if we’re ever in the same time zone for a night, you might see us doing a reading in some tipsy, bombed out, poetic room.



For Sunny Days  


             The tense, melancholic dips of clinical depression have become more or less expected, like a constant morning when you know you have to wake up to walk the dog otherwise it will piss all over the carpet. You can feel these dips approaching, slowly coming on, like a begrimed blonde in a lousy bar who’s sloppily playing with the zipper of your jeans after you’ve bought her a half dozen drinks upon request. You begin seeing your beard spreading onto your neck, lower and lower like an inverted turtleneck; like a coldblooded, vulgar army employing a scorched earth policy. No quarter will be shown to those captured.

            The distress you’ve felt in the surrounding world becomes a mutiny, an enemy, a tempest, an idea with a drill head, an entire armada of emotions that has outmanned and outflanked your sanity – bombarding the synapses of your psyche until there’s nothing and no one left but hatred wearing the bloodied captain’s robes.

            You hate the teenagers buying teal packs of American Spirits at overpriced Manhattan delis for $15 dollars.

            You hate the late MTA buses and the commuters that wait patiently and sigh like fishermen.

            You hate the smell of the decrepit Hispanic men on the subway, coated like ablution and shame in garlic and the rancid sweat of yesterday’s drink.

            You hate the military recruiters handing out pamphlets outside the entrances into our universities (30,000 sexual abuse cases annually as something to look forward to, hidden in the small print).  

            You hate the J.P. Morgan Chase employees that stand around like panhandlers in suits stalking gullible prey with business cards and promises of a low APR if you fill out an application for a new credit card today.

            You hate the girls that look too innocent for this city, except for an Upper West Side trust fund; coddled into psychoanalysis at the age of twelve as a rite of passage, walking barelegged and high, unaware that they’re destined to make a vocation out of dating assholes throughout their jejune years of pale beauty, while constantly waiting for the reincarnation of an approbating father to arrive and embrace them.

            You hate the rising real estate prices: to buy or to rent or just a quiet place to die in like a suitcase; you hate the beggars that sleep in the only shade left in the street; you hate the lionized manner in which everyone tries to wear a unique hue while finding nothing interesting to say at half-time; you hate the honest liars, the WASPs with their over-groomed children and the good pew on Sunday morning, the guy that hands you a coupon for a titty-bar at 10 am on a busy weekday every time you walk past Church Street, the awkward smiles, the dying light, the mounting work, the constant bills in the mail, the lovers you can’t seem to forget, the dinner date forced upon, the familiarity of it all…

            And most of all, you hate the inevitability. The goddamn inevitability. It never seems to change. 



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

Copyright © 2010 - 2018 All Rights Reserved.