Posts Tagged ‘Fuck Censorship’


23 Jan



the pyramids have eyes

i had a dream
in it
the anger rose as mountains
the inept climbed
the mindless rose one atop another
and at the peak
the cretin dyed himself
put his best hair on
and took the oath


i had a dream
we lived
huddled, defensive, an anger rising
extremities pinioned by time so magnified it wears
through corporeal weight self-manifested
nails dirty, climbing back
we choose for leaders those of merit
by way of piousness to new religions
they used to call them repulsion and schadenfreude


i had a dream

we lived

in it

and i simply couldn’t wake  




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


I Guess It’s Time to Educate Like Cunnilingus that Resembles a Zinger From Heathcliff

08 Oct



Although I will never apologize for offending anyone with anything I’ve ever written – because I don’t care much for the sensitive types that can’t take the time to read through into the intended meaning of something I’ve ever published here and will instead only get themselves foolishly riled up by a few four letter words I might have chosen to sprinkle in here and there like paprika to spice up a crowded text – I will say this instead:


Though certain things written here are composite sketches of people that I know; exaggerated, abstracted and lovingly manipulated so as to seem amusing or tempting or entertainingly subversive, they are never exact replications of their biographical realities. But if I ever write about a hypothetical person and call them “humorless” or “only of mediocre creative capacity” or “a good fuck but barely memorable outside of your imaginative use of hot sauce” or “full of a self-assuredness that can only be a later hindrance” and you see yourself in these lines – you should probably take a look inward, rather than at me. Most likely, that wasn’t about you, you arrogant child. I do not think about you when I write, because someone who takes themselves so seriously can only be a target of easy mockery and I am not in the easy mockery business. I create what I see as Art. I write because I am a writer and because I am capable of capturing the world for myself and for others in a surrealist, lyrical, acute perspective that seems to make more sense than the senseless reality we’re sifting through on our way to the next inevitably meaningless plateau. Enjoy it and learn to take a fucking joke – you should see how funny Freud found that one about the pedophile and Catholic priest at the petting zoo after he shot an eight-ball. Dennis Leary once said in his stand up set (likely stolen from the far superior comic writer Bill Hicks) that life is composed of little pleasures: “it’s a cigarette butte, or a chocolate chip cookie or a five second orgasm. You cum, you smoke the butte, you eat the cookie, you go to sleep, wake up and go back to fucking work the next morning – that’s it, end of fucking list!” All relatively meaningless in the mesmerizing quandary that is the universe and our shared existence within it, especially if we consider the span of this meandering sea that we call time. So, trust me, you are feckless too in this futile schism of the revoltingly revolving unimportant – meaningless to me and to the apathetic world. The people who still nest inside my head are all mere ghosts now, trust me – and ghosts aren’t real. Go get laid and forget about it.



But just in case, for the ones who are slow and unnecessarily delicate – I have provided a notice in bar to the right of you regarding the fictitious nature of all work published on this site. You’re welcome, you touchy cunts!



Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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