Posts Tagged ‘Love or Lust’

from the nobody left to teach perspective

11 May



the kids menu at the bar


you look sweet enough
to make me draw
your man as a villain
in one of my picture books
shit has been getting so serious
that this is a most welcome change
for me to bring out my color inks
keep the hues running
it doesn’t matter
all is temporary
all are temperate until they’re tempted
regardless of the surface tantrum
the taciturn façade
we all accept
turn away
turn off
and simply order from the menu



30 Mar




maybe it’s a weakness
but I need
to fall
into the arms of a woman
my head upon the sitting thighs
a good woman
one that will comfort past the epigraph
no et al, past the marble, the bronze
a cursory fetish, a curiosity tickled
lips treasuring a churlish quiet, a bottom lip to love
slanted snide, waiting to be bitten
I’m already falling
a conjuring so cruel
I’m falling now
where is our bed

lead me then shoot me


/\/\/\ pt. 1

20 Jul



a little crown pt. 1

pushing on the ocean
I count four dollars in my pocket
there are still those I miss
but they relate to me
from a wholly different paper
bourbon there somewhere
and there’s a fleeting wistfulness
for what you try to forget
a prurience that you try to forget, that used to sleep away the night
like a bit of glass that used to shell malt liquor
turned into a gem, a mist of green
like the dress that covered your ink last time I saw you
and it’s fine, you know it is
memory only works if you survive it
unwillingly convince it to remain
the tide comes in
I stand before her
pushing against the might of this moment

February 7: I

03 Feb





newspapers full of fading people

cities delicately reimagined as thieves

blemished, blurred by oily fingers

we all end up alone

unable to see the eyes in front of us

but if you leave, it’ll be even worse than alone

and I’ll have no one to follow during my midnight constitutionals in the park

slowly realizing that we’re all ultimately strangers to each other

strange, strongheaded

whispers that open windows

another scar appears on my arm

the one I use to write

from where I helped you move your couch

the one we need in order to continue fucking

the only worthwhile way to spend the day

too long, too much

I read, the

newspapers full of fading people

I worry that this article will last another thirty years

and I’ll be sitting here, a

faux intellectual pretending middle class

dilettantish but insured

reading what to make of another morning

waiting for my dinner drink

thinking of ways, for hushful wagging decades now,

of how to kill the man that smudged us



getting through it…

15 Nov



all minor chords (Dm)


i really want to tell her that i love her

but i don’t want to lie

how could i put it

i got marooned on a different island long ago


the smell is different – the fire of rose for the cold of syringa, i don’t know

and now, the latter

i’m number to it (three or four, i’m not too sure anymore)


i mostly want a bed to share

to feel affection and affected


some promise at some time

whether brief, or…

what’s the use

spinning these

excuses, comfortable rejections, half-truths , placating explanations

they turn one into sleep

or worn out sneakers

taken out only when the dirt is apropos

lubricious pitfalls translated to lubricated pratfalls

and i’m the king of falling

and so

we are back to it

a quietly shifting mushroom cloud in my bed

linen everywhere

unsatisfied for different reasons

liminal, but on different sides

with no door to find

no keys to open it even if we do


not a gesture, just an honest memory of someone’s past [I don’t remember]

21 Apr



untenable out of a book jacket


five foot two

four hasty tattoos

my tiny little heartbreaker

her pills and acid reflux cut out the wine from the diet

so we have to remain undrunk

and I still have to shake perceptibly

when she talks of hypothetic unions

potential precocious children

bedtime stories, doomed eternal love

literature and second chances

and it’s all light and airy and a load of shit

because we do this once a year

too long now

and we have both noticeably aged

but I always come back

and I will always come back

because I’m stupid and in love


like these damned do

for a kiss

and something warm to feel again



24 Feb



bread and circus


when I come home

I want to find her

a culprit sitting at my desk

eyes conspiratorial and searching

I’ll be direct

in silence and desire

in gratifying respect

the fingers become instruments

specific to unravel her

the pantyhose go first

I’ll rip them slowly

by way of a resolute symmetry

until I can move her panties

to the right

and leave my tongue to skulk along her clit

then just rest a minute there

make camp  

then proceed slowly upward

a pulsing tongue along the belly

marking landmarks and places to vacation

a kiss

between the breasts, across the neck, then to her lips

along making my way

in this manner skyward and vastly delicate

I will remove any adversarial items of clothing

athwart my route

leaving her in nothing

but ripped pantyhose

and tiny socks

because her feet get cold

so easy


No Swimming

14 Jan





call me when you want me again

just don’t wait too long this time

because losing a name

happens so quickly these days

and as I write this

I’m watching a timeworn man

wading through green thickets

led by hardened nerves and a rope

that webs through this sea of trees

like solifugae silk

suddenly he halts and looks grievously at the camera

the flashing red demurs a second take  

he points to an overgrown bush by his feet

and says that she left a note and a hand mirror

before she took her life

another name disappears for an empty reflection

so, please

call me when you want me again

you know it gets lonely in this space

there’s too much freedom here to be wasted in

the screen smiles like a dead televangelist

inviting me

fanged and fangled as a crackhead in the L.A. sun

to fill its emptiness with my ambition

but I’d rather be in your bed, baby 

completing something worthwhile again   

in our room that they only built for two


My Wild Love (lovesong #2)

29 Jun



lovesong # 2


“Spero ti siano arrivati insieme il telegramma e la lettera. Il mare mi ha rifiutato e ritornerò domani all’albergo Bologna, viaggiando forse con questo stesso foglio. Ho però intenzione di rinunziare all’insegnamento. Non mi prendere per una ragazza ibseniana perché il caso è differente. Sono a tua disposizione per ulteriori dettagli.”

– Ettore Majorana


after a couple of days

she was still sick

mushroom barley soup took about an hour’s grace

fresh porcini and dry chanterelles

carrots, onions, but skip the celery

she waits in bed in

faded dark sweatpants the color of chimney smoke

approved by Twain like a bathetic notary

some Mazar I Sharif for creativity and appetite

prescribed by my personal physician in Washington Heights

motionlessness leading into long stretches starting at the toes

sweating out the fever

through skin of pale elysian luxury

my lese majesty of romantic love

with a cupidity that only reveals itself nocturnally

a mammonism inside the shadowed mouth of carnal passion

the same carnival of glamorous and atramental colors

and the pygmalionism that’s resurrected her for me ever since  

was something that I languished on about

in my lament about our new lost generation a few years ago

despite knowing that this has always been a solitary desert proposition

an icarian compromise where the sea awaits me

much too tired of writing love poems on and on again

that claim no medicinal value

and so I brew some tea instead

and make a wager with this silenced war

that if time is indeed as chameleonic

as her mania

which churns out caprice and affection in equal doses

and in ten years

it finds me happy and hopeful and still writing

a novelist salaried by greedy deadlines

with a lover who’s no longer delicate and ailing

I will owe it a single favor

to be asked and paid in full


Although a large amount of research has been carried out, the exact mechanism of action of ECT remains elusive, and ECT on its own does not usually have a sustained benefit. There is a significant risk of memory loss with ECT.

04 Jan



Love like Electroconvulsive Therapy


The poor dream big

(I know it to be true)

the beggars


———-burdened against god

and maybe you know someone like me

stifled by the eyes on the other side of paradise

and the music plays

like a madman

a savage in a monastery playing checkers with some demented Gogol

who spits like a limerick from a child’s lips


there’s a broken coffee mug with the vodka

that never made it to the freezer

sitting next to me

speaking in the mouth of Severin

“she can only be his slave or his despot, but never his companion”

and when I taste it

it swallows me

reminding me of how much I wanted you

the clouding of brutality

I needed you, I thought


I can’t write you anymore

the dreams you flaunt get lost like dirty socks

I know they all do

all did

but I can’t imagine you feeling anything


goddamn, you look good naked

and I wanted to see you

watch you

as you took the teddy off

touched yourself

while I said something strong

pretending that I was

pretending that loving you

wasn’t like rooting for the Mets

a futile exercise in sadomasochism


always travelling but never there

and you know how to

trade sex like a punch to the ribs

and I’ve been beaten and said “thank you” every time

you’ve gotten yours

and I’ve almost gotten mine

this adulation caused some seizures

first I was sick, then I was saved

and then they took the electrodes off

and I alleged that I was feeling better now

and, weakened but resolved, I walked out

to wander


and alone


Smoldering, As Always

08 Mar



“You know these new novels make me tired. My God! Everywhere I go some silly girl asks me if I’ve read ‘This Side of Paradise.’ Are our girls really like that? If it’s true to life, which I don’t believe, the next generation is going to the dogs. I’m sick of all this shoddy realism.”


One for Dick Caramel


My contemporaries suggested

that she torture the madness out of me

give me a peek at her upon undress

then tearfully subside to meek distress

shake her head and recount past failures of love

make artificial lornness of her quim

pretend that I was a debased beast with eager fingers

too quick for a demure De Sade.

She’d quiver to pretend a hesitation,

while I was left with a marveled fascination

of how she could lay upon the bed

dutifully nude, a wetted blossom between her hips,

and yet refrain as though the symphony was yet unwritten

as though the Kapellmeister forgot his magical baton

like a lubricated Berlioz removing damnation from the title.

She knew I wanted her

there with no averseness

a crazed juggler of perversions

that she carefully crafted to personify iniquity

while I mildly saw myself as an illiterate Aquinas

paranoid that they’ll start burning writers again

bare along with their thoughts and clothing words

braying gleefully to find the hooves underneath their soles.

So while she was nude and I was merely tattered

a sway of mood finally eased her into crescent

she chanted while I swallowed her humid breath

and we had a new ceremony to celebrate

like children without a god.

She disrobed from her failed intent

gave in to me

as was customary for the reckless muse

and was, in no lost irony,

the one that was consumed.


Drifting to be Found

07 Mar


For the girl who liked scarlet begonias and the way I cooked my omelets


Where is she, my anesthetic,

my romantic’ genocide?

is she a powder now

a liquid or a pill?

a smokestack swallowed underneath the tribe?

Is she

            in the communes of Clichy

            in the hills of Calvary

            or maybe in Berlin

            or St. Petersburg

            or the island of Lesbos

            or Istanbul where Constantine tried his bloody hand at devotion

            maybe Portland

            Stockholm, Venice, Newark,…

Is she in splendor

or has she been substituted for the betted coin?

Is she handing out pamphlets at Chomsky’s door

like propaganda of manufacturing consent  

or is she grieving her restless childhood alone?

Is she voyage or has she finally become the port?

no anxiety or no imagination

so we strive breathlessly for the new blue paradox

like an ambitious spermatozoon

like a theatrical flash of dawning melancholy

I lightly bite her bottom lip as I slip my tongue inside her

We fuse

as we have done before

in editorial fashion

We combine to soften

in rough process

until we feel unencumbered and exhausted

one in another

to return to the path

along which Venus fell

so brilliantly in a mistaken

tender waltz.

Our morning becomes the shameful daylight

a silent cup of coffee gracefully handled

by fidgeting hands hoisted by tender muscles

and enervated, fagged saints

still stoned, left empty for further voyeurism.

But while we are still unchained and strong

we might as well have another go

before destroying our own conclusion like an angry Sibelius

before declining further rewrites and getting fully numb

before we’re left with simply being polite

So while aroused, as though you were the woman in Blaas’s water,

let me put my palm on your knee underneath your skirt

and venture forth like a hedonistic crusader should

firmly committed to convincing himself that our repetition always turned out well.



The full recording of my reading at Bar Ten/Eleven is finally up in the Media section.

Read the disclaimer prior to watching.


Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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