Posts Tagged ‘Miscommunication’

products of the creator, disenchanted


05 Feb

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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
into

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Faces


03 Feb

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Check out the Upcoming Events section for two scheduled readings this week…

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“This was no season for lilacs, but rather one for a sleepless inanity, something like a lost record out of radio play; there was both finality and infinity in it. There was life in it, but it never kept me, at least never fully.”

          One Face

 

I

 

a terrycloth bathrobe with a skittering mind

who’ll ask you whether you believe in God

what you thought of Heathcliff in the Heights

then take you on a long stroll along a short beach

a humor and a horror with thick dark brows

still melancholy over a proofread comma

from three years past

 

II

 

my writing,

my writing,

all my writing

for a woman

a truly exceptional one

I’d give it up

all of it

every word

just like any other addiction

for a different one

that’d keep me alive

(because a life

simply through words

is as thin and ageless as a page)

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Lacrimoso


18 Dec

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A carton of Marlboro Red 100s. A bottle of 12 year old single malt. The portentous delight of a finely rolled spliff. My night is only made better by the promise of some Chinese food on the horizon. A few days of rest after having pushed through a large chunk of work are well deserved.

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Watch out for the strange little man that resembles Leoncavallo

 

Like an alien life-form

homesick

starved by a besieging world

gasping for a measured sentiment

tangled in the air

muddled as the wrong gin

grown pallid

like a dying hero

in a picture.

Her lips

a smokestack

meant to fade

impending

an ascension

little syllables woven together

like a premonition

speaking in subtitles

like an old Italian film

skipping over the erudition

a bad transition

and the intricacy

and all notable meaning

like a worn bible in a flea bag motel next to a bottle of Old Granddad

a joke with blood on the mattress

an occult acculturation

a broken cigar to a broken man

lachrymose and barely there

I want to find her intimacy

because she remains steadfast

obstinate, with her little balled fists at her hips

she looks at me

precious and procellous

dreaming and perilous

and I swim no longer

instead I drown in the mercy of the situation

misnamed

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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