John Tyson

John Tyson born in 1958 spent most of his life in the Midwest. Living in a grand environment of intimate emotion. He paints houses, writes poetry, together they invigorate and exhaust. Torso, a new project deals with the recent decapitation and mutilation of a coworker. And no, they don't appear to be typos.

John Tyson

823 N 2nd Street #413

Milwaukee, WI 53203

long pity poem 3-16-01

I'm broken

So I guess I'm lucky

strangers will fix me.

First my heart

then my cock

someday my eyes.

Maybe they can make me taller wiser

Happier

without drugs.

Rub my brain

soak it all night rusty bathtub broken sink

extra special chemicals.

Ah, throw the whole fuckin mess out!

I'm becoming a 1987 Volvo station wagon

one thing fixed another breaks.

Everyone is so helpful

their parents grandparents great-grandparents

had what I'm having

like breakfast at Denny's.

Delusions 1-27-01

At times

I feel like King Louis XVI

on the eve of the revolution.

Gathering belongings

Issuing declarations

Preparing for exile

Hiding behind my wife.

I'm not quite the despot

more of a scoundrel a rascal

unheeding advice

running my own campaign

risking mortality.

So, I'll succumb to the doctors

before daybreak

avoiding the terror.

Serge 5-5-01

I used to dream

about being a young girl

in a French movie

with a squared jawed

rugged boyfriend dirty

turtleneck in a fast red car

and we held hands whispered

je t'ame, kissed. Instead I

was suburban brat over

abused naturally nasty.

Moved to a farm molested

each other farm hands animals implements wild deer corn crops.

Learned French from Madame Sullivan.

John Tyson