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Why you must read Adam Moursy’s Dizzied By Chance


Dizzied by Chance is my second book of poems, focusing more on the grimier side of life, downmoods and desperation, and the ever-present struggle between trying to break free of it all and simply falling further. It’s fast-paced and quick to engage, with a good mixture of introspective and character-driven pieces, and readers will no doubt find it to be a nice followup to Slinking Under the Electric Bulb.  

We loved Slinking Under the Electric Bulb, but that collection definitely wasn’t aimed at everyone. Who is this collection aimed at?
Anyone who’s ever had a bad day. And if you haven’t, you should at least find out what you’re missing.

Have you written any other books that we should read next?
I just released a new chapbook, Wine-Stained Parts and Dirty Talk. It’s a  raunchy little tell-all sex fest that pretty much begins and ends behind closed doors, with the bed and myself being the only real constant.  

Last time around, I hinted at a novel. I still have one in the works, although I decided to save that other story for later as it’s yet to really conclude.  Instead, I’m writing one about a misanthropic cab driver who tries to drink away his hatred of the job, but only finds himself more and more wrapped up in it as a result. It’s an ode to dropping-out, to avoiding the nine-to-five at all costs. More on that later.

Do you have a website where we can keep up with your work?
Sort of. I’ve called it a “pseudo-blog” for lack of a better term, but it’s . There’s a mix of new and older works up there, which I try to update whenever I can.

How can we follow you on Twitter and/or Facebook?
I’m on Twitter (out of protest) @moursyadam.

We’d love some sample poetry from the collection.
the gimp
he makes his rounds down by the 59th Street Bridge:
one leg bends, the other stays straight.
you can’t miss him, he’s darker than night―
pasty white lips, coffee cup jingling,
and a fresh clean suit to really catch your eye.

“shit, look at that guy!”
I’ve heard people say.

he’s been at it for years,
rattling that damn cup once the light
turns yellow.
it must be working,
there’s always a different suit.
throw in rush hour and bridge cleaning 
and you know it falls like rain.

but one day I saw him walking along 31st Street,
pacing, hustling, both knees bent.
he moved better than I did,
dress shoes and all.
I pulled up and honked:
“feeling good today, huh buddy?”

pasty lips kept it at full stride,
rounding the corner with
no shame in his step.

it wasn’t long before I got stuck at that light again.
of course, out came the hobble and the sound of loose change.
I believe the lady in front even handed him a bill.
and when he finally made it over to me,
the only thing I could do was grin.

a guy like that, you just have to
let him go.

…and the painters and the pianists and the poets alike
held by the anchor,
sliced by the blade,
we sing to the trauma brought on
by time
and decay.

we are the odd ones,
the creators, young and old
and young again.

and the best of us rot openly,
while the worst pose with
cereal box smiles.

that painting,
that song,
that book― 

if it’s real,
it was once terror,
with cruelty and sadness
as a backdrop. 

it arrived because we suffered.

so be careful when you tell us
not to brood:

there’s something awful about
“happy art.”

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