THE TYPEWRITER IS HOLY – A tribute to Allen Ginsberg

Posted: November 6, 2020 in beat generation, fiction, poems, POETRY, random shit, Random stuff--read at your own risk!
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Allen Ginsberg Reading Howl – Part one

If you wanted honesty,
You should go someplace else,
I tried to prevent your boyfriend from jumping,
Out of the ninth story window,
He just did it for YouTube hits.

He hit the ground running,
Or not,
Who knows,
Who cares,
This is America,
Land of the Broken Tome.

The Typewriter is holy,
Written words,
Typed on white sheets of paper,
Confessions of love,
Life,
Black lines,
That broken ribbon,
Lying on the floor,
Ripped from that madness,
Stark ravings,
On an angry fix,
Fuck this nightmare place,
Talents only for the rich,
According to those masses,
Brains smashed in by hollow angels,
Hallow?
We do not care.

Obscene odes,
Banned for cola wars,
Night smokes,
Dreams of turpentine,
Huffing those dreams,
Cock, balls, pussy,
Fuck, shit,
Those magic words,
The typewriter is holy,
Masses, Neon lights,
Raining down into the street,
Rain cast away those words,
Chained to subway cars,
Noises of children,
Dying from brilliance,
Leadership,
America,
You fucking whore,
Crack doom,
Growling,
Into midnight sex,
Asses meeting cock and balls.

Wars,
Sex,
News,
Zen of nothingness,
Brac,
Bric,
China gave us some fleas,
America gave us,
Racks,
Tacks,
Poe,
Jazz,
Man,
Idaho,
Weeping all alone,
Baltimore dying,
Wyoming star lit sky,
Hungry man,
Woman,
Flying high in boxed windowless,
Howl,
Howl against that pain,
Beards,
Passing out,
Cigarette holes in their arms,
Damn commies,
Lost in Alamos,
Wondering where,
They can buy an angry fix.

Man,
This land,
Fucked into madness,
This guy,
Fucked in the ass,
Joy,
Blew,
Blown,
Hazy winters,
Lost summers,
In those rose gardens,
Lie, lay,
Giggling as children do,
Then replaced by adulthood lies,
One eyed,
Wink,
Nudge,
Kill those children,
Burn them to the ground,
And call it paradise,
Do you see?
Do you hear?
Course you do,
Nod,
Pretend you care,
Till that next issue,
Rage!
Against the dying of the light,
Impressed with words,
Coming from their cock hole,
We lay in iron dreams,
Encased in an unholy womb,
Let us be born,
To a suicidal wife,
Trying to make her way out of this stew.

We were not joyous,
At the words,
We were not enlightened,
By that stew,
Holding us down,
Respect your elders,
You murderous dogs,
Sleep not well,
In that grace,
Oh you disgraced,
I shall weep my fellow man,
For that dying of that light,
Oh sacred word,
The Typewriter is holy.
THE END!

Photo by Ian Panelo on Pexels.com
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