LIES AT MIDNIGHT: A Tribute to Allen Ginsberg

Posted: December 16, 2021 in beat generation, fiction, LIFE AND STUFF, love, poems, POETRY
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We were waiting on the platform waiting for the booze to hit our brains, to remove us from this horrid dream, trapped in a box car heading for the moon.

The Pope was waiting for bus to Boise, Idaho, appearing as an old man dressed in drag, waiting for a hag. Who told the Man he could relax?

Communist pamphlets, wailing down, trying to find an angry hit, fucked in the ass, screaming with joy, at Christmas time?

Fireworks blew? Flew? Fuck, I don’t know, where were we, in faggish dress, trying to find a car to take us there.

We wrote, letters to the president, congressmen, writing to the moon, letters to our dead parents. How did we make it through childhood traumas, to not kill ourselves with chocolate flair?

In the morning, we woke up hung over, our cocks in our hands, our writings still in our hands, waiting to release, cosmic seed.

Joe flew into the night mare winds, trying to find that bridge, finding that dollar among the booze, a last smile as she screwed me.

Waklking through the streets, looking for a suicidal mood, a girl to fuck, a pregnancy scare, our boys can still swim, even at 82.

I was drinking, drunk at half past two, nightmares, dreaming of better times, listening to sad songs, a reminder of a better life.

Translations misunderstood, words thrown against a bitter sky, a lie, a kiss, a desire misspoken at half past midnight, oh bitter mood.

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