Posts Tagged ‘beat generation’

I sat,
Crossed leg,
Looking into that night,
Those whispers
Cars moving,
The trains pulling out of Depot,
Mayor, Despots,
Kings of Midnight Realm,
Singing against a soft rain.

The merriment I was feeling,
Hours to wear off,
Oh sure joy,
Small town,
Stuffed into some big city,
In intoxicated colors,
Freedom from that unwanted,
Love in some office,
Random Chance to be killed by a stray bullet?

Five past nine, I’m still alive, looming in a contemplation of a bottle of beer, a candle,
Bright in the sweet night,
The machinery gears grinding,
Killing the movie house,
The road house,
Cheap beer,
Wine made from variants of veggies and fruit,
Doctors wondering,
Who are we?

That final frontier,
Pushing us towards brightened worlds,
Blood flowing from our mouth,
Jesus pray for that night to end,
Dying in a sewer,
Die oh pain,
please die.

Dead at 23.

Rest in pieces,
The time line is broken,
1953, all out of whack,
1989, We don’t know,
We came up for air,
We were never sure.

Aaron was crying,
Standing there,
In the corner,
His red tongue,
Taking the world apart,
Fuck this,
Fuck that,
Give up,
Swear allegiance,
The seeds bloom into rage,
Rage against the machine,
Society grinding us,
Apart, fully naked,
We die, there on the corner,
Death is not beautiful,
Just a sigh,
A dying of the light,
My soul,
Dying in the midnight,
No one sees,
The rage,
Go to the sign,
Give up,
I licked my dry lips,
Taking a shit,
Public restroom,
Hear society,
Moving back and forth,
The urinals over flowing,
Covering the floor,
A mess,
Is this life?
A mess?

We give up,
Moving forward,
Towards an end,
To see the setting of the sun,
Upon our crusaders,
Monkeys thrown into the gears,
Hunters dying,
Shot by their own guns,

The crowd screams,
The world spins,
And in the end,
We shall see,
We shall see…

Photo by Pixabay on

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,
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,
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,
You fucking whore,
Crack doom,
Into midnight sex,
Asses meeting cock and balls.

Zen of nothingness,
China gave us some fleas,
America gave us,
Weeping all alone,
Baltimore dying,
Wyoming star lit sky,
Hungry man,
Flying high in boxed windowless,
Howl against that pain,
Passing out,
Cigarette holes in their arms,
Damn commies,
Lost in Alamos,
Wondering where,
They can buy an angry fix.

This land,
Fucked into madness,
This guy,
Fucked in the ass,
Hazy winters,
Lost summers,
In those rose gardens,
Lie, lay,
Giggling as children do,
Then replaced by adulthood lies,
One eyed,
Kill those children,
Burn them to the ground,
And call it paradise,
Do you see?
Do you hear?
Course you do,
Pretend you care,
Till that next issue,
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.

Photo by Ian Panelo on
Allen Ginsberg reads “Howl” (Big Table Chicago Reading, 1959)

A definition and historical reference to “Blackout poetry” can be found here. I’d like to call my rendition, “Cutup and rework” as inspired by the likes of Brion Gysin and¬†William S.¬†Burrough.

I worked a piece of what I call “Google Art” hitting the Google images, typing in random thoughts, words, ideas, as they hit my brain and open up Photoshop and just being creative, cutting up and moving around words, adding my own as I see fit, am inspired by whatever at the time.

I add my words just for fun and games, a piece to get my brain going, which it needs every so often, a kick start.

William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg shaking their head in that Heavenly space, but smiling none the less

I saw the best generation,
Destroyed by starving,
Hysterical naked,
Angry angelheaded hipsters,
Heavenly connection to the machinery of the night.

Oh madness,
Does it see…
Does it hear,
Those maddening words,
Of that enraged society?

Who tells those,
Down in the ghetto streets,
Who the bell tolls?

Oh giant bells,
To gather up,
All the whores,
The crackheads,
The bishops,
And the Royalty,
Tell them,
The world is near,
The end of that run,
Oh blessed night,
To humanity’s farewell sleep.

To the dogs,
We feed our lies,
Our lives,
We shall not know,
When that time comes,
For we shall be too busy dying,
Into those shallow graves…

Obscene words,
Published on the walls,
Into those dreams,
Of seeping madness,
Falling down rabbit holes,
To seek,
Oh dear me,
To keep falling,
A joy ride into madness,
Roaring into that kind,
To chain themselves,
To unholy flees,
To keep,
Brilliance in that unholy nightmare,
Drinking stale beer,
The jukebox,
Aged themes.

Can you hear me screaming into that sweet goodnight?
Do you not see my madness, seeping out?

You worthless whore,
Has ruined you,
Taken what she can get,
And honey,
And turned it,
Into a disease,
On the wall,
In the mind,
Citizens burned,
For lack of funds,
That dream,
Wrapped in our flag,
Glorious red, white and blue,
And dunked,
Oh fuck you,
Into a vat,
Of rancid shit,
And puke.

God damn your atom bomb,
Your Ford in every garage,
Your cure for being fat,
Do not eat,
Do not eat,
You fucking wide ass,
Do not eat,
You ain’t got a dollar,
And the rent is due.

Feel that pulse,
Bulging in between your eyes,
Is that the dream,
We fell for?

We were driving through the night,
High on life,
Too many doses,
Huffing on gasoline,
Fifty miles outside Las Vegas,
The reports of our demise,
For the press,
To release,
Something about our disease.

Strippers were colonized,
Dropped from the sky,
Trapped in a dream,
Made of fetish wear.

The night was our friend,
The end,
Before the story even began,
She was high,
I was dead.

No more.

No less.

I can’t stand my own mind,
Standing there on the corner,
Waiting for a bus,
Ripping off my own skin.



Fuck this place.

Jets flying over place,
John Glenn,
A mad race into space,
Jupiter passes,
As our life dies,
In a sweep of lies,
Calling all that madness,
Our lives,
Rushed through the lines.

Smoking cigarettes, blowing smoke rings in the air, drinking wine, cherry flavored, to mask the bitter wine below, to drunk the spirits, to keep us fly, to keep us high.

Winston was first, reading, ‘Lost’, about his mother’s suicide.

He was 25, a writer for the local college’s rag, writing about life, in the city.

His mother, destitute and broken, living in some squatter’s apartment down on Fifth Street, took a bottle of sleeping pills, downed it with whiskey.

She had called him; half past nine; told him she wasn’t feeling too good; maybe he could come over.

For some reason, inside his mind, he knew, he dialed the police, before heading over, his foot pressing down on the gas as far as it would go, tearing through the streets.

He was too late; she died before he got there, the police at the door, pounding hard.

He had the key, he let them inside, found her on the ratty couch there; they rushed to her, trying to shake her awake, back to life, this was the end, it would seem, he didn’t even cry, he just stood there, a moment frozen in time.

He had called his brother; hello, yeah, she did it man, she really did it.

He hung up.

No other family; his father hadn’t been in the picture; just a sperm donor; left while Winston was still just a blip inside his mother.

He had lied, up there on the stage, his grandmother was still alive; a woman in some rest home, not knowing full well what the year was, or even what planet she was on, no point in calling her.

We all laughed as he stated that line.

It seemed right.

I was standing on the corner, watching life pass me by, a lady of the evening waltzing by, her dress pressed high against her thigh.

I tried to realize, what a maginificent thing this was, a man in a short coat wandering by, the sounds of the street drifted by, giving me a story, about losers, winners, trapped monkeys in tight suits, halos drifting over tracks of rusted steel, iron gold, flying low.

Where was the high crowd?

Those people in their top hats, lifting high among the seeds, to grow the trees, apples filled the bellies of hungry children, crying for their moms!

Piles of notes rift high among the cities, each one an olden history of microcosmic lustful dreams, Butte, Montana, copper king.

Top hats brimmed on streets of gold, wandering through misery of those poor.

Steam ships moved through the ports of Louisville, whores did try to make a new life, to feel rich inside, who was I to make it so?

History lies, tells stories to make us feel better, to make us proud of our ancestors!!!

Good night!!!

When you think the world is your oyster,
It is not!
Just when you think you got it all figured out,
You really don’t!
The rules get changed,
The lights go out,
Sitting in the dark,
Wondering where it all went wrong!
Hundred miles an hour,
Stopped by a wall,
Dead in your tracks.

America by Allen Ginsberg

You followed the rules,
Did what was right,
What you thought was right,
But found out,
You just ain’t right!

Sitting on the rail road tracks,
Waiting for the 12:35 to come through,
It is half past two.

Train hasn’t been through,
Since, 1952!
Like you,
Ready to be pulled up,
But still there,
A monument to what was,
But shall never be again.

Words of advice?
None here,
None there,
Go West?
Go here?
Where is here?
Hear the words,
From that promised land,
Give up,
It’s all a recording,
Made in 1973!