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Sep 2018
I saw the most intelligent minds of my generation in front of me
     roar and speak their dynamo star speeches,
Dragging themselves to the top of academics working like
     supernatural machines through the poverty of night,
     fixing the tattered paper,
studied the cosmos vibrating and vomiting disgorged facts
     their blue and white skirts blinking across the
     school streets, contemplating ancient tragedies,
     publishing endless magnificent papers,
     about Shakespearean tragedies,
     among the scholars of war.
They sank all night into a their bleak brain of brilliance,
     riding trains to dusk of Sydney and chained
     themselves to their work.
But they floated in and sat through without protesting,
     listening to the hydrogen documentaries until
     the synagogue past three.
Memories of and anecdotes of school trail behind conversations of
     impulse and whatever hazy.
The shuddering noise the wheels, in drunkenness of the seventy
     hours jumping up and down of wondering where
     to go next, the empty museums remain free.
They meet boys yacketyakking, screaming, jumping down off roofs
     drinking, but they go anyway, with no broken hearts
     and lit cigarettes together in our cars at night,
     disappearing into the small town in the rain,
     lounged hungry through the scattered city.
These intellects who vanished into their trembling rooms, and
     shrieked in who let themselves hiccup trying to laugh
     but ended up sobbing to the dark haired naked ******* the
     Korean drama.
Idle as they sat on their bed, when their intellectual thread is
     shrewd optimum, they lost heir boy of three weeks
     because some sweetheart forgot to hand him
     a packet of cigarettes.
The million girls who went to my school were red eyed in the
     morning, but prepared enough to waitress Sunday
     afternoons, the girls would have their night cars, and
     I would have poems and catch a quick ****** of the sun,
     go to empty lot diners at Subway and movie houses
     with vast sordid films, hung out in basements open to
     nostalgic free lemonade and woke themselves up
     the next morning.
Inspired by Ginsberg's The Howl
Angela Liyanto
Written by
Angela Liyanto  F/Sydney
(F/Sydney)   
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