1 We are walking streets unknown wearing headphones and apple products inserted into our flesh like addicts all around an angry empty black tar pit throwing in capitalism and old socks sloshing in snow and dancing in sun and basking in rain vile and putrid beauteous dancers on stages indoors twirling drunken swirlygigs and pirouettes underneath shattered naked lights caressing the skin of the stars on early LSD mornings after long nights of jazz and jokes taking buses and trains to avoid the dangers of atmospheric destruction staying up late listening to your “Howl” in prison shaped dorm rooms blowing cigarettes out windows we are those who sweating and giggling make furious love lying on rocks under autumn leaves with the wind at 3am in september with singed fingertips and blue eyes and red skin and dark hair smiling in the sunlight on porches with circular gravitational searing earthmarks on our ashtray skin because we lost ourselves we are actors we are dancers we are painters we are writers we are angels we are lovers we are killers we are dyers we are drinkers we are smokers we are children walking to the moon and back every night on tattered shoes and squelching socks haze of smoke sitting on rocks and drinking until our kidneys scream in pain and demand we go home for the night because it is getting too late and they are getting worried refilling zippos with stink and fluid and lighting countless tobacco stains for our lungs on wintry days in new york taking showers at 3AM because we can't sleep and unlike any activity we are not exhausted driving until the sunsets and crying in the drivers seat window because we are falling out of ourselves into our own heads blaring rock and roll or jazz in our small cell block on herb fueled afternoons reading Eliot in our beds sitting at our desks pencilpushing out the last of our minds onto screens because nowhere else will take them willingly wasting our time happily because we don't wish to save it for when we are old and unhappy so we choose to be young and unhappy instead we sing songs of stars and satanic ****** rituals outside of symposiums for the sardonic we are standing on the edges of buildings and nobody is telling us whether or not to oak leaf tumble until we hit the brick sadly slumped in bottomed out chairs we zone our somethings or somehows in claustrophobic rooms daydreaming daddies and dandelions and drip drops of pitter patters on tin childhood roofs
This website reformatted part of the poem. Where it begins "we are actors" is supposed to cross the entire page and then pass over again, forming a sideways V shape. Whatever. I do what I can with what I have
I wrote most of this while drunk at college, or hungover in a coffee shop. There will be more added to this in the future, as I feel like this poem could use a lot more.