I would like to pontificate like that mad ones,
Like the predecessors that eluded me,
And my concurrent mad generation,
The system and analysis may have differentiated,
Deteriorated by becoming Behemoth,
The beat ones,
They still exist,
They wear
An auspicious mask,
An ethereal cloth,
A vivacious sole to the shoes,
Those brand new shoes,
Jack bought after he came down from Desolation,
To where I selfishly want to traverse,
Some time spent,
Alone,
Sitting holding my **** in my hand,
The other held to my chest,
Palm outward to the world,
Inclusive vibes working their magic,
To travel through the ages,
To greet the mad sages,
To feel the smaller world of the past,
Immense in difference,
Eerily similar that it hasn’t changed,
Since then.