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I watched the best minds of my generation sit and watch jersey shore          on a Monday night high on cough syrup          Contemplating hyphy at dawn          In fear of the day they would break          With tall teas and idiosyncrasies of language          So profound as to make all but the most imbued            confounded Who were busted ***** deep in under aged **** Bleeding          on the locker room floors in the shade          and hallways of eager decadence          and busted again three years later          in ancient palaces at Hanover Who rolled on the floor in ecstasy giggling at the shapes          Floating listlessly in a dream down the ski slopes of Rutland          With out feeling in the face or hands, they laid down in the white          Light of daybreak on the rooftops of yesterday Who made YouTube videos getting ****** up the ***          By black ***** and loving it with a wide grin          Shamelessly braying and bucking in the languor          and persistent fickle protest for want of identity Who punched each other in the face with boxing gloves          Because they never knew pain or love          Drinking the backwashed dregs of glasses          And smoking cigarette butts on midnight          Soccer fields Who saw the perspectives reverse and shorten only to lengthen again          And then tried to explain their visions of foxes          To angle-haired exuberant Norwegian pranksters Who wondered what the meaning was while drunk on plastic *****          Sitting on carpet with the lights out in the smell of socks Who smashed stolen mugs against sheet rock walls leaving marks          And left their lives for the machine shops of west Texas          Only to return to Alabama in a drunken blur for more Who jacked off during French classes on the hill and sold drugs          To snitches for outrageous prices Who begged for mercy from men and women less than them         From fear of the dreaded blacked pock marked record Who stole whole rows of over the counter drugs for a cheap high          On Saturdays during winter months of seasonal depression Who lived and loved more than they even knew before child days          Ended and adult games began          Only ever wanting truth and purity          and sincerity in sublime ether lights never quite understood
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Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Ode to Ginsberg (and prep school)
I watched the best minds of my generation sit and watch jersey shore          on a Monday night high on cough syrup          Contemplating hyphy at dawn          In fear of the day they would break          With tall teas and idiosyncrasies of language          So profound as to make all but the most imbued            confounded Who were busted ***** deep in under aged **** Bleeding          on the locker room floors in the shade          and hallways of eager decadence          and busted again three years later          in ancient palaces at Hanover Who rolled on the floor in ecstasy giggling at the shapes          Floating listlessly in a dream down the ski slopes of Rutland          With out feeling in the face or hands, they laid down in the white          Light of daybreak on the rooftops of yesterday Who made YouTube videos getting ****** up the ***          By black ***** and loving it with a wide grin          Shamelessly braying and bucking in the languor          and persistent fickle protest for want of identity Who punched each other in the face with boxing gloves          Because they never knew pain or love          Drinking the backwashed dregs of glasses          And smoking cigarette butts on midnight          Soccer fields Who saw the perspectives reverse and shorten only to lengthen again          And then tried to explain their visions of foxes          To angle-haired exuberant Norwegian pranksters Who wondered what the meaning was while drunk on plastic *****          Sitting on carpet with the lights out in the smell of socks Who smashed stolen mugs against sheet rock walls leaving marks          And left their lives for the machine shops of west Texas          Only to return to Alabama in a drunken blur for more Who jacked off during French classes on the hill and sold drugs          To snitches for outrageous prices Who begged for mercy from men and women less than them         From fear of the dreaded blacked pock marked record Who stole whole rows of over the counter drugs for a cheap high          On Saturdays during winter months of seasonal depression Who lived and loved more than they even knew before child days          Ended and adult games began          Only ever wanting truth and purity          and sincerity in sublime ether lights never quite understood
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Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
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