Dead,
the day before yesterday.
Grieved by it, personally,
Reputation: few or no friends
Suggested art - lost its erratic stars
A dreamer! Dwelling in ideal realms
                          -the brain-
Madness

Melancholy

Indistinct curses with eyes upturned, already ******.
Happiness wit hglances introverted, shrouded in gloom,
arms wildly beating spirits - sought to forget
close by,
those glimpses
open to the doom of death

Oh sweet Edgar Allen Poe.
So many wondrous poems you created.

So many echo gratitude
as they read
to grasp your well penned verse.

But worry not the master writer EA Poe lives,
Yes lives, moving in the shadows of the after life.
He drifts in spirit form behind poets worldwide.
Standing as guide to tweak a scribes words.
He exists still using his souls talents
to anoint the world with his stories.

And for that I the poet laureate is grateful.

To Allen Ginsberg and Frank O’Hara


Come out, ye boys of my literary dream
Frank, stop discussing this Rembrandt painting
Take a good drag like I never did, and come out
Down the street, down the ***** ***** days of madness
Allen, talk some sense into these selfied statuses
Come out, ye boys and talk into the microphone
Loosen your tie, Frank, show us some real art
Lose it on the sidewalk ye boys and let’s break
The rules, the locks, the prisons of the soul
Addictions, fears, anxieties, inanities.

Come out, ye boys and throw some rhymes to us
So we can think about ourselves while worshipping you
So that some people out there can stop *****-shipping
Sending our lukewarm bodies and fluids against the wall
What would you say Frank, of all the Rivers who
Try to reproduce the beauty of the human body on screen
Without the aesthetics, without the knowledge
Of what love means. Garter belts and welts, is that all?

Come out, ye boys and let’s be graphic, let’s be artistic
Teach us how to spread your love your legs and your legacy
Pass on this fearless gait, this adamant will to keep on
Despite the junk of our cities down the ***** ***** streets
Come out ye boys, admirers of poetry and people
Come out under a rainbow or a ring, SM fans or prudes
Let’s march on an on an on down our ***** ***** streets
With ye, boys.

June 21, 2017
Lyon. 10:36 pm.

Sometimes in life we struggle,
Other times we don't, it shows us that we're human.

Coming to the realization that this
Life is our only
One and we should make the best of it.
Struggling is a sign of having a good life.
Everyday is a new day to start anew;

Together we can bring peace to
Others, share the love and bring down the

Hate! We're all in this together
And together is how we can bring
Peace to this world.
People running fast, not enjoying what life
Is about; What's all around us. So stop and
Notice what's around you
Each day, smell the flowers, see the beautiful
Sunrises and sunsets and just know
Someone else may be having a bad day too-You're not alone.

                         *It will get better after the darkness fades!

What thoughts have you tonight Allen Ginsberg? For I walk down the main street
Under the streetlights with a sinking self-consciousness, looking at the blank building site.
In my quest for new experience, and shopping for clarity,
I went into the neon night dreaming of your visions!
What soul and what joy! Lovers at night! Circles sweeping the floor!
Girls shimmering and boys shaking down! Shadows shine lunar reflections!
And us- my Peter Orlovsky- What were we doing down in the corridor?

Give me your thoughts, Allen Ginsberg, dancing, new dreamlike words,
Sprawling among the leaves of my mind and speaking to the night.
I was asking questions: Can we go to the bar? What can I do? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of bright lights and vibrations, followed by you and following
Brilliant waves of imagination.
We were down in the open corridor together, in our solitary harmony, tasting your lips,
Which possessed ecstasy, and watching passersby. They all say we’ve got it.

Where am I going, Allen Ginsberg? The doors closed at daybreak. Would your writer’s
Hand have pointed us towards the black taxi tonight?  
(I think of my dreams and jumpy visions of you at the Moor and feel foolish.)
But held in your arms, asleep, a lighter direction. The trees are coloured
In green, the pale blue sky heavy, streets solitary.
I wake with you, dreaming of this love, whispers under the covers, forgotten whimsies.
Ah, poor Beat poet, bearded, lonely now forever, scattered in my brain like stars.
What poetry is this? Smoke curling upwards towards the construction site staring back.