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Wallace, my man Wallace, fell
In love with his wife,
For real for real
Fell in love.

If someone should happen upon
To see the two of them
If by chance passed by
Them two together

How odd a couple
They may say
She's such a little thing
Something so prestine to
Wallace, homeless guy howler.
Who is more himself with her than
Without her.

Mr. dumpster-diver-king!

The two indivually are
Themselves genuinely
Together lovy-dovy,
Not an act.

Wallace falls in love,
Says that's a fact
Knowing that it also means
You've found someone
to lose.

Still, Wallace knew
love.
It's the god-honest Truth.

Then I ask Wallace
Mindful of the streets,
I ask him poignantly

Do you believe

in-- ?
Dotdotdot
Hastily he barks:
"Of course I did, do--believe in God above."

Didn't let me finish:
"Do you believe in --Love?"
Didn't ask for more
Than that,
Oh my ...

(Word) (goodness) (God)

To Wallace,
A Lonely Man's church is
His wife, her love is long, tho
Dead and gone.
(Dedicated to his wife, lost to Covid)
Capriccio Dec 2019
Yes, what you see
Is indeed that you feed

Weakness
Meekness
Beatnik
It's not a tale

It's my silk
Screen Scale

It's not a green light
Too hard to fight
Red, Green
back to yellow

Wished of being yellow
Aawatef Sep 2019
A boho hemmed into a perfect circle
Misunderstood and invisible
Where everyone goes right, he prefers left
The is told he is bereft

They force him to fit in
But how can he?
He is like oil in water, a hippie in suit quarters
His free spirit just won's blend in

They hammered and bent him to belong
But turns out he has been a misfit all along
For his spirit demands to be vivid and vibrant
In a rather monochrome circle, it is a tyrant

His heavy heart needs to let it all out
His thoughts, his dreams and all his doubts
His is a white noise, he seems very far out
Everyone is deaf to this boho's screams and shouts
We are all different pieces. Forcing that piece to fit somewhere it doesn't just won't work. Be yourself
Words' Worth Jul 2019
Set me deep down
And pick me apart, when you feel like
'Cause I know you won't forget to remember
Keep me confused
With your picking up
Writing blocks about a stuck tape recorder
Writing blesses the soul with obstacles to better penmanship.
Robbie Jean Oct 2018
Beneath the Roses,
Down stairs of bone,
the Twilight has fled,
and I am home

At the Nightclub Carnival,
Six-Six-Six Feet Under,
Morphine Martyrs dance with
******* Thunder

Lost among the Nocturnal Nymphs,
the Wildflower Cannibals eat
Innocence.

Violet Vapors
Scholars of Marijuana
Let's **** the Beatnik Babes
into a different genre.

We are New York Fairies and
their ****** Brothers.
Our hearts play on vinyl,
we're the Devil's lovers.

I've become my own Altar,
for the dead pray to None
Under Ginsberg's Grave,
The Party's just begun.

- M.R
For Allen Ginsberg. (the Beat Poets didn't ****)
Bryce Jan 2018
I stole you away from city lights
Yep held it in a brown balled paper bag
Drank in the words like liquor
I didn’t think anybody could see, really.
San Francisco stopped and got back on the treadmill
Made of silicon and now its gone

Beaded sweat of mind bleeds into the bay
I walked on the pier and teared up a little bit lip
The hills once covered in god are covered in another ones
I don’t know what to think of it at all

Grit the teeth against it and grind them to dust
Bite the tongue until it leaks sweet sanguine blood
I drink the wine and dine on the pain
And wish with all my dying heart to meet you again
But you are dead
Even the world you left is dead
And the minds of man are dying
Because they got way too mad of trying

Counter the counted counter-cultured counter-top
Endless sine of combating thought
I’ve walked to the golden-brown California hillcrop
And realized I stood on holy seasonal grassland genocide

With horror the minds withered United State Holodomor
Can I build a paper airplane to take away from here
In time you knew there was nothing here to fear
I cannot find it
Please help me find it

Your alley smells like **** and the taste of forlorn
Bay sits in hazy forever
The water still glitters god’s diamonds but it feels more like
A forgotten mound of coal
You cannot polish these timely souls
From bronze to something gold
If they do not want it

Men like you live to die
And we can pretend that there will be another to tell your place
But Socratic manners of speaking are banned
So too, will you be left on trial

The veil of night shines with roman jewels on an incandescent man-made interstate
I watch them sparkle in the receding mirror, all but the brightest remain
We built stars on our land and pretend they are god
And in a way they are
What poor representatives to those congresses of light
Impossibly far

So I must make do with the day we are born to
Speak words that mean worlds to you
And perhaps together we can reawake something
Disastrous after the soul, and open the I
Simone Gabrielli Mar 2017
And in that wild berlin winter
I twirled ghosts through the frozen, concrete streets
Out of bohemian jungles in the midnight afternoon
I returned to the States with terrible ennui

Slumped on cold buses
I flew through Hamburg in an ***** haze
Smoking joints in the lantern lit glow of Amsterdam
I didn’t eat for 3 days

I rode the train to Zoo Station
And flitted about East Berlin
Where there was no excitement to be had
Walking the night alone in the bitter, biting wind

I took the ferry over to England
Safe in the Mersey’s mystical, dreary mist
I hid my tired eyes under my fisherman’s cap
And found an expanse of quiet, precious bliss

Ailing from nights spent on streets and stranger’s floors
I was a child, traveling alone
Disenchanted by my youthful escapades,
Cured of the plaguing desire to ramble and roam.
Simone Gabrielli Jan 2017
Something would come of it yet
The last *******-wild, cosmic amphetamine eyes
Howled down the eastern hills
To the city’s beckoning lights

Tramps and harlots light fire from their palms
Blown pupils dark in love sick, longing eyes
Growing with the wild, restless wind
In lustful, glamorous disguise

And there the angel of the evening
Sat upon the sultry heat
As troubadours gaze into the mirror
She pours them pills in restless fleets

And as the city settles
And the western wind starts to blow
The dizzy euphoria sinks away
As their vision starts to close

So dawn breaks the singing night
The buzzing high leaves the blood
The poets and painters
Let their stream of consciousness flood

Torn rhymes cover the wall
Where artists and addicts have met
Where splattered tunes had brayed
Something came of it yet.
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