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.

Seeking: sad sofa fingers to caress me in the pine dark night spine of the city
I want you like a loud fishmonger in smoke filled rooms of silence
the train tracks of jealous stars hallucinating the whiskey sky in black & white mercy

P.S : Must love travel & alcoholism & hate punctuation

Love is this...
.......
............
,,,,,
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night under a casino wheel of stars
..........or else a Tempest of Soul loud as a fishmonger
...............99p cola bottles & lonesome underdogs
.............that time you laughed on helium
... '**** me' neon signs in the street
...................sweet onion breath delirium
.................Millais's Ophelia all wasted & peeling from suburban billboards.
......................the time Virginia Woolf drowned & all the birds
forgot how to sing in Greek.
..............are we there yet
..............are we feeling the beat, beat, beat
..............of this raindrop
.........................do we need postage stamps.
................................why is your neighbor called Pete.
.........why did you kick a dog, Mamma.
............nothing is that which is understood
............why are you staring at this poem.

God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat.
Bebopping Mao is so very uncool;
what up wit dat ?

Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful)
and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats
inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful
in the streets.

Predictable tirades where Whitey’s the foe,
attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric
gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show:
dull dialectic.

Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it?
Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is?
You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it,
mired in the shizz.

Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down *******
(The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!)
The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain.
Snap fingers . . .

Still you wait for your war—or the Black Star-Liner . . .
Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money.
Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner—
it’s not funny.

Insulting, belittling others more noble;
your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty
Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable
under the city.

Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols.
Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood.
You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals
but draw no blood.

Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing.
You wrote for the stage and said some of it well.
But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing,
a nasty smell.

Once I hoped to write like Ginsberg –
but Allen Ginsberg went to hell.
His bolder Buddhist poetry glitters,
then opens like an empty shell.

In vain one searches for the pearl
within the lyric art he showed us.
Open wide his rotten oyster –
seek the center of the lotus.

Perverted lost Semitic soul –
lyrical ranter,  mind unhinged…
He celebrated sin and shame
while crew-cut culture cringed.

His beatnik aircraft took off fast,
flew into bardos of the ******
promising enlightenment –
but the cockpit was unmanned.

The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes

& I know, I know.
       I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
      some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
       yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
                 but sometimes this is just the tune
                                    your heart sings, a broken smile
                                    & the way the images build up
                                        waiting to sail like ships in the harbor


& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,

the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch

& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic

glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds

like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,

searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life, 
changing countries like some change bed sheets,

others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet

childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,

spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets

far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds

in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white

& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions

them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :

you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions

Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover

lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke

& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men

ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen

Why be a writer when you can be a poet?
Why tell someone you love them when you can show it?
You can write all you want and you can say all you want, but it doesn't matter if you can't have a love affair with your piece.
So let's make love and not war and not desecrate the name of peace in the name of war.
The only wars that ought the be waged are those against those who oppress.
Sadly those who oppress control the press.
This world is in distress.I am a convoluted manically depressed hyperactive mess.
I may be a nobody but my words will have an impact.
An impact on those who made a pact to protect us,
They will cower in fear at the boy with blood on his paper and ink in his heart.
AND HOW DARE THEY SAY THAT MY POETRY SHOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED ART!
I say we kickstart the next beatnik generation...
And give these kids, some true... motivation.

There are poems lingering
in the pit of my stomach,
syllables hidden in the
depths of the bags under
my eyes,
sonnets cowering in dried out
veins
and haikus dissolving, drowning
in my arteries
at the pale midnight hours
that no paper
could ever materialise.

I still find myself
feeling your skin
in the spaces between
bed-sheet creases

and if
missing you is like
swerving into
oncoming traffic,
then tonight
I’m sleeping
in the road.