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Mark Toney Oct 2019
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
Channeling Kerouac

Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere

Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left!  Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!

Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
Channeling Kerouac

Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Non-conformity, anything goes
Kerouac-Ginsburg-Burroughs

Shot to pieces, picking skin
Experiment with ******
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin

Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
Channeling Kerouac
7/15/2019 - Poetry form: Rhyme - "The Beat Generation was a literary movement started by a group of authors whose work explored and influenced American culture and politics in the post-war era. The bulk of their work was published and popularized throughout the 1950s. The central elements of Beat culture are the rejection of standard narrative values, making a spiritual quest, the exploration of American and Eastern religions, the rejection of materialism, explicit portrayals of the human condition and experimentation with drugs...In the 1960s, elements of the expanding Beat movement were incorporated into the hippie and larger counterculture movements." (Wikipedia: Beat Generation) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Well look who’s here everybody!:
It’s Nice Try Huncke (drink)
It’s It seemed Like A Good Idea at the Time Huncke (drink)
It’s I wasn’t anywhere near there Huncke (drink)
It’s Yeah So What? Huncke (drink)
It’s I didn’t do anything Huncke (drink)
It’s You got the wrong cat Huncke (drink)
It’s This belongs to me Huncke (drink)
It’s I bought that downtown Huncke (drink)
It’s I don’t know what your talking about Huncke (drink)
It’s Really, You Don’t Say? Huh! Huncke (drink)
It’s I’m not carrying nothing Huncke (drink)
It’s I’m clean Huncke (drink)
It’s I’ve been clean for a long time now Huncke (drink)
It’s I wasn’t even uptown Huncke (drink)
It’s I never use that stuff Huncke (drink)
It’s That’s Stuff will **** ya Huncke (drink)
It’s What I do? Huncke (drink)
It’s Nah I don’t know him Huncke (drink)
It’s You can’t keep me here on that Huncke (drink)
It’s We were just talking Huncke (drink)
It’s He disappeared? Really? Huncke (drink)
It’s I’ll give you an An A for Effort for that There Huncke (drink)
It’s That Just Might have Worked Huncke (drink)
It’s There’s Nothing in my Pockets You Can Search Me Huncke (drink)
It’s What are you talking about? Huncke (drink)
It’s I don’t know him Huncke (drink)
It’s I’m just a poet Huncke (drink)


Can replace “drink” with “puff and pass” but no ****** you will die...
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Beatniks got hip until hippies got beat
by their own rock’n’roll and by riot cops
as they made love and war in field and street:
spoiled rebel children, psychedelic flops
who thought their youth made them immune
to lies from gods that pipe that tune.

Beatniks leaned first toward hip existential,
breaking out of the fifties mental mold.
Culture’s Petri dish turned pestilential;
drugs, deviance and rebellion: dull as old.
Yet novel did it ever seem
to souls exploited for their dream.

The Hippies took that bongo tea-house scene;
added acid’s naked technicolor:
freak-outs, love-ins, the normalized obscene;
politics of outrage, now made duller.
Impulsivity their passion.
(Sin is never out of fashion.)

Youth’s dissident victory incomplete
they glimpsed on flowery fields of battle
kaleidoscopic visions of defeat:
the psychedelic baby’s death-rattle.
Allen Ginsberg’s perverted freak.
Now reached its Himalayan peak.

Trace back in time this cultural malaise;
the poisoned sources where doubt first enticed.
In retrospect we diagnose their ways:
anti-God, anti-family, anti-Christ.
Oh no, you say; that was just youth—
we had to follow our own truth.

What did we learn in your San Fran cafés
poetically dense in plume-clouds of smoke?
That arty nihilism’s just a phase
and transgression of morals a tired joke.
(The Man will always make a buck
off fools who live to smoke and ****.)

That mystic idols are not Truth . . .
blown minds will never save a soul;
Faith and Wisdom, both alien to youth,
in child’s-play, play a minor role.

That beats burn out and hippies age;
we’re no wiser for their excess.
Unwashed ravings, Bohemian rage
contain no truths—much less, success.

What did they teach us while tripping and ****** ?
Could it nourish at all, their cosmic brew—
their cult of youth, their dying gods bemoaned,
their howls, their road trips, their breakings on through?

Only this, Daddy-O — now dig my writ;
my be-boppin’ speed rant, my acid rock:
that drug-addled rebels who scrawl half-lit
fumble with a key that cannot unlock.
I wonder sometimes
How Haiku got popular
When it is so DULL
Lawrence Hall Dec 2016
The Beatnik Café’

Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time

Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats

Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?

Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design

Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!

L’Envoi – Time Slouches On

Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl

And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.
AD Mullin Dec 2014
From the Songs of the Arcturians

In an Octopuses Garden

On the edge of the Luna Sea

Turquoise and aquamarine hues

Chasing away the blues

Synesthesia is complete

The monkey goes cheep, cheep, cheep
Abbey Road is still spinning in the background as I float along visiting Islands in the Stream (Hemingway)

— The End —