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Mark Wanless Nov 2017
" To Allen"


Your balder than i'll ever be
I hope
You dead man
Throwing words at me that smell
Sweet and honest
Like your worm-feast corpse
That will eventually atomize
And flow through the hairy nostrils
Of future sentient beings
Living upon this sphere and other places
Oxygenated by the mother
That will tenderly process you again
Into the very fabric of existence
Which will vibrate differently now
That you have been and writ upon
The globe your karmic babble spilling
Guts and ***** for all to consume
However they wish and dream
Or dare
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.
Writing a Master's Thesis on the queer poems of Allen Ginsberg and Frank O'Hara. Couldn't write poetry for a month
Derby Apr 2017
When I was three years old,
I came face-to-face with Allen Ginsberg for the very first time.

I hated him.

In my own little three-year-old way,
I thought he was a mean, rude, nasty, ornery old *******.
But when I turned twenty, I learned the truth:
He was a fearless, bold, no ******* old *******--- he wasn't the only one.

The world wasn't meant to be seen through rose-colored glasses,
but to be witnessed on our feet in the present and off our lazy *****.

Mankind was meant to live and die
in an adventure, seeking peace through trials of wrong and right,
not to bask in a stagnant bath, nor stop in the midst of a path
to a future bright, though out of sight,
for this is no way to thrive,
but to live and die a treacherous lie.

Here in the first world, we are afraid to suffer,
but eager to ****,
to conquer,
to ignore internal issues.
[Pay no mind to the men behind the curtain, the have their own agendas, and we allowed this--- we voted them in!]
We are afraid to be wrong,
but fearless to fight
a battle with no true end in sight.
We will never fix the problem,
nor repair the damage we create,
if we all just sit on down,
grab our egos and *******---
[Spoiler Alert:
There will be no ******, no explosions of mental ***, no parade, just *******, horseshit, and all the other **** that comes along when we bite off more than we can chew and still force it through our systems;
blow it out your ***** and let's get a move on,
we've got things to do and places to be!]

We talk in circles,
we talk of change,
we talk making a difference,
we talk in circles...
see what I'm say'n'?

Politicians are a sham,
Real people lose the race, whether slow and steady, or fastly-paced,
so they **** out of it all,
as they had no business running in the first place.

We the people are dis-

organized
and dYsFU[ckIng fu]nctIonal;
all too lazy to gang up and be the CHANGE we seek,
so we
file
in
line
and fight over our spots to sit in a seat on a ship sailing its way south
d
o
w
n
****'s-******'-Creek.

In twenty--- hell, thirty, forty, fifty years,
we've made little progress,
but we've got iPhones and Wi-Fi, and people going to Mars,
We've got technology never before imagined standard in our cars!
Now, ain't that just swell,
ain't that spectacular?
We're all going to hell
for ******* our own blood from our own ***** like an auto-fellating, narcissistical Dracular.

What do we do? Where do we go from here?

If Ginsberg, Bukowski, Poe, Dante, Plato, Socrates, Freud, ******, Christ, Caesar, Shakespeare, Lincoln, Lee, Brooks[1], Miller[2], my parents, Mr. Pete Rose, Franklin, all my friends, and a million other folks taught me anything,
it's that we're all *******,
we're all sinners,
we're all losers, occasional winners,
we're all *******,
we're all wrong, though sometimes right,
we all live,
we all die,
we've all got **** going on in our lives---
and what I've learned from all this,
was that I can do better,
YOU can do better,
we can ALL do better than we are doing right now,
that we are each unique, but we are no different from one another, we are human beings;
we can learn and teach, and we must do this always,
from day, through night and to each and ever other day.
But the most important lesson above all:
Don't be such a *****, whatever you DO do,
simply try to understand,
for all the world's fate is in our own
feeble, but hopefully growing hands.
[1]--refers to Mel Brooks
[2]--refers to Arthur Miller
Andrew T Feb 2017
LMS
I don't feel safe,
as though a predator has found
the combination to my comfort zone,
and now has unlocked it,
and is stealing my peace of mind.
"Please stop," I plead.

My arms are shaking, my hangover
is bigger than Trump's Wall.
The same blocked number appears and reappears
, then repeats on my phone screen.
I had to block you on my Gmail (Is that even a thing?).
Tinder used to be for fun,
and now I have contracted a haunting for five lifetimes.

My old friends do not want to speak to me.
I understand their worries, finally,
and I hope it's not too late to listen.
But your screeching voice is deafening
and it's hurting my sanity.

I'm sitting on my soft couch,
writing this poem,
and my fingers tremble as I write.
Because I don't even feel safe in my own house.
Once upon a time,
I thought we would say the "I dos."
Now, all I want is whiskey until I reach oblivion.

IRL is the steepest road to travel on,
but I chose a shortcut,
and now I have fallen off and into a descent
into a madness that Ginsberg has only whispered about
during smoke breaks at the temple building.
Quitting to smoke cigarettes is easier
than dealing with your stab-wounds of sentences.

Like my FaceBook Status,
if you've ever felt violated and controlled
by an old flame.
Then grab a fire extinguisher,
press the lever,
and put out the conflagration,
before it burns your life away.

-Andy
Vinyldarling Jun 2016
Memorization was never the key to anything
Seeing that she changed so much.
So often.
With only hands to guide over her curves
As my eyes, sewn shut at her merciful kiss,
I memorized absolutely nothing.

The key was to explore - gain a new sensation
Every delightful time you had the permission.
The permission to graze that complexion of black and blue and the
Rosy cheeks that were out glowing the slight tan you had on
Your face and scalp because we went swimming
Last week.

We never really got wet though, vigilantly dipping our
Toes in the chilly water, a book in my hand,
Not speaking but letting the words drip over
My lips to poison them with the writings
Of O’Hara, Ginsberg, Kerouac.

I hope you plan to travel the world
Because it's the least you could repay me
For not memorizing you like a road map
To nowhere.
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