I saw the most intelligent minds of my generation in front of me
roar and speak their dynamo star speeches,
Dragging themselves to the top of academics working like
supernatural machines through the poverty of night,
fixing the tattered paper,
studied the cosmos vibrating and vomiting disgorged facts
their blue and white skirts blinking across the
school streets, contemplating ancient tragedies,
publishing endless magnificent papers,
about Shakespearean tragedies,
among the scholars of war.
They sank all night into a their bleak brain of brilliance,
riding trains to dusk of Sydney and chained
themselves to their work.
But they floated in and sat through without protesting,
listening to the hydrogen documentaries until
the synagogue past three.
Memories of and anecdotes of school trail behind conversations of
impulse and whatever hazy.
The shuddering noise the wheels, in drunkenness of the seventy
hours jumping up and down of wondering where
to go next, the empty museums remain free.
They meet boys yacketyakking, screaming, jumping down off roofs
drinking, but they go anyway, with no broken hearts
and lit cigarettes together in our cars at night,
disappearing into the small town in the rain,
lounged hungry through the scattered city.
These intellects who vanished into their trembling rooms, and
shrieked in who let themselves hiccup trying to laugh
but ended up sobbing to the dark haired naked girl on the
Idle as they sat on their bed, when their intellectual thread is
shrewd optimum, they lost heir boy of three weeks
because some sweetheart forgot to hand him
a packet of cigarettes.
The million girls who went to my school were red eyed in the
morning, but prepared enough to waitress Sunday
afternoons, the girls would have their night cars, and
I would have poems and catch a quick snatch of the sun,
go to empty lot diners at Subway and movie houses
with vast sordid films, hung out in basements open to
nostalgic free lemonade and woke themselves up
the next morning.
Inspired by Ginsberg's The Howl