#allenginsberg
I saw some of the wannabe greatest minds of our generation, corrupted by the compulsion of capital,
Bow down in loyalty to the non-existent king whose propaganda talk of spite and hate seduced the minds of citizens,
Splintering the nation of once rational folk into troops of outraged souls.
I saw citizens their humanity revoked as neighbours stood idly by fearful that a fictional technicality would mean they were next,
The lawmakers presenting logics backed by shaky facts and figures exaggerated, plucked from the ether, as men do declaring the size of their ****
I saw brother turn against brother for a non-existent belief in the greater good whilst all the while lining the pockets of the king and his wannabe greatest minds of our generation,
Their hate and anti-hate spewed onto the bonfires of vanities that is the home of the daily town square.
I saw the followers of Gods betray their philosophies and fellow worshippers predicated in the knowledge that all are Judas and only they have the true understanding of what God really meant,
Their esoteric knowledge not God given but used as defence for their power grabbing, humanity destroying acts executed with the upmost of callousness.
I saw him cry “How long before they banish my demons and pray the straightness into me making me a soldier of God and they as Christ?”
“No God of mine is full of spit and bile against fellow brothers and sisters who are who they are and proud to be so. I see through the flimsy guise trying to indoctrinate the public believing they are fools to be bent to their will.”
I saw the anguish and despair as the words fell on deaf ears, wanderers bypassing the truth unable to take up the challenge.
I saw the shameful and inferior minds of our generation, the ones they call the greatest, fellating each other’s egos armed with rhetorical daggers ready to be launched in the back,
Those smiling assassins destroying friends and colleagues all for the crown.
I saw lives slowly eroded, held ransom by the leaders of nations,
Grifters hawking the latest think tank theory of late night pub politics where patrons believe they have the answers to all life’s woes as seen through the beer goggles of rationality.
I saw humanity rise up, flex its collective muscles, refuse to back down, and slap the **** out of them,
Knocking great minds and kings back to the depths of hell or whichever cess pool they emerged from contradicting Darwin’s theory.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 4:58 PM UTC
Reading The ****** words of Ginsberg at dawn
Hedy Nash, John
You made it through deafness and insanity
To be finally recognised late in life
For your- now, but very much then- undeniable genius
And this fills me with so much hope
Though I still silently ponder death every breathing second of my life
The lleH I went through is obnoxiously Borin g compared to the mania of Allen, Sylvia and Kerouac
Which they painted with seductive/disturbing/seductive/mad words
I'm young and deeply scared
I'm young yet deeply scarred
I want to see it all in the next minute then be gone
Sep 29, 2022
Sep 29, 2022 at 5:18 AM UTC
It was disturbing enough
to wake me
in total darkness
And I chose then
in my kind of horror
to go to the bathroom to ***
Shaking my head
Troubled
In the wee hours
Not again
Why does this always happen to me?!
Not only is he a ghost
He’s a very old ghost
So what am I supposed to do with that?
She was dead serious
This voice in my head if you will
Earnest
‘But you don’t understand’ she explains
And I wonder where this is going?
‘He’s in love with you’
Okay?
Now what?
There’s a list somewhere
that I compiled years ago
Of questions that never had the chance
to be posed
Although approved officially by Robert
and perhaps by Bob as well
I was going to revise it
to make them even more
Impressive
Robert said that I was a genius
but to stop showing off
Questions concerning Jack,
Mass media,
The World War
in which they never fought
not for one second.
I think now
that I would like to have added
Something regarding
middle class conventions
and their subsequent
however
reluctant
disappointments
And what it must have been like
to aspire to them
In the 40s
When instead there was
Times Square and The Village
****** and Bop
Errant ****** activities
And the San Remo
Huncke suicided
by misbegotten sidewalks
And hapless blue precincts
waiting
Robert mentioned a brief car ride taken
in some Confederate State
Maybe he was in the backseat
and a joint was passed to him
He
who doesn’t indulge
if you will
Although pulmonary carcinoma
would claim him in no time at all
It was his finest moment
Sandwiched gleeful between these two
Literary
Giants
The radio not working
Now they are all dead
And I would like to think
That they are together again
encased in squeaky automotive
Upholstery
Somewhere unearthly
Laying in bed
before sleep comes
in the new year
KNX newsradio
read the press release
Issued
It was cancer
It was terminal
There would be nothing further
and I said nothing the following morning
Staring at a wall of books and
climbing along on a rolling wooden step ladder
This isn’t even my department
The people coming through the door
were grim and silent
having bought their plane ticket to NY
To sit by his bedside
While he lay in coma
With Bessie Smith records
play softly nearby
and atmospheric
This was not a time for personal aspirations
Nor nursing the loss of a regretfully
jettisoned exchange
And although I had been warned previously
About a certain someone being
prickly
and possibly ******
and very short-tempered
and I had wondered
heretofore
how it would all go down
On the telephone
The two of us had shared a brief
‘What is he looking at?’ moment
That time here in LA
He staring at me from
a bit of a distance
on the court
And me in my chair with yet another
cigarette,
turning my head around to look behind me
to see again nothing
(God knows how many times)
Until I
An idiot
Realized that it was me that was
The subject of his eye
And I thought again
As I had done in the morning mirror
My god
My hair looks terrible
That list whereever it is
Perhaps in that laptop
That leans against my bedroom wall
Dead
on the floor
over there to my left
The one that I always pass
On my way to the john
The one that I stumble by
in the dark,
THAT list that exists
still
in my brain,
THAT I still tinker with,
THAT list exists
I would like to think
in both;
a list of questions that will always have
no answers.
To Allen
Who loves me.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 1:10 PM UTC
Since you lack what's called belief
Than become your own God
& better yourself for me
Cause now you're broken
& it’s easier for you to hide
But who has to clean this all up when you die
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
"It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again."
- Allen Ginsberg
What does it mean to be an American?
Does it mean I can say the
Pledge of Allegiance
When I'm told?
Does it means that I can vote for
My president,
Governor, and
County clerk
Even when every choice is a Condemnation?
Does it mean that I must be
Proud of the military?
Does it mean that I am
Entitled to the world's oil reserves?
Is being an American a liberty or
A constraint?
Why are America's trails full of tears?
If I am cold will the
Flag serve to warm me?
Will that be enough?
Is it ever enough?
Does "one nation under God" refer to
My god, too?
Does America's god practice
The golden rule?
When will America keep its nose
Out of the Middle East?
If America loses its nose
In the Middle East, will a new nose
Be elected - this one twice as nosey?
Does being an American mean that
We can only dream in
Red or white or blue?
Does the American dream seem like a
Nightmare to anyone else?
Is it America's bad conscience
That keeps it up at night?
Does America ever get the blues?
Does America ever open a dictionary?
Does America know the
Difference between "democracy" and
"Oligarchy?"
Is America aware that I do?
Can America survive on
Minimum wage?
Does America pay its taxes on time?
Does America go to work every day
With a smile?
Does America punch out and feel Proud?
Does America really blow smoke
Up our *****
Is six dollars and seventy-seven cents
Enough to get me through the week?
Does America only have one life?
Is one life enough to satisfy her?
What about three-hundred million?
What about me?
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
We were born into a world of shallow minds and deep disturbances of young millennials mimicking mindless mimes because we were told to stay in line but be yourself but follow me but think "originality."
A generation full of copycatting individuals with monotone mindsets mulling over social ladders and trends dictated by invisible monarchs of industry inviting and spoon feeding insecurities masked as improvements.
A generation spending more time pretending not to care than on passions stifled by our peer pressuring playmates who are all prescribed Vyvanse, Adderall, Ritalin for their incurable imaginations deemed "learning disabilities."
A generation of temporary friendships because no one can connect with each other but we can connect to the internet and chat with strangers and share thoughts, photos, and secrets to a virtual audience that loses interest in an entanglement of wires forming a noose around our sincerity.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.
Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a pimp’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.
Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?
That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.
I still remember my first broken ***** Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!
Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.
Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up **** YOU"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.
Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******** floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.
Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?
Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.
Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
**** You’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.
Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.
My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC