#beatpoetry
They stole your youth,
And they stole your words:
The rockers of Kiiminki
And Oulu
Saw your talent,
And they were envious.
I know your style,
And I know who the thieves are.
The audience doesn't know you:
Your old band mates didn't give you
Any credit.
(The audience is yours, really,
Not theirs.)
With this poem,
I want to tell you about Aadi:
He looked like Kid Rock,
And he was an honest and
A gentle man.
He would've been a great husband and
A great dad,
But he ended up with the wrong gang.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 1:31 PM UTC
Hey Cats and Bees
Snap your fingers, brothers and sisters of the hive.
The moon’s got a nicotine halo tonight,
and I swear I can hear God thumping a bassline in the pollen.
He’s keeping time while the rest of us pretend
to understand rhythm —
our wings all out of tune,
our hearts stuck in 4/4 moderation.
Everyone’s generous tonight —
lavish with the little tenderness left.
We’re petting bees like they’re saints in fur coats,
like chastity is the new jazz,
like abstinence hums in C minor.
The factory still hums in the distance —
fluorescent angels stroking obedient insects
to the beat of state-approved swing.
They say,
moderation, children, moderation!
but the nectar’s too sweet,
the hands too restless,
the sound too alive to be tamed.
You ever touch a bee and feel the cosmos buzz back?
That’s the real sacrament, man.
That’s the ultraviolet hum of existence
coming down through the amp,
through the static,
through the trembling voice that says,
keep going, *keep buzzing,
even when the hive is on fire.*
Every star-eyed maniac in the galaxy
once massaged a celibate bee and called it love.
Every decadent prophet licked honey off his own reflection.
Every obedient worker whispered jazz into a jar of silence.
And all of them — every one —
came here tonight to hum this hymn of restraint,
to stroke the monk bees under the neon moon,
to feel the holy pulse again.
So buzz with me,
my temperate, trembling congregation.
Buzz like you’re free,
like the hive forgives you,
like restraint was never a cage
but a rhythm.
A rhythm,
a rhythm,
a rhythm—
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 4:04 AM UTC
Where do the wrecks of our children lie????????????????????????????????
Lukewarm as a silent draught in saturated heads
Yellowed in smoothness
of apples with silk so ancient and in vermouth
so cheap
mixed with the chlorine water of the city
where do the wrecks of our children lie
lukewarm
& yellowy
& tremulous
just like an archangel's gesture
which we use for forcing them to leave us
for ages or for never
Yes, our expelled white and green and yellow cry
thirstily yells in the desert of bedsheets
and with the skin in a sweat up to our neck
we struggle for that smell in the air with beginning
of decay
which belongs to our
doubled loneliness
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Water is reeked with nicotine
The souls are reeked with Ginsberg
but the heads and the thoughts have both pungent smell like
hot rooster comb flowers
I slept last time the day before yesterday
I saw the ****** Mary so beautiful
in that glow of blue & gold
neons of Bethlehem
thumbing a lift near a cadillac with CD plate
& the jazz was caroling in wet sand
there were twelve bars in the honour of that boy
who has to come here one day finally, ****
he has to come just for jamming in this world
as it's said he could /!/ get all that mess of ours
off ourselves gentlemanly playing the part.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:31 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
trippin' to sleep after the departure of the ******* puppets & scarecrows from new depth of perception.
dreaming will into existence. The day of the dinosaurs has *** and gone. We are but Tourist on this trip, So lets just watch the flowers bloom. Floating on the mist of a cold summer moon. such horrors everywhere to discuss,Lets us breath in the beauty all around us.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.
***** Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.
But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC