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"baboushka" poems
The city's shrouded in smoke today smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes & I know, I know.        I should be writing in form, in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima       some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like everyone's jumped on the bandwagon        yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme                  but sometimes this is just the tune                                     your heart sings, a broken smile                                     & the way the images build up                                         waiting to sail like ships in the harbor & besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted, the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse, talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch & the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn & dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening, searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,  changing countries like some change bed sheets, others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets, picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds, spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol, writing poems of unrequited love to poets far better than us, while Elvis croons in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds in the Russian town of my ancestors & an open air film plays in black & white & this colorless summer is nearly over & they still haven't lifted their sanctions them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry, always lining up the next undesirables : you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes you the believer, you the dreamer of visions Oh pity them, the children of smoke, blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover lost children always seeking out the same roads the city is shrouded in smoke & I wonder if it's not always been there & if we're living amongst blind men ones that never read poems or else how could all this happen
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Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
dreams-of-sepia
Smoke
The city's shrouded in smoke today smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes & I know, I know.        I should be writing in form, in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima       some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like everyone's jumped on the bandwagon        yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme                  but sometimes this is just the tune                                     your heart sings, a broken smile                                     & the way the images build up                                         waiting to sail like ships in the harbor & besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted, the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse, talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch & the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn & dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening, searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,  changing countries like some change bed sheets, others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets, picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds, spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol, writing poems of unrequited love to poets far better than us, while Elvis croons in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds in the Russian town of my ancestors & an open air film plays in black & white & this colorless summer is nearly over & they still haven't lifted their sanctions them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry, always lining up the next undesirables : you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes you the believer, you the dreamer of visions Oh pity them, the children of smoke, blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover lost children always seeking out the same roads the city is shrouded in smoke & I wonder if it's not always been there & if we're living amongst blind men ones that never read poems or else how could all this happen
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