"beatniks" poems
Why is it so cool to hate on a group
for their fashion sense?
Or that they like to be off the mainstream?
You are doing the same thing that
people were doing to the
grunge
goths
punks
hippies
beatniks
flappers
and they all did something with their counterculture.
Ever think that
ours is the hipsters?
Not really,
they've been around since *The *** Pistols*
actually
they started them.
They made it cool to go to a thrift store
and buy things out of comfort
then rip it up
change it so it looked brand new.
Punk
that made Hipsters.
But now they are just some fad
that people hate on.
Just because they like to talk about
indie bands
knowing them first
wearing band tee's of bands they listen too
wearing vintage and retro clothing
likes reading
being in a cafe
organic food
vegan.
Stereotyping a group is all people did.
Now I can't wear things or do things
because some *** hole is going
to say
**"Ha you're such a ******* hipster!"**
Why don't we stop hating people on what they wear
because how do you expect to get past
racism
homophobia
sexism
ableism
fatphobia
transphobia
prejudice
if we can't even get past how people dress?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with *** hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
we're old souls you & i.
bound by a need to be something beyond ourselves.
i admire that in you.
your struggles, questioning
breathing new life into stale moments.
we're gypsies i'd say, you & i.
the new beatniks
pushing the boundaries of self discovery
fighting with ourselves & conceptions of identity.
we're moving, always
self destructing
running in search of any semblance of truth.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 11:11 AM UTC
They had begun to question consciousness,
turning solid matter into fuzziness in their brains,
rendering not atoms, nor photons, nor particles,
only cold energy, halucenogenic stardust joints.
For the exclusionary few to whom the material
had never meant **** to a tree or a **** to a rabbit,
it was the cash-cow of quantum reality,
ambiguous poetry for a Beat Generation,
Uncertainty in free verse chapbooks.
So they wrote of our interconnectedness ---
the Ginsbergs, the Levertovs, the Ferlinghettis ---
till the gravity of space-mind curved imagination,
a nation falling unheard without a whimper in the forest.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction
Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks
Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners
Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening
Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs
For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments
Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul
Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers
Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally
Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 9:11 PM UTC
It begins brusquely in the dark, a hoary noise,
a tune which all the cats in town enjoy.
Yes, they stare at the stage for a sparkle of gold
to come forth from the shadows, the sound will take hold.
Rippling through the room, a devilish groan
rises, spirals high from an aged baritone.
The other musicians join in this depressing affair
and the men in their fifties are still fused to their chairs.
The sulky cello, whining trumpet slither into the mix,
the sadness fills the ears of several dozen beatniks.
Then with no caution comes a madcap flow
of music from the star performer, frantic yet mellow.
And it slows, then picks up, goes on for what feels like a year,
this rugged Jazz, no words but my, **** sincere.
Like something so eccentric that can't be left alone,
everyone captivated by the golden saxophone.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
When I was younger
Life was sheer brilliance
When I was wiser
I was in another body
When I was totally absorbed
I was diving deep depths
When I was beautiful to myself
I was a complete child free mind
When I was amazing
You thought I
Was inspired by beatniks
When in fact I
Was drunk on Moonbeams,
Candlelight pleasure streams
When I was yours
I was charmed by The Divine
Luxuries~from sweet sweat aglow~our
Lyrical Muses were asleep whispering Lyrics
Murmuring, palms kneading, loving. . .
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
After years of bleeding
Seeing society retreating
On oil slick sands
On bible belts
And boy bands
The world is ovulating
Waiting for the impregnation
Of a dreamer’s nation
Intertwine
With an age of the mind
The birthing pangs
Blanking on the dark ages
Yet we cycle back
Again
Rising up from
The ocean’s foam
Then sinking
Deeply into
Their dark depths
Another age of greatness is due
Returning
From the spurning of
Science and poetry
FDR to McCarthy trials
Beatniks to Vietnam
The Roman Empire
To the dark ages
The last sages
Got trampled on the road to war
The great poets
Frequently ignored
But it’s time
For another revolution
Evolution
End of pollution
And the dissolution
Of our greed ran
System man
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Crick crack click clap snip snap on the concrete
The city is on the move and to stand would be
The slapstick comedy of stopping a treadmill.
Acceleration animation gravitation from the rotation
Apathetic friction that is devil-may-care like your heart
Dragged down on the gym floor and the sweaty men laugh.
Tick tock nonstop the clock hops and bops away the time
Of the day and eternity seems like a fairy tale
Because this era is neverneverland faith, we are young.
And getting younger, we plan to die naked as we came,
Lounging in retirement, the summer that knows no end.
But sighing the dying are crying relying upon our move
And we move past, this blur of momentum that the city has become,
Because stillness is for the hippies and the natives and we are neither.
Capitalistic colonial conquering captains of industry we charge
Credit or debit because it isn't ours anyways and the bank is moving.
Down the street in the heat can't beat the beat of the sweet treat
That the homeless remember the memory of the taste of mercy.
Like dogs in heat they pant and beg and we shake them off our pantleg
Because it is designer and the label buys manhood cheap and sells it high.
We split hit and quit and never commit because we spit words like blessing
Out when we wash our mouths out every night and every morning
Because it is the only way to get the taste out of your mouth when you wake up.
As if the jacket I wear can't clothe a man from the cold or sell for more
And my closet is lined with the clothes I don't remember to forget about wearing.
It is not hate that congregates or abates the rate the weight is pulling me down,
But fear of the immensity of impossibility colliding with reality inevitably,
Because one man's sacrifice will suffice to pay the price of my vice.
Yessir hearts are racing toward the first heart, we are collaborating.
That the dying need not remain the dead but know life to the fullest.
The poor and the sore need not abhor or war with the rush of the city.
Because saints and saviors are not just bedtime stories as long as my life
Has the power, no the will, no just the faith, all it needs is faith.
The sick have been tricked that their wick runs quick
Like crick crack click clack snip snap on the concrete
These hearts are moving this city on a hill.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
After years of bleeding
Seeing society retreating
On oil slick sands
On bible belts
And boy bands
The world is ovulating
Waiting for the impregnation
Of a dreamer’s nation
Intertwine
With an age of the mind
The birthing pangs
Blanking on the dark ages
Yet we cycle back
Again
Rising up from
The ocean’s foam
Then sinking
Deeply into
Their dark depths
Another age of greatness is due
Returning
From the spurning of
Science and poetry
FDR to McCarthy trials
Beatniks to Vietnam
The Roman Empire
To the dark ages
The last sages
Got trampled on the road to war
The great poets
Frequently ignored
But it’s time
For another revolution
Evolution
The end of pollution
And the dissolution
Of our greed ran
System man
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
As a lifelong adventure I eclipsed the generation I was grown up with
felt so much that turned wrong and sad on November 12, 1934
should have been born different
I kept up to date and conceptually relate
I would have been honored to be at Woodstock it's like I was there
in my head and psychedelics and mushrooms
were my references and Beatniks along with
Carlos Casteneda influenced me from deserts .
My philosophy grew and reasoned, until now where I see greed and
possessions are so important.
I never lost the dream, though,
of Peace on Earth.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.
When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.
When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.
When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways
When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.
When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.
When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.
When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.
When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.
When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.
When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.
When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.
When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.
When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.
When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.
When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
To be alone with you,
stuck together in a still-framed eternity,
to be unsure of where we're going
in a blacked out picture perfect life.
Whether I choose to star in our own film
or live in a beatniks' reality,
whether I'm able to separate myself from you
or remain bound in our love stained story
Caught in a momentary lapse of judgement
hung on a wall for all to see,
this is the life we have been forced to live.
No one wanted to inspect the negatives,
no one wanted to find any flaws
in our majestic lie of a loveless love
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 11:36 AM UTC
our generation, drenched in nostalgia
clawing, desperate for a time we don’t even remember
romanticise the past, the simple times of genuine human emotion
no pressure when the only thing that mattered was pure devotion
to writing, art, travelling, dreams…
feeling free like the beatniks we hold up so high in our estimation
put on a pedestal, the lives we envy and wish we could lead
no expectations
whatever we once believed in
it’s been stripped away
and now we lie here naked and shamed
"a respectable career is the only way"
rapid change left us cold staring at static
blank screens
we’ve been born into the age of the void
no empathy remaining, no way or means
of expressing ourselves accurately
anxiety and sadness dominates
technically we’re developed but our minds are broken, falling into disrepair
in the end we just don’t ******* care
we just want to remember how to feel without numb indifference
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
there's not a word original
when the eyes are starting to dull
on the lips of beatniks that pull
their inspiration from the lull
in their mind's eye
when blue skies fly
above the lie
i told you
just to hold you
a while longer
it made me stronger
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
I made some money
Spent it on a honey
She threw it in my face
As she tied up the lace
Backed up
Asking nothing
Sorrow is
Regret in the morrow'
Entertain this
Love this
Befriend and
Disgrace this
She walked outta the room
I stood still not feeling the expected doom
I peaked my eyes out the blinds
Yes time was still passing fine
I didn't ask the sky for forgiveness
For dropping me in a wrong'ed place
There was nothing I could do to please this
And yet I still remember the determined face
Generations feel the urge to run
So why don't they do it?, no mind is truly numb
We are the shouts heard if we dare speak it
Or do you think young souls aren't fit as the beatniks?
I've seen alley rat races with men with old wives
Heard stories from ghosts that couldn't get a ride
Tasted meat from a street that had been hit and beat
And smelled ripe leather liquors from aged' police kickers
We are being forgotten by a time that fears time
Fast and quick we will no longer be able to flick a switch
The page will burn like the victims of Vesuvius and the rest
A man and women tested, a bid to break the best
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 8:35 AM UTC
With bile splattered journals in hand
they spoke with arrhythmia
palpitating misery in their poetry.
Now they tear the roots out of their skin as
their left ears are numb to validity.
Logic is a mere fallacy as they are
emitting blood soaked words.
And the populace heeds no warning,
blinded behind a microphone,
they are deaf to their own soliloquy.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
I wish I was back
In the 1950s with
Jack, Neal and Allem
We would be beatniks
Smoking tea and travelling
Grooving to free Jazz
But I'm here alone
Stuck in ****** Stoke on Trent
No cool beatniks here
No one cool at all
No jazz on the radio
No one cool at all
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
This is a Plasma, Plasma, Plasma!
Teenagers - Danish Danielle and Pikeley Paul,
friends, brothers, beatniks! Memory
memory, and new players of protein parts.
Questions with the European Union
The silence that he will not do is a lot of silver.
High-speed flowers are yellow
and cameras in their homes; homes and prisons and factories,
described in 20 countries, cities
and the Federal Republic of the
United States. Of course, Christian life,
safety cigarettes, plastic and damage,
burden and other diseases.
Like many people, Burqinis in The EU has a lot of experience
in cyberbullying. The flow of air and fire,
police and security when living in 2019 steel,
dogs, birds and refugees. There is no result of the song.
The calendar is 20 times a week, but it is not.
Black and White are young and growing.
So, all your troubles are at your feet,
and palm customers. Dancing artists,
dancers, actors and dogs. Memory's memory,
and new players of protein parts.
Questions for the European Union - Search results
Create a design machine ... Silver Satin Yes,
someone uses different methods, including depth and medication.
The dinosaur, angry Japanese people
make the dog to destroy the work of his colleague.
Memory memory, and new players of protein parts.
Questions with the European Union;
The silence that he will not do is a lot of silver.
High-speed flowers are yellow
and cameras in their homes, homes and prisons and factories,
described in 20 countries, cities and the Federal Republic of the United States. Of course, Christian life, safety, protection, cigarettes, plastic wear, strength and weakness.
Like the Union, the EU, Europe Guantanamo... um:
Bursavonenses have fallen to both low levels.
Drawers straight, like a bottle of 20,
available in traditional entertainment, potatoes
And her nephew, not plasma. Young -
Denmark, Pikeley Paul, friends, brothers, Batik.
Memory memory, and new players of protein parts.
There were questions about the EU. Most of them do not have to do
with the bank. High-speed flowers are yellow and cameras,
antioxidants in Pakistan, prisons and homes,
factories in 20 countries, cities and the United States.
Of course, Christian life, safety cigarettes,
plastic and damage, burden and other diseases.
How many people, Burqina EU,
Internet creators have a rich experience.
The flow of air and fire, police and security after 2020 and punch, dogs, chickens and refugees live.
There is no result of the song. The calendar is 20 times a week,
but it is not. Black and White are young and growing.
So, in general, her clothes, her clothing and her legs,
and her plates and she wears with her red boxers.
Dancing artists, dancers, actors and dogs.
Memory memory, and new players of protein parts.
There were questions about the EU.
Most of them do not have to do with the bank.
High-speed flowers are yellow and cameras, antioxidants in Pakistan, prisons and homes, factories, 20 countries,
cities and the United States and punch, dogs,
chickens and refugees live. There is no result of the song.
The calendar is 20 times a week, but it is not.
Black and White are young and growing.
Create cars as you search for results ...
Make money creep using different methods,
including depth psychology and medication.
Found the oldest dinosaurs,
the angry people in Japan, all the dogs work,
work with colleague, partner, are consumed.
Memory memory, and new players of protein parts.
There were questions about the EU.
Most of them do not have to do the bank. High-speed flowers are yellow
and cameras, antioxidants in Pakistan, prisons and homes, factories, 20 countries, cities and republics...
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 10:25 PM UTC
Hopeless the machine souls marching the streets,
the gutters full of yesterday's news,
the sidewalks cracked and the love of nature trying desperately to squeak through,
the streets alive waiting for Rapture that comes every night at 8 o'clock on a giant TV screen in the department store window,
I could never tell if I was watching reality unfold or if it was just television, but by now I know it's always been television
Recycle it - again
Fill the cities with refuse angels to wash clean the worker's shame,
Then tell the candidates about how much you miss the way things were
Save us, Mr. President, we're dying out here
God can wait till morning
There's ten cent words going for ten bucks a piece on the free market
and all that speaking in tongues came back around to mean nothing after all,
And here is where the ghosts of their meaning rest
THE ENEMY IS HERE!
These are the three pillars of the freedom you paid for:
1. Silence
2. Silence
3.
The outlaws died for this
The beatniks died for this
The punks died for this
The hippies died for this
The revolutionaries died for this
The youth stayed home sick, grew up, voted Republican
Know Thy Enemy, Know Thy Self
In music video daydreams,
In empathy withdrawals,
In light pollution nightmares eclipsed skylines burning,
Burning, burning!
Screaming the heart raw!
Scraping the bottom of the barrel!
**** Eat! Drink! Death! Rebirth! Repeat!
Repeat, repeat, repeat til the nose bleeds,
The love dies in the back of the throat,
The words that could've fixed this left,
ignored,
On the kitchen table with the unpaid bills and the residue from last nights drug binge
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 4:07 AM UTC
my tiny lake-pool of subconsciousness
invites me to swim
so i jump in
and i pass all the brutes and one-legged monsters
and politicians with sweaty hands
all the unlocked doors with mysteries behind them
and half-smoked cigarettes from
everybody i ever cared about
it is very nice to smoke a blunt with a boy
(or a man)
who knows all the US presidents
and not to lip the tip
and can spell necessary without having to look it up
but still
i will leave even that
for a nice dip
in the rushing waters
past the filing cabinets of my brain
where the gypsies enter
and the beatniks roam
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Snap necked seraphim
Poltergeist afterlife
The difference between seeing and believing
The difference between knowing and understanding
The difference between wanting to know and wanting to understand
The beatniks and their denim
Our fears and how we treat them
Heartbreak and soaking it all in
Love and blowing it all out
******* it all in and pretending it doesn't hurt
Letting it all out and letting everyone know it ******* hurts
A lot
Spraying perfume on plastic flowers to make sure no one knows they are fake
Spraying perfume on yourself to make sure know one knows you are fake
Beauty supreme, yeah they were right about you
Kissing the lips of destruction to get a taste of what living feels like
A bystander to your own existence, choking and gasping on what little tangible feeling you have left
From the way that you acted to the way that I felt it, from the way that I acted to the way that you didn't feel any of it
You lucky *******
I'm miserable and you haven't noticed, nothing new there
I wish I couldn't miss you, I wish I didn't see you at all
If I die, I will die a martyr
If I die, I want these words to soak into your veins instead of the alcohol and nicotine
I want to be the only thing you feel
I was always selfish, I might as well embrace it
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
i know that the devil is blamed for much evil, but so little evil is condensed into words... imagine what good would have arisen had mein kampf been protected from the assurance of third party muscles being exerted into verbs from orientating out of nouns with ego as pro / favouring the disnobling of stone with a human voice as thus named, stone, thrown. imagine? too late, history has been written; hell... evil doesn’t really write, it just acts on impulse... good writes a lot, so much that being good becomes fiction, obviously, since fiction exists, which naturally compares with evil furthered as a denial of some sort in the historical context orientating an established contnet.
so a bunch of anthropologists and some other etc.
met at the top of the pyramid and discussed
whether a labourer believed in paradise right at the bottom...
and the labourer said... well... i don’t care
for top or bottom, but the corner-stone doesn’t exist
as a crucifixion for the rest of this structure to be
elevated and stable... surely?!
i actually forgot to mention in one poem,
christianity’s saving grace numbers only one:
doctor heal yourself...
well by saving i mean amused grace -
doctors reconsider proclaimed fault progress,
and thus claim knowledge as acquisition rendered revelatory
via progress rather than a stasis of intuition / i.e.
fake knowledge / hidden work, as all magic serves
in whatever limitation is necessary for a logic to express its full potential;
esp. if hidden and if revealed only upon the crucifix.
i hate those idiots at the top... the beatniks would have
just called them squares... we have to just call them atheists...
or if you’re polite english... ***** / wankers.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC