“what are we?” she asked

with despair, he replied, ”we’re nothing”

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 ****’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 "*******"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
*******’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.

We’re stuck in a web
Inter-connected
Hyper-connected
But sometimes some get lost
They become a diaspora
Of goners.
Once here
And now
Disappear

I look up at the chaos around me
and see.
I see people saying their last prayers,
Waiting for their fateful endings,
I hear the church bell toll in its last call,
I feel the suffocating heat from the burning buildings,
I smell the smoke from the ignited city,
I taste the desperation in the air and the bitterness of regrets.

But in the middle of this tumult,
One thing stands out;
One person.

A little boy stands there in a tan attire,
dark gray ash contrasting his almost-white hair
and tears stains on his ivory cheeks.
A grim expression marking his features,
He shakes as if freezing
and although the heat has almost become unbearable,
he stands in the middle of the flames
barefoot yet unharmed.
A scythe lays at his feet,
and a pale horse stands by his side,
making his small body look even smaller.

As if feeling my stare,
he locks eyes with me.

And as the world burns down,
the reflection of the cataclysm in his brown eyes
and the look of innocent incomprehension he wears
is the single most heartbreaking thing in the moment.

Suddenly, I do not care about the screams and cry of the despondent goners.
I do not feel the harsh scorch of the burnt remains under my bare feet.
I do not mind the tears welling up in my eyes due to the fumes.
They are but a distant reminder of the atrocity surrounding me.
I can only focus on the strange guilt reflected in his warm eyes.

From those same eyes, a tear rolls down his cheeks
And as it reaches his dimpled chin,
he raises a little hand to wipe it away
And then waves at me.
I do not wave back,
too stunned to move or react,
But I could tell he did not expect me to anyways.

With one last look,
he picks up the scythe with an unusual easiness
and turns to walk towards the flames,
the horse close behind him.
And soon, they are one with the flames.

Electricity is talking; we understand
losing interest in conversations. creating land.
droplets of ice define the day
August ends in the middle of May

intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth
the hands fail; a dumbed feeling
Eins, the seeing blind have never seen
on screen, a shape of many faces

in through the open windows outdoors
smoke dries the unseen. air dry.
so paragon goners repulse the cleaver
the system has failed

so much detail to attention
when pink isn’t even a color
time is wasted on time itself
unfortunate cookie

wires once made you. complete.
ask for the answer to the question is nothing
Zwei light birds on a wire
the happenstance, the fire

where hell listens, there sight is drawn
selfishly we glare and mourn
******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…”
cold as **** the cesspool lay.

So, maybe I’m over thinking this.

She cried a single salty tear
all her hurt bound over the year
She realised she'd turned her hand
a footprint left behind in the sand

and all you goners, you left her from here
left her crying one salty tear
and she never left or walked away
she took each step, made it day by day

She took a hand and it was not yours
left your memory on distant shores
drowned your sorrow in sweat and blood
stayed a good girl, like all good girls should

and you took her more than she baragined for
left her naked and shivering on the floor
left her alone with her salted eyes
left her loving all she despised

no love song for you
and no glory be no more
she left your mercy washed up on the shore
no more are you here
no more i wonder or try in vain
no more should i let my love be my shame

She smiled a good smile and all was good
she stopped being a good girl
like all good girls should
she drank from her life and felt the burn
remembered all that she had to yearn

she lived a good life when all was said
left you lying there in your bed
and ****** on your sorrys and i wonder and what fors
didn't wait around for locked hidden doors

She fell full forwards and backwards a mile
she hit a battlefield when she saw your smile
but no alas, alack, you are no more
your love is like sand, washed upon the shore

good evening, good morning, good night
you lost me within the range of your sight
it took me 6 months and 6 months no more
to realise you are nothing, nothing no more

I disassociate to my "friends" lives scrolling by,
I don't need any spliff or fungus to reach
Peak apathetic  non self congruence.
Watching years pass by in seconds
Is all the psychedelic room temperature
Mental priming for my primate mental
That I could ever hope for

Before being snapped back out
By the cubed carrot reward of
Internet interaction
Which keeps me salivating and searching
For ways to increase the amount of time
I don't have to associate with that guy inhabiting my body
For a while I can see my problems as goners
Being slowly erased from my mind like a magnet over a hard drive

Until a kindly panic attack reminds my of
My lack of lack of control
And the selfless self centered guilt keeps me
Wishing I were working instead of living
Who could be so audacious
As to propose a life out side

Why are there gates into Heaven if it's never too late to be forgiven?
Can we not just fall to our knees and beg for mercy there at the entrance?
I just don't see the God that you preach as someone to say "too late".
I can't see how he can stand to watch his children burn in Hell.
For Heaven's sake.

I don't understand
how a man
with so much virtue and honor,
can be someone
who allows his children
to be accepted as goners.

I awoke with a need,
with presentiments from bad dreams;
detached from feeling, I hear it sing:
a grandfather’s clock, untimely,
boxes and a piano with no tuning.

a walk through high hills and chalk walls,
towards a fervid green memory -
no ash to see and no burnt bodies.

now, with this perturbed heartbeat,

the     ghosts and    
goners      will  
meet

Two teens, truly smitten.
Within minutes of realizing that they did indeed harbour mutual feeling. So cruelly bitten.
We're both goners! They did assume.
Two futures predetermined, written.

At the time neither knew that Ellie was immune.
In forty-eight hours, Riley's body the virus would fully consume.

They're still stockpiling
the good of humanity
in them you believe

             Kelly McManus

I know it’s all-encompassing, but you know something?
it’ll pass, and we’ll move on
and we’ll try to forget the moments when we thought we could all be goners.

We’ll look forward, quote verses about new things and we’ll be assertive
and we’ll trust God for the future, post memes on our computers
and it is right that we do this with honest good humour

but let’s not waste this season by simply surviving,
simply grinning and bearing, and us hiding our crying.
Let’s not miss these moments, these weeks and months
when it's more honest to pray with tears and sobs,
asking for answers to our cries for life,
for the lives around us,
- for those who have died,

for our sanity cooped up and us barely coping,
our routine getting worn with daily repeating
without much needed hugs and with limited ways
to meet and to sing and to share our long days
with more than these same four walls

Pause

– don’t forget how this felt for you,
cos that's the way we seek his truth
and be better able to rely on him
next time our lives lose their rhyme and rhythm,

when (let’s be honest) our faith gets wonky,
and each one of us alone can be tempted to worry

and sink inside.

Let’s be honest with him and next time
our vision may be better aligned
and we’ll look to him and rather than hide,
we’ll stand that much straighter, knowing our God is so much greater,
our God is wider and higher and untold deeper
and he has this frail life in his two pierced hands that are so much bigger.

I know it's all-encompassing,
but you know something,
he is all Father,
all Creator, all Redeemer
and the all-encompassing more Grace-giver

He is the one holding it all together
and he wants to walk through this grief together

with you.

So, turn down the news,
make some space, seek his face
and let’s pray.

It's not all that it's cracked up to be
even when you're good and get the key
that lets you in
free from sin
unlike me who'll never be
a member

but I'm quite sure
the muses or the fates
can't hide the fact
that Heaven is full of
council estates.

shrinking violets or
prima donnas
have one thing in common
they're all dead and goners

. Imagine cherubs and seraphim
stood at the gates
handing out halo's
to all of your mates,
and don't forget the
council estates
there'll be rent when it's due
or you'll be out on the street
there are plenty of homeless
here you can meet
Jersey lil's
and cowpokes that drawl
Kilroy the star of many a wall

the ghettos
let's not forget the ghettos
the heat of the day
the union go-slows
the unending songs
of angels
lost souls at odds with
the angles

heaven is the dumping ground
and I being of sound mind
with a grip on things
wouldn't go.

Weeping winds, gothic gusts
Overfilled pots refusing to puke out the rain
-stumbling vines, suffocating trees
Obsolete stones clothed in moss
Bygone leaves carpeting their beds

They; the lovers and the liars-
the rulers who swam in lakes of hope
They; the killers and the goners-
the dreamers who carved their own skies

velvet robes embracing their carcasses
vanishing bones stained with drying flesh
-rotting pearls, chocking gold
Wounded wooden skies coughing in dust
musical silence, uninvited mourners

So lovely do they hum,
     yet every leaf shivers.
So silent does she come,
     yet every dying hears.
So high do they soar,
     yet caged with dirt.
So loud does she roar,
     yet never heard.

Hissing hearts, venomous veins
Seductive starvation of ever shrinking skin
-calm storms, empty floods
Succumb souls clothed in charming chains
beaten masquerade guarding your soul

You; the painter and the poet-
the coal that blooms in pools of blood
You; the warrior and the war-
the saint who seeks his shadowed deeds

Devouring dress, scarlet bones
thirsty parchment imprisoned in sea
-whistling rain, blushing sun
Another day falls over the insipid pile
Dreamy night dissolves in sleepy day.

So when she crawls up to me,
don't shout out loud, let me hear her song
I need no tears, save them for your late-night prayers
I need no help, let me go for once.
So when I go still,
let me hold my hands, let me cross my feet
I need no flowers, let them live some more for me
I need no masks, let me frown for once.
So when I'm one in the earth,
let me spread my wings, let me take a flight
I need no name on stone, save it for the good you do
I need no visits, let me alone for once.

My anxious blood has come to a final rest.