I think Allen would be proud

Poetry

I came on here today to write an angry but hopefully well informed or illuminating post on feminism, but then WordPress reminded me how popular fiction can be on here. I had a couple blogs before this. Ones that I probably found it easier to keep up with. They had small readerships, and the fiction one on which I published poems and short stories was by far the more popular. So I’m holding off from my rant on womanism to upload an Allen Ginsburg rip-off I wrote a while ago. It’s got a lot of “you kinda had to be there” references so I’m keen to see how they’ll sit with you folks out there, if any of you discover this. Hoping they’ll stand up on their own because of the imagery used. I think it has some good moments.

So, originally titled Ginsburgette (I think) here we have Cat Screech:

I watched as the glass on my eyes shattered spilling forth the tears of a broken generation
Of broken generations,
Brains beaten on buses shifting through the night in whisky vodka colours stinking of gin like the ratty souled homeless,
Cut by breaking glass,
Buses to factoried tower blocks of frittering sex rabbits living in mourning
Whose forefathers should also have been mothers
Whose mothers were also fathers
Who drank coffee in the tea rooms of Great Russell Street down below floorboards in tattered chairs like hunted Russians
Those ones who live at One Hyde Park and failed to sell their Adams and Eves and crouch in black limousines with tinted windows
Scared of shooting cameras
Whose deadly head bearers sting with alcohol and arses burst methane whilst they come alone to full rooms
Remembering when they too were broken brains searching for lurches of curiosity and sat dreaming in fumigatory kitchens corrupting lungs with a sweetness like cut grass burning
Who cured cancer and shagged the doctors
Who saved the world with guided predictions, logically proving that Hanbury Street is not the same as Argyle and lost themselves in blackness of coffees brown laced with formulas
Who partied at French castles in the Summer of ’13 guzzling fine wine out of boxes and through fire coals smoking the valley air and fucked bono for moby
Who jumped out of trees into brambles for suicidal jackasses sentenced to live on TV and made the Olympics insane with bamboo sticks and rivers of mud, surviving into grey afternoons
To hear the rain fall like a shower from the big head in the sky and filtering through canopies come and crash like branches, like legs, like busted backs and knees
Who drank whisky by the bottle in council flats to ringing bells and let fly cigars through open windows cutting fingers on cards and chundering jugs
Who theorised about Bentham’s body found in Euston’s warrens, a mummy of their forelorn pain glaring out through waxen eyes
Mugging and rape and shouting and drunken Fausts on cameras of cameras on cameras in glinting moonlight and streetlamps, eyes
Shrivelled with fear, dry from crying
Who ran through mental tunnels screaming molock at passing dreamers and thrashed leather shoes without any bootpolishers at stations to hear their strangled shouts
Where is the moloko?
Plugged into dubstep and grime to calm them to silent studious moods in old ministries with forbidden floors pressing
Flags fluttering wind protesters falling from rooftops and spreading wings to fender bender with a balcony
Who took ghost tours along Berkeley Square and stopped at number fifty hearing how Australia tells better ghost stories than the monster behind a police notice barring an attic from 1959
Who wondered how cold the water is if you’re swimming fast beneath the bridge
Sung Nirvana on endless repeats awaiting distant samsaras and mokshas and dreaming about omniscient skylines and domes glittering through bomb-smoke in angelic splendour
Saw 2115 dead before the promised end of no casualities and scribbled treatises against the oxymoronic just war whilst dicking off to the dynamism of rape
Who sexed indiscriminately with plastics and pills and tongues in dank flats stinking of sweat and smog beautifully, ravishing their senses as base thrummed the earlobes
Who moralised about Ukrainian wills like Scottish lusts saying only certain people can impose costs and sanctions,
Political, economic, diplomatic, insinuative, inflammatory, ideological, material and floating above city lights in the belched air, dancing with swingers and pop replacing guns enslaving millions
Who believe in guilty messages sung by tools and machines controlled by fools and machines or creatives who anyway need the money
When I walked on Southbank and leapt between barriers, when I danced over walls, when I strolled past midnight through Shoreditch to Hoxton and Old Street drinking in hipster jazz wearing empty sunglasses
Who loved their beacon of apathetic and comical hope laughing away reality like a jester, mocking it into being with tattoos and waves of LSD and long hair
Who bought drugs on internet porn sites and cost themselves millions of bits in viruses, dragging their displaced electronic bodies through decay
Who used carrots in Palahniukian scenes of fancy and brown trousers
Wandered in the morning through Mayfair to Casinos of despair named after palmed beaches near terrifying squares built around serene parks and trees
Who ate chocolate paste and marshmallows from saucepans and mixed it with liqueur for dessert then ran down to gyms to run no-where in no place imagining Utopia in themselves
Admired the Barbican Towers and More and Plato and sat in dusty halls writing on Machiavelli because they forgot the others like Sejanus or French dude
Who became Chroniclers of their time on blogs in postings, coasting on the favour of depressives, parents and cancer patients reading stories past midnight
Who watched James Franco in Howl and wrote homosexual poems on condoms and fingers which burned in the morning light
Feminists who hated men and men who hated feminists and people who loved everyone and Jesus who died and was carried away by angels to Hell but escaped to be cannibalised
Osama easy riders in drug feuds killed by hillbillies with AKs, nymphomaniacs with bombs and loose women in flowing black robes blanching in the dark
Metaphysical rumble fish of drinkers and poundland workers on dole queues fighting outside foodbanks and losing the lottery because of the walls and the bricks
Who sold prisms for ten dollars at Camden Market and wore fedoras with basketball shoes and dropped acid to lance warts
Who rode buses past people riding buses shouting at late drivers for picking up passengers who shit themselves and throw up on seats and cry like soft children, parentless,
Unselved shelf-stackers speaking in footballers, perfumes, movies, make-up and biceps,
Who see stars glittering in the sky over the Thames Ferris wheel and put up their hoods to walk through St James’ and stalk the roadways to Caledonian pastures and girlfriends
Who burn tables with candle wax and choke on the little fires in a dark bathroom, drink port like wine, who write feverishly to prove nothing to no-one and make people understand
Break bones on wood and white kitchen surfaces blinking in the harsh dark of dusk drowning in the night imagining visitors
Scream names of lovers like strained saxophone vocals, sliced guitars, broken strings and indiscriminate moods of grey blue red killing everything with antibacterial scotch kicking at the bin with disgust and growing flowers in buckets like Christmas trees
Pixie historians creeping in their roots gnawing at tree bark to get at the smell, the amber, to drink the rains and fly up into petals
Who look at window-panes like bars in their mental asylums who lock themselves up in Broadmoor each night, who dance with their own voices, who watch movies to come back to reality
Who walk pavements to complain about cracked tarmac and builders’ spraypaint without the art and giggle at smiley faces done in yellow
Whose hearts warm at painted school walls and mottos in piss-stink corners pock-marked by broken skateboards and hung converse laced to vans
Tired and drunk and high stagger home in small hours besmirched by pimps impeached by whores mocked by insanity driving them through vast valleys of twinkling windows seeing tough souls staring blank
Whose hearts burn in their furnaces with their own twists and turning theatres flashing in minds like epilepsy seizures of the reason and raising their voices, taking knives to wrists and jumping, falling
Onto trampolines of lies and truths webbed and matted and wet and rotting
Who run inside to play on video games and eat takeaway burgers
Ancestors who drank 1% beer as water
Who now drink gin
Who pound the earth with drills and trains and groundshakers and rumblings in the deep fisting the clitoris of nature
Who should be tender and fucking looking into eyes
Who are not like foxes or rabbits
Pushing through multicoloured brambles of connections to distant theatres with the same smells and peanuts
Who play poker with friends and always lose
Who play strip poker and always win
Who spend hours cooking for diners who will never arrive and get fat off health foods
Who wish they could put sticks in cyclists’ spokes and Boricycle out in front of cars, swinging cans high, swigging,
At home writing essays on dead people and looking through antique catalogues for typewriters hearing the clatter of keys
Who still sometimes read by candlelight to get to sleep
Ah, my friend you know me too well,
Sodom and Gomorrah where art thou? They call
And this is for you Anthony, singing with the birds on high planes and treetops in comfortable nests smoking opium pipes and your grey hair catching fire
This is for your people who wander restlessly through the caverns of knowledge, yes drunk and high, yes stinking of booze and wearing unironed shirts
This is for the children who behave so well in their parents’ presence and then go out to murder in their rampant frustration
This is for the young terrorists who used construction cones to blockade family roads and burped at passers-by as they stalked through the traps made of string and twigs
Inside our asylum of life and death and still going on and not knowing and dreaming every day and living every night and day and night
I am with you throwing up in your bed as the radio clock chimes and the smoke alarm is smashed off the walls
I am with you on the streets as you stagger back laughing at nothing and cat-calling kilt-wearers
I am with you in your room when you down a bottle of vodka and keep it down and pass out into a paraplegic haze, refusing all hospital treatment
I am with you here in London in our land of iridescent mermaids
For I am you and you are me and we are all those people who rent dank flats with moss growing on the walls to live more like the ascetics of Syria screaming our profanities at the dark in our adrenaline or booze or caffeine cloud of crazy depressions, explaining how Aristotle is in all the others like a true player, Aquinas, Hobbes or More and so much Paine
Who conceived of catatonic plays to rival the tragedeans and Nunns
Who wondered how engine fuel influences a poem having watched the Master
Who copy Allen Ginsberg the butcher of life vomited in poetry from their souls
Good to eat for a thousand years.

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