beatniks corrupted by suburban wildfire to the outskirts of the city
all the good poets are dead, or dying, as we all die as soon as we're born
cross eyed ink letter, Quasimodo, welcome home
this place is stinky, a weird funk, too much ethanol
how can the beatnik write in these conditions?
does the beatnik even exist anymore?
are questioning questions even the answer.
i look to the left of the chopping block, cutting wood into the fire that my body will once be a part of
burns and gauze and little pustules of water squeezed like lemons out of your hand
the pin guides the liquid, the future will be that it heals, hopeful, no damage
i look around and i see nothing no darkness no triumph no nothing
just clouds in the sky waiting to be pushed away by Zeus to make his sun flow onto our crowded side streets and backyard tool and pool sheds
the beatnik knows this, he yearns for it, for the paper, for the next mission of up and down paranoia if the unknown soldier army pushes forth in the realm of cataclysm wanton self righteousness
when will we show our face in the blowing snow, a wind storm of ice and roofing debris
the roof is caving in on us any minute and i'm fearful that it may fall down on me as i write this, i hear the creaking of the stone throw away from appaloosa card shark, trip wire fence, aluminium calking and some elbow grease
into the light i am shone the example of a man who, newly becoming 30, realizes a lot longer than before
i could stay up all night writing with NyQuil and acetaminophen and nothing would make sense, because your perception of me will differ every 15 minutes
how can you judge a man in 15 minutes? is he raw, handsome, hung? what does the opposite sex want in a man in this comeuppance of answering questions to judge a person
there should be caves in the grotto, whiskey in the den, and a percolator of fresh, organic coffee in every room of the house (just in case i either wander into it or i leisurely stumble upon a cup as i do my daily activities)
this is heaven. too drunk to fuck playing in the background on repeat, those savages, do they understand the meaning of freedom of speech which Trump is exercising to his fullest and is diverting his lack of competence to the daily pop culture suck you up and spit you out news bureau
harvey fucking wallbanger is on the fence for this one, someone should ask him who he voted for, strange brute, he'll probably get me on slander for this article, if there's enough snow, he'll go anywhere
but back to Trump, every twitter message you see of his has a code to Russian alliances, and the Russians who follow, know the code and will act soon, maybe that's just paranoia, but it makes too much sense not to believe it. sleeper soldiers, waking up to a specific word or situation. has the whole world gone to madness?
when a poetic asshole like myself sees this happening just at his chamber door, it must have
my football gut instinct was right and i went for the Patriots, it was a happy day
Trump should have a guy like me working for them so they don't fuck around as much and can actually understand what the people want and that goes for Canada too because Trudeau will be dealing with Herr Trump throughout his journey as Prime Minister (prep school costs a lot).
Well,
Good riddance and good night
Happy New Year,
I have a feeling it's going to be one hell of an adventure