Sounds of sparrows and street urchins
screeching with joy, my head throbbing
with Kerouacesque visions/Elliotic revisions,
yodelling my ashcan rantings in the suburban air.
The new-age Buddha, I create beautiful
but meaningless things, amid the dog-
shit and chickenshit of the neighbourhood,
thinking of supple boys & girls, their naked
flesh hungry for each other, aching:
muscle to muscle, bone to bone.
Saturday afternoon in my shitty apartment
blithering like an ass, the self-indulgent twaddle,
the purest word-vomit from my stomach’s pit.
“Enough with your chopped-up prose!”
“Do I function in perfect iambs?”
“Care for some arhythmic/asymmetric
chunks of troubling yesteryears?”
I am Whitman’s spider, unrolling & unreeling,
sending out filaments, filaments, filaments
to life’s threshold.
Hark, the torchbearers of well-crafted verse!
Hark, the trailblazers of well-honed prose!
Here’s my raging gibberish for the woke
cybernetic denizens who feed and fatten
themselves on greasy and chewy tweets.
With darkness darker than my soul,
sourness plastered on my pale face,
I sound my primal yelping in a drunken haze,
standing by the window,
watching the clouds,
letting the world (or the neighbourhood)
realise how important/impotent I am.
I screech my unpoetic warbles
to the virus-infected wasteland,
to the blab of the pave,
to a blind future burning with blinding brilliance,
to our lives shattered by bloodsucker Molochs,
feasting & frolicking on the spoils
of a decade-long sumptuous slaughtering!
Poetry by MetaPoetics
Read 70 times
Written on 2021-10-20 at 15:21
Tags Kerouac  Ginsberg  Whitman
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