Ashcan Rantings


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 The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 70 times
Written on 2021-10-20 at 15:21

Tags Kerouac  Ginsberg  Whitman 

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Uncle Meridian The PoetBay support member heart!
I cherish this poem's gusto and guff, its verve and its nerve, its pulse and its pugnacity. "Enjoy" is too feeble a word, "take delight" too stilted and quaint. But yes. I'm woo-hooing!

And you've sampled Whitman to your advantage. I love being reminded of such phrases as "blab of the pave"!

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Nicely done! You've taken desperation and massaged it into a poem without attenuating it.

Here's an unfortunate coincidence: the guy who bought the lot next to mine, a lovely patch of grass lined with tall trees, who cut down all of those trees, and is building a grotesque black monstrosity of a house, bears a surname that is very close to Moloch.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Your screech and warbles are anything but unpoetic.

You carry on the tradition of Whitman and Ginsberg, singing from rooftops, but your rants are pain-filled, despairing. Truly "ashcan" is the correct word. In that way you stand apart, are unique; your skill and craftsmanship impeccable.