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VOWEL (after Allen Ginsberg’s HOWL)

Date Written: October 7, 2017
Categories:
 

 

 

            I saw the best poets of a lifetime

cruelly crushed

in one vast envelope of rejection.

 

            There was Matthew,

who could spit out poems;

spit them out as if

nobody could stop him chanting;

and there was Mark,

who developed a new mode

of global punk literature

without even sharpening his pencil;

then there was Luke,

who, through readimg

the entire history of poetry

in one brief evening,

inculcated a brand new

Joycean mode of thinking;

and, of course, there was John,

who, after an afternoon nap,

            reconstituted Xanadu

            Into an ever-expanding literary picture.

 

            I saw all the real poets destroyed;

saw them send verse away

just to be turned away themselves,

saw them try and try again

to prove the romance wasn't over;

saw them try, only to see

their creative synergies killed

And left on dusty doormats

over and over again.

 

By God! they were real apostles;

more real than any poet

before or since-

they were geniuses, I tell you,

geniuses who never knew quite how

nepotistic and infantile the literati had become;

ingenious living, breathing men,

who, with vision in their veins

and futurescapes for minds,

could only fall foul

of the pop-art editors;

the scum-n-sucre madmen

who, born out of sobriety,

are testimony

to a dark and artless world;

testimony to the post-Dylan, post-wonder, post-creative

superstate.

 

            They were our futures, I tell you;

our one and only optimistic legacy;

the men who, if only discovered,

would have spun the world

into an ever-rolling renaissance;

apostles of a greater God

than ever graced existence;

apostles with guts, spunk, stamina,

grace, wisdom, even noble blood;

men born to take the earth

and meld it with the heavens

through the use of words

and the use of words alone;

men who, because they were bards,

could only face destruction

at the hands of life's monsters;

those monsters, with lifeless, endlessly prosaic verses,

who had possessed and beaten the poet's cause

into nothing but a self-possessed waste of ink and paper.

           

            I knew them, damn it,

            I knew the true followers of the written word;

knew Matthew, Mark, Luke and John;

knew the spirit beings within;

Knew the kiss, the kin, the kith

of the first resurrection of Poesy

from the base metals of the heart.

 

I saw them all destroyed.

            I saw them all rejected.

I saw my own love for living

being crushed into an upturned box

and left to rot away.

 

I saw all of them die.

I saw all of them fade away.

 

I saw the best poets of a generation

driven into the sea.

 

*

           

           

            *

 

One comment on “VOWEL (after Allen Ginsberg’s HOWL)”

  1. sunburned     October 7, 2017

    Good scenarios

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