Howlin

Fanned by some of the beat mynds of our generation
I stood and burned on Port Albert Road
A rounded hipster, connected to the fiery machinery of light
And heat. The lava ash of poetry ,
insatiate with a can of rtd, a package of cigarettes a candle
burned alive in my innocent polycotton shirt
Like a fabulous yellow roamin candle,
I aint worth Jack
Saying common things, yawning, desirous of nothing.
O, what a panic's in my breastie, what bickering brattle
Burn Motherf***er burn
My wound is owed to Calliope, Ginsberg and Robbie.