Saturday, April 22, 2006

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.

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3 Comments:

Blogger blueorchid said...

Burn baby burn...but not so literally...you've caught the essence of a tor ched nite...

Wednesday, May 10, 2006 3:16:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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Thursday, May 18, 2006 1:30:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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Friday, May 19, 2006 1:19:00 PM  

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