Posts Tagged ‘ginsberg’


Hey Ginsberg
Imagine if you came to Perth Poetry Club
Would you eye the pretty boys?
Would you hit on SPM?
Give one of your prophetic gnostic readings
Play your harmonium for us and do Father Death and the Ballad of the Skeletons
Have a joint with the boys out the back of the Salvation Army building?
Great teacher, Boddhisatva, beat progenitor
Sometimes I think of you hanging out with Kerouac, Burroughs and Cassady
Digging sky-flecked psychosexual kicks
Drinking red wine and pretending to be a bum
When the world seemed like a wild trip of jazz-flavoured psychedelia
And you made it beautiful




Atavistic, anachronistic, ararchistic
Under infinite blue skies
But maggots crawl
And I have itchy balls
So it’s hard to get enthusiastic
About the endless days of smoky haze
Puff, puff, puff
Clouds like cotton streaking the sky
I’m feeling high
My brain is tie-dyed
Can’t seem to arrange my shit
Even a little bit
Mental malfunction
Broken gears
Stuffed sprockets
I’ve got the fear
Ginsberg heard Blake read
Saw soaring towers over profound vistas
Hallucinatory sunlight
Irradiating poppy fields
But wait there’s more
Crystal lakes
Subtle ambience
Heavenly angels disguised as heavenly angels
Bodily metamorphosis into a being of light
Stars blend and merge into fractal metapatterns
Gentle breeze
Feeling at ease


Sometimes it has to be this way
In animal hours of tedium
Metal silence almost overwhelming
Speak of beauty, wonderful woman
Green moistened rainforests
Golden beaches with azure rolling waves and lines of white foam on the shore
Little furry creatures- loyal, affectionate and cuddly
Succulent sunsets over the bush
Soaring red gorges of the Pilbara
Without beauty we are nothing

Speak of sacred things, my love
The moment after the tenth beer
The moment after the third cone
Silken whispers between the sheets
First kisses in sun-blessed decadent afternoons
Porcelain blow-jobs from heavenly angels
A woman’s hand on my body
Beers with Bukowski
Bongs with Ginsberg
Smack with Kurt Cobain
Speed with Philip K Dick
Acid with Hunter S Thompson at 12 midnight on the dot
Is this the essence of a good life?
Maybe a fantasy life.

Oh take me away to a foreign land
Where nobody knows my name
Where nobody knows my shame
A new beginning
A blank page
And I will live my poetry all over the page

Running to holy joy with my ears pinned back and hurricane love in my heart
Joy of kicks against the vicious anal darkness
Joy of tweaking the nose of the federal conspiracy of cabalistic capitalism
Joy of dacking Tony Abbot and laughing at his microscopic penis
Joy of reverberating with hilarious companions and feeling love-struck and passionate blessed awe
Joy if being overwhelmed with enthusiasm for all fruits of fertile earth,full of budding glory
The air is holy, space and time are holy, the chora of coincidence is double-choc holy
Every tree and creature is a Bible portraying a loving Buddha-God incarnate
O sacred Ginsberg
Great bearded bodhisattva who berates the military mind-fuck conspiracy
Calling them out on their death-lust and murderous urgings from ultra-zen East Village New York side-walks
Dancing down the technicolour road with harmonium and humour
Spinning words like yo-yos with Whitmanesque wonder and universal compassion
I hear your voice great sage and prophet-poet who blasts the bomb by saying Om
And calls forth forgotten America with lascivious dactylic lines of passionate poesy
I hear your voice master teacher, gentle prophet and blessed fool for love in all your sacred inscriptions
You beat down the CIA with hobo love and succulent sound-bites
You pumped out magic texts against the rapist mind of Moloch
You took off your clothes to say that America had your entire soul revealed for health and healing
You ignited the children of flowers with Buddhist Jedi mind gimmicks and dancing sunshine Manhattan madness
As you heard Blake I long to hear your stratagems, stoned and impeccable with my beard well stroked by books and day-dreams

pirate sky
What am I waiting for? Where am I going? The build-up of detritus constricts like a giant python. It’s all too much. I feel besieged from every side and I begin to choke on fluff and nonsense, to go cotton wool blind.
Infinity’s five dimensions of nowhere, a subtle oscillation at the base of the spine, coming in up through the chakras and out through the middle eye, giving me visions of mountains full of icicles of glass, where at any moment I might be cut to ribbons of suppurating flesh.
Omega at the corner of each instant of knowing, brown paper packages tied up with yearning: I walk beside the river Azgard, I play the pipes of pan and the critters of the forest dance a merry jig. I talk to the critters and the critters talk to me.
There are purple azaleas to light up my day till it burns with heavenly fire, precious to me for the moment. I number each one and record it in a little black ledger, a number beside the name of every girl I’ve ever known.
For I am formed of better stuff I like to say to myself, Mine is the time, but then you hit forty and the hours no longer stretch to infinity and time no longer waits for you, it is elusive and gone like a memory, faded like an old photograph, misty and translucent.
No longer am I a kid, as in ‘the kids are alright’ or the ‘kids just got crazy drunk and created a ruckus’. My time has gone and all I can do is try to look like I’m still funky, that I’m the man, That I own an extensive collection of Hawaiian shirts.
No longer do I shoot myself full of heroin and wonder at the total and utter relief of all the random pain of existence, the days are no longer fuzzy pillows of satiation, moments of nodding off in the corner and moments of dancing.
Onwards, upwards until my insides almost burst, until my eyeballs pop out of my skull, roaring random obscenities in memory of a secret name, I am the bees upon the trees, watching, growing and buzzing through the cosmos at warp speed.
A new day is dawning, the psychedelic sunrise is a kaleidoscope of colourful laser rays- We can all jitterbug madly together around the fire and howl our love forever to a thousand women we’ve never met.
A gathering of love in a forest, the leaves of the trees speckled by the sun and salted by The Spirit, people dancing in the rain, people making love and growing their hair for the hell of it into ever more interesting permutations, people in love with just being as one.
What bliss to join with brothers and sisters in communion, aching together for social justice and breaking home-baked bread together, to feel at home and nurtured like a baby inside her mother- free at last, Praise the Lord! I’m free at last!