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gone to the meaningless cyber-kinetic static
gone to sex by proxy and virtual unreality
gone as Harpo's feet in the serious lemonade.
Gone as the Sorcerer King Hobo
eating cold beans in the ruins of innocence.
Gone all the days
the halcyon daze days
the far side of the ocean days
Gone as the ghosts of Lenny Bruce and Allen Ginsberg
breathing heroin air
in a rehabbed loft
on the lower east side of Heaven
Gone the days of ports and storms
Gone the nights of desperate need
Standing guard by the light of a candle
rummaging through the shadows
searching for a half eaten miracle.
Gone the seasons of hungry young love
dancing naked in the moonlights insatiable glow
with hashish kisses
lingering under the skylight
Gone the pirate raids
on the ghost ships of conformity
with grappling hook questions
with daggers of outrage
with shotguns of revenge
reclaiming our voices
which had been stolen by
highly placed psychopaths
hiding in their suits
Gone as Old World charm gone as the Old World
eaten alive by the deranged harbingers of terror
People chased behind their eyes
Ears closed by plugs
Hearts afraid to open
Gone where I came from
Gone but not forgotten
Gone on the run
Gone on permanent sabatical
Gone where poets go
The Junkie Caveman Blues
Monster sleep while drugs not run out
Dugs run out, Monster wakes,
Scared Monster heedless as stampeding Mastodons.
monster need drugs.
Monster must have
Or Monster not sleep
if man not grow out of young fears
man not become man,
but boy in grown up clothes
Big empty bag of need.
He is going insane, as usual. His imaginary girlfriend,AMANDA is in the kitchen making some Jack Daniels and soda for breakfast.
AMANDA is everything he can imagine.
how's the script going?
i don't want to talk about it. i have no mind left.
drink your drink. your mind's just different.
different from what?
from a normal person.
i don't know any normal people. but i have a friend
named Normal. He's a poet.
Well, there you go. Normal people don't get you. In
fact, they can't even see you.
So now i'm invisible.
Only to normal people, because they're unconscious. They
don't notice anything or anyone. don't take it personally.
Must be why all my friends have been artists. Or thought like one.
Amanda, being the perfect imaginary girlfriend insists that they have wild monkey sex.
The people all out, not being out.
Going places and not being there.
I don't understand it.
If you are unconscious
then I am invisible to you.
And I hate us both for it.,
but only for as long as it takes
to think it.
Fuck thought anyway.
Gives me a headache.
Everbody running running running
always running like its a
duel to the death session
of Beat the Clock.
Running where? Running why?
From what to what,
away from or towards.
Is it a who or a them?
Maybe it's you.
Is it me?
Running looking, always looking.
Give me serendipity and a tequilla sunset.
Give me moon madness on a ship at sea
Give me a joy that has no opposite
Please Give Me A Fucking Break
I am empty and need everything
I can't find it by looking for it
It either happens, or does not
I am either a beggar for love
or I am love itself.
Or maybe i'm nothing.
I am always being nothing and
everything and nothing.
All at the same time.
Whether I know it or not.
I am alien in the marlbled hallways of the rich.
I am alien to you in your bubble.
Alien always to your system.
The universal injustice system.
Where reptiles in thousand dollar suits
play with war as if there were no
death, no blood, no loss.
Anything to keep us running
where there is no getting away
anything it takes
to keep us going out without
keep us going places
and not being there
Money Money No Money No
Money money no money money no
Money money no money money no;
can't buy me love
can't get me out of town
I accept it the way I would accept a looming typhoon
Everybody out of the dating pool!
It's the broke guy.
97% of the women vanish
The other 3 ignore me.
I may have no coin in this realm
My charming emanations worthless
in your world of things
But I didn't get into this whole
poetry writing story telling thing
for the money.
That'd just be crazy
Sure, I hear the echo of wolf-steps
in the background any time
If I listen too much my priorities get discombobulated.
Distracted from the much more important business
of my creative and spiritual works in progress.
That and a million dollars would make me virtually
int. apartment-early morning
He is smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. These are his last two addictions and he is unrepentent about them. He has rethought his career change, from writer to jewel thief and figured that because he's the one that always gets caught it'd be a bad move.
He would rather be an actor anyway. If only for the socialability of it. He has spent decades of his life alone in rooms writing. This reduces to moments of pure bliss, when the writing gods are smiling and/or an isolative madness with solitary confinement.
The world is still sleeping. Soon they
will begin to stir, their lives ready to
step into. The morning rituals; the love
made or lost, endearments or arguements.
Then off they go to trade their time for the
almighty dollar. As for me, I'm taking a
break until I find a happier life to step into.
Probably sometime between the sunrise and a free mindless moment.
Becalmed, bedeviled, be bop
be cool, be hot, get a tune up at the shop
give me drugs and give me money
give me sex and ports a sunny
knockouts, knockdowns,may-lays, dark ways
shanghais, blue eyes, red skies,strange days
Broken hearts, false starts, shipwrecks
bad checks, epic treks, stacked decks
Betrayed, underplayed, way-laid gone astray
lost and found and lost my way
and said and said again
what there is I have to say
Aoelius, God of the Wind
I need your breath once more at my back
I have been blessed and I have sinned
I have been strong but I can still crack
The currents vie for their power to engage
20 fathoms deep behind my eyes
The arctic caldera of smoldering rage
The tropical heat of loves sweet sighs
He is waiting to board, talking on the phone to his agent.
It's all done. All you have to do is sign.
What's the final figure?
One point 5 gazzilion.
What's my net after everybody gets their cut?
Plus a plane ticket.
One way to St. Barts. You can pick it
up at my office when you sign the contract.
Okay.By the way, you're fired.
He is drinking a huge frozen Daquirii and smoking a cigarette. An expensive blond
slinks into the empty chaise next to him.
Business or pleasure?
Is that a question or an offer?
Just making conversation.
A little bit of both.
What he doesn't say is that he's decieded to give up writing and realize his childhood ambition of becoming a jewel thief.
He is not well. He is not necessarily ill, but he's getting there. He has had the 24 hour flu for 5 days and he has been living on chocolate and chicken soup It is so cold outside that he is thinking about writing a story about an island in the south pacific.
He is sitting at this kitchen table talking on the phone to his agent. He does not hate his agent, but he's getting there.
They want you do rewrite the first 30 pages again.
Tell them I'd rather have brain surgery.
They're not going to be happy.
Then tell them to have brain surgery. Tell them
that if I even look at those pages again my head
is going to explode. Then nobody makes any
money. Besides, they wouldn't know what a
creative thought was if it ate them.
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