Weep
An ode to
Allen Ginsberg
Who bared the shame convicted for obesity and gay porn, fighting and crawling looking at
the hollow-eyed judges with their faces creeping and scratching their nails
looking in a constant stare with mashed potatoed brains trying to
lock up innocent creatures and feelings
Shigeyoshi Murao crazy & publishing obscene books and notes, poems full of sexual
practices, drug loving chains of filthiness and waking nightmares, and fighting,
fighting like Moloch, Moloch the iron fist of words and screams of guilty innocence,
Who escaped from prison who is the heavy judger of men
With his eyes red and swollen filled with pleasant
inside heat of bonfire and shivering coldness ,
Ferlingetty who is a city light at dawn in the streets of San Francisco,
Buried under bookshelves and the weight of conscious mind seeking for Jazz or
coffee with drowned sugar and spices and heroes of past lives with sadness puppyeyed looks
Seeing souls leaving their body's trough electroshocks
Carl Solomon, a patient in a mental institution,
a good friend of Ginsberg who reminded him of his schizophrenic mother
not recognizing its own dear flesh and torn apart by total madness,
Another numerous group of friends and heroes and people,
experiences of love, drugs, sex, craziness,
fiery gods of brutal starvation and endless sweating and nightmares
and inspiring but doubting him deeply and shrieked with delight,
Who are sick roses with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Oedipus tragedies with
their peyote-induced brains and sat on top of mountain like buildings gazing over the
neon light stores who sell them dreams of hopelessness and lucky feeling
Who are the heroes of Denver gazing over young and innocent womanlike creatures,
Insatiate, exotic and ecstatic copulation in stolen cars on the hills of unknown roads of filthy
sex and pretend loved relationships with humans and machines,
Who are Canadian and wandering on roads as featherless birds rubbing their bellies as if they were
losing their minds in a feverish Moriarty dream of paper mountains , silver bullets and
burning, burning, burning memories of heartless lonesome travelers,
who slept under bridges dreaming of Brando and screaming of sexual lust under the red lights of the
insensitive society that hits them with sticks and rocks and words of unknown
cruelty and extinguish their cigarettes in eyeballs
who are Tangier of Jewish or don't even exist and listen to the radio spreading the disease ,
uninterested victims will be removed from here and sweat like animals in
oceanic cities of destruction, town of the mad and home of sick minded.
I'm with you in Harlem
and I'm madder than your thoughts
I'm with you in Harlem
where we will burn our vainly blood in empty trashcans
I'm with you in Harlem
and the red-eyed dreams of unbearable light of the dark
minded will awake our souls
I'm with you in Harlem
pointed beards of Whitmanic illusions will guide
us to the curse of eternal life
I'm with you in Harlem
where they serve sins on toast and sprinkled with butter
made of the flesh of His Holiness
I'm with you in Harlem
opinions wrote down in grease of muddy landscapes and adoration
drowned in rivers as if they were young kittens
I'm with you in Harlem
where they cut of fingertips and ride on heroic motorcycles speaking
sun flowery emotional speeches of wisdom and caped crusaders
I'm with you in Harlem
I'll hold you as we watch our final breath
burn out and killing the things we love
Footnote to Weep
Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy !
Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Holy !
Holy are the ant-like humans crawling on bridges and streets ! Holy misfits in downtown alleys !
Holy solitude of company !
Holy swamps of unnatural feelings ! Holy pain of independency and dead and suffering !
Holy are the eyes of the trees staring as if they are hypnotized and Holy knifes that cut the wrists of draconic youngsters !
Holy tears of the phoenix in the eye of a vagabond ! Holy red-headed fairies, tripping flesh in broken caves !
Holy trees of life, growing in dark basements of the Upper Manhattan penthouses !
Holy revolution of obscene thoughts and monstrous dreaming of freedom ! Holy Moloch, machinery of distortion !
Holy is the appearance of the eternal sleep !
YOU ARE READING
Weep ( A Ginsberg Tribute)
PoetryI wrote this at the age of 17 as a tribute to Allen Ginsberg's Howl
