My Critique of the Beat Generation (Poem)


Transforming fragility

The center of





Bewildered by mistaken


Broken in the backseat

While neon television sets

And an endless assortment of


Take shotgun

Leather straps

Tied to the padded

Coffin cushion

And they call me

Prancing through the woods

In the dead hours of the morning

Naked laughter

Endless euphoria

They call me mad

Brandished by green caress

A child of god

Serving a lone soldier

This battle will surely be my last

Against marching, marching, marching

Drones, prioritizing

Without soul


Stripped clean

A big business shopping center

Passing along the tab

Until quack dilly oso

And it’s all over

Until then

I’m getting arrested

Inside Abercrombie

With sagging asshole

And flailing genitals

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