These poets released their hearts on the worldThe ones we knew and lost,
Those punk poets with ADHD and precious fits of anger,
The ones who tore down the murals on Pine Street
The ones who brought their stolen guitars
13 years old, playing music in the streets until dawn
When the police stole them from their sleeping bags
Handcuffing them into the backseat of their prowlers
The order of a blowjob or a night in jail
Those romantic poets whose hearts were young and full of anticipation
The ones not yet broken down by maryjane dreams in
The back seats of adult theatres
The quick cum meals swallowed fast and cheap for food money
The old men with their eyes closed never cared about a name
Those dying poets who were still so very alive and independent
So much more than you and I ever were
Not haunted by false iconic visions of future fatherly duty and the
Idiom of an autocratic family life without questions
Answers answers answers they never wanted and we never knew
Those spoken word poets who sold their souls on the interstate
Spouting their gospels out loud in honkytonks
From Nashville to Memphis
Living in the back seat of a 55 Ford
The Guardians of Race beating them in fits of fear and hate
Those crazed poets who raced down the riverbanks without shoes
Hair flying in the breeze, eyes bulging out of their skulls
Blanked out on crack screaming at the universe about
Eternal damnation and all the
Virgins they’d never live to fuck
Those anaemic Goth poets who couldn’t get out of bed before 6pm
Puking in the hallway, blood surrounding the toilets
Building supervisors looking the other way in disgust but
Knowing they’d pay their rent at the end of the month
When they dropped their jeans
Those interstellar poets who flew to Europe with daddies’ money
The ones who blew it all in a casino without windows
Losing it on broken promises and
A thousand and one forgotten explanations
Those intellectual poets who fell to their knees in philosophical orgasms
Espousing a faith to the almighty Kafka. Trotsky or Camus in
Coffeehouses filled with clove smoke thick as lies
Clueless fools awaiting verbal ejaculations
Still debating just what the fuck they meant
Does it fucking matter at all?
These poets released their hearts on the world
The ones no one knew
Those hipster poets their pockets filled with Hegel
The ones who argued that life is a fucked up poem of its own
“Ecstasy is the natural form of live” tattooed across their foreheads as they killed themselves
In taxis sneaking their poems out of East Berlin in the 1970s
The last stanzas of the Internationale and top secret words,
Words of revolution slipping out of their consciousness.
Those fashionista poets with the berets,
Dizzy and Bird and Mingus, oh bop kabala, oh piano riffs of Monk
Twisting the head around until it falls into the Hudson
Only to be born again in these lines
.
I too want to be born again in these lines. Oh holy oh holy
Oh Mother of Invention and Creationism dead and dying.
Lying in a supermarket aisle with the scars of unfaithful husbands
Cocks swallowed whole in hasty retreats
Notes in pockets of winter coats left behind hastily and forever regretted
Let me cum on your breasts.
Let me fill your vessels in three quarter time.
Frantic frantic these words cannot give me peace that’s not their intent
These are the poets’ cries, the ones no one hears
Bulldozers running 24/7, poetic cities of metal built and rebuilt on the same stones
Stoned poets running in the Bowery,
Running in Harlem,
Running in Seattle and San Francisco bath houses
Running from gin joint to bop united strip joints to gay bars with big screen tvs
Blasting Eurovision and Berlusconis porn for the masses, but I digress
These poets released their hearts on the world
Those shy poets tripping over cobblestones in 60s Stockholm coffeehouses
Out of focus permanently in every night daydreams of a better world
Daydreams daydreams life is but a daydream
Palmes murder ended a countries’ dream but now it’s all life as you want it
If you want it here it is come and get it
Swim from the city to the archipelago drown in the icy water all alone
Your poetic dreams washed up on shores of fascist nations
Those awkward poets hiding in the public library salons built like hospital wards
Leaving notes in Martian, this I’ve seen, that no one can decipher on the large tables while flashing gorgeous legs to the staff
Security guards keeping a vulture close watch on their every curve
Rhymes from ancient poets calling, pushing their insanity further and further
Their poems lost for all time with a jolt of electricity or the push of a needle.
Those poets who burned their blood with ink and notes and bong hits to Mars
Screeching their poems across the Reed College radio wavelengths
To scholastic pulpits with drug infested dirges raining down on their
Consciousness
Until Eric has to scream “No more, No more” across the rooftops of hell
Campus security hoping he takes the leap
His poetry left behind on the stones of campus forever like a scar to the truth.
Those poets who burned their draft cards, chanting allegiance to Ho Chi Minh
Who refused to follow the dictates of the ruling class,
Sprawling their refusals across the urinals of the world
Taking the sacramental piss on the military and thus winning
The hearts and minds of the universal soldiers of peace
Those poets who set themselves on fire feeding the flames of the suicide contagion
Dying young and holy on the streets of Tibet, on the streets of Tunisia,
The Werther effect burned forever into the minds of rebels and sacrificial lambs as the only answer, orange robes in red flames
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