The Beat Poem (parts one and two)

the world is splitting open at my feet, part six.

The Beat Poem

Part One

I have seen the sun

shed through the basin.

The silence of eyeing out

the beast in the loch, the rising

channels of libido corroding

its carapace. Buzzwords 

describe the chance, the 

probability,

 the random stare.

The telegrams screen your

allurement, the blurring of your

 eyelashes in the subway. Parkway

-drawn, these dove bones tell us

 the night has turned upside

 down. The ache of the

street-call, the enthralling

breath of dusk. 

--- Along time ago your dress

was a pile of coal. Mining with

the capitalistic mantra, we've

danced with it in the ballroom.

Pint's of The Father, materials

of pure omnipotence. You've been 

blessed with this numen, your raw

beauty. 

Comfort the wavelengths,

--- a pity for 

Jesus's face. Your

wooden cross

--- this necklace. 

For years I

have

         wondered

how you could 

wear it

when you play

with my hair.

That concupiscent 

---  stare. A

bib of 

indulgence

in your

"flower child"

--- prayer. 

A masquerade polity, this

one-sided love. Metaphoric

in all of its trials

and tribunal. The 

world today, how lone

it has become. Back in the

sixties we were playing

in Eden, but the towers

have all but fell. Our trees,

they are stumps, our feet

are also but stumps.

Never moving, loss limbs, 

a whimsical promise. But a 

prodigy in its own. This love,

our love, has literal importance.

The face of "religion", smiles

fondly. Amongst the swift undertow

the medallion still glows. Even

if the dreams of freedom have

become blemished

Part Two.

 

Al, has the statue of liberty

fell between its own legs?

The island grows mechanical

limbs, its wings of poultry 

send it to the USSR. 

1. The cold war was a facade, a ode to the control of society over the use of artificial fear

2. The cold war was not a facade, the warheads are coming down to bring us peace. 

Al, I was there in Geneva. 

when the tension was alone.

The red-telephone, line cut, 

dile tone constant. Al, I was

there when Ron raised his hand,

and spoke in tongues. The bear

sat hungry, and it was brushed

underneath the rug. I was there,

when everything was made alright.

Author's Note

This poem is dedicated to the "beat poetry" of the 1950's-1960's. Al, is Allen Ginsberg, a personal favorite of mine. I know this is a big piece, any review here is greatly appreicated.

The religious imagery in this poem is ment to explore the mindset back in the sixties. It is out of my style, but I felt like it was needed.

Reviews

[That_Guy]

Truly awesome Cole. Beautiful.

[Dayran]

A sweeping and ambitious embrace of many many facts to put in one pot the meaning of that for which we are born at this time in the world. Its a relevant question in the mind of a young eros who has a reasonable expectation that something in the way of the positive and loving is surely the least a person ought to expect in the experience of being born.

Our bodies are no doubt the product of the qualities that is in our minds. Nature deigns to give a body to such qualities as a matter of reward and for the further development of such qualities in the world. Hence the work that we apply ourselves to.

[_]

Even if its out of your style you style you still make it wonderful to read. Awesome job as always. You deserve it. Woot woot. :)

[That_Girl]

"Comfort the wavelengths,

--- a pity for

Jesus's face. Your

wooden cross

--- this necklace.

For years I

have

wondered

how you could

wear it

when you play

with my hair.

That concupiscent

--- stare. A

bib of

indulgence

in your

"flower child"

--- prayer." My favorite part. I don't even know what to say to you anymore, Cole. You never disappoint.. amazing work yet again!

[Kelsey]

You make it hard to believe this is "out of your style" with how beautifully written this piece is.