To the Dead

This is a poem that i wrote a few years back, it may be terrible but it holds a special place inside me that i like to remember.

I sit in the twilight of the tar of my heart, reading Howl and feeling Ginsburg. My heart revolts, begins to beat harder than a 1950's husband. This revolution takes my mind in harsh strains- I begin to believe i am the reincarnation of Ginsburg, wanting hat one cannot have, writing beauty and filth together as one. Kerouac is my first and distant muse making my body burst like a star and turn black and rotten like a tumor. I create public statements and promotions that only my suffering will truly comprehend. It emphasizes that everybody expects to understand beforehand and nowhere in-between. Coffee stains my hands and cigarette smoke slides down my throat warm and gentile. I feel the black tar of my heart explode in glorious bright . My personality disintegrates and is replaced by something despicable

Love

My yearning is what people only see in others and never themselves. The mystery of the hanging gardens of Babylon can only explain the yearning that my existence has created.

I lay back and close my eyes. I see all of time flickering behind my eyelids, colours twist a hallucinatory normality inside them. Negros twist machines then ravage their lovers, climaxing at once around the world.

Cigarette butts poke out of half eaten mashed potatoes, bones licked clean as bleached teeth dipped in lye. The ground vibrates and crashes, a giant gold skyscraper is birthed from the ground, the sun shines on the newborn building and blinds the people below. They sit above stuffing their faces and rubbing their earnings on children and animals. They take the world and s**t it back out again expecting something new, disregarding variables and doves. Harpies swarm the general public tearing their skin from their bodies - these beasts are the seed of the new rulers that will kiss the moon. Dogs wrap themselves in curtains to discipline themselves for their absent owners have morphed into a spiritual state. A state of golden tears. We fluctuate from city to city tasting the life that has been left behind by previous dwellers. We forsake the history of the world in search for a new ideal that will then again be taken from city to city but tasted no more. It is expected of us to have o non-acceptance, but in this catastrophic future we will hate everything equally.

Silver pants cling to her thighs like some form of exoskin, her aura engulfs me as i enter the room. Her red eyes touch all that i am and kill me inside. She struts towards my shaking body and i can feel my pores gape with the anticipation of ages. The want grows as she zones in on me, my body is a mess but it does not show; i look beautiful. She is about to speak the child's truth when she turns and deserts me. I crumble and break, the floor falls through and i go with it. My destruction follows the golden skyscraper.

I am the rejuvenation, Destroyer, Father, Killer, Lord, Waster, Abuser, Follower, King.... King, King King, King King, King, King, King, King, King, King, King, King.... King of...

Nothing.

I wake with a shudder- Ginsburg is dead, Kerouac Dead. I am reborn in my own dark and deceptive glory. The expensive fabric of the universe licks the trees around me. I am nothing but myself and all of my yearning is locked away in a shell- but it will always be there like the idea of Ginsburg and Kerouac, Burroughs and Cave. The crutch of my life stays like the tears of children. I touch the skull and multicoloured sequins of our dead generation, wailing in its infinite routine..

Author's Note

i would really appreciate some feedback on my style of writing so i know how to improve.