J Bov Explodes Rhetorically

Found Some Lost Pages (Poetry)
21/04/2009, 4:58 AM
Filed under: Arty-Type Stuff, People, Philosophical Bollocks, Writing

Found four sheets of paper under my bed from a while ago when I attempted a spot of poetry. Beat poetry, I suppose. I haven’t tried reciting it over jazz yet but whatever. Still, here it is. Speaks for itself really.

Today, read Ginsberg over a cigarette,
looking for truth and beauty – false legacy of the beat generation.
Visions of grand happiness – deluded by alcoholic, manic-depressive Dharma bums
on the road.
Found a tired old man, sad, missing his mother,
missing his friends,
missing his country.
Confused, indecisive basketcase communist
How I love him.

Sad, read Kaddish (Paris Dec. ’57 – NY ’59)
on verge of tears,
unsmoked stub lay forgotten
on dark slabs outside 11
the Bowie house.
No magic or majesty lost.

Beat poetry –
Beatnik –
Beat Generation –
No ecstacy here, nothing grand.
Sad men and women missing themselves,
looking for happiness not forthcoming.
Angry at the world – disappointed optimists, all.

Perhaps they didn’t realise –
Perhaps they didn’t want to realise
that nothing grand is truth and beauty?
Perhaps it broke them –
mad, gibbering in dark rooms and the endless universe, most,
the rest dead, ungrateful.

Broken by Allen’s sadness
to see the joy anew.
It’s nice to know the universe wastes nothing.
I am point something percent the atoms of him,
as I am of Hitler, of Ghandi, of my ancestors.

Every seven years, every cell in the body is replaced,
I have only been three different people so far.

Explore with pen.
Ink safari, ye faithless.
In jungles of us, you, me,
Savana of humanity, bare on barren page. Who are we?

Those who scorn with pain filled eyes.
Those who, cynical still, encourage.
Those who see and who don’t –
Those who speak and who don’t –
Those who rise and who fall to rise once more.

Those who quit and who fail.
Who are we?

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