by Tammy T. Stone
They were the children of glassy-eyed drunken house lords aging foxes in inner city world loose soiled undershirts hanging on saggy flesh these hidden gods of Ginsberg’s time
Who had sex in the hour of night when they couldn’t count the stars because the smog and drink took away the worst of the paranoia
With beer in their fingers cooling bulging blue sweltering necks cleaning their throats that gurgled and splattered acid words
While their women waddled from kitchens to men bound in spider creations sticky inviting obsessing and making
Mashing potatoes bought from corner stores where spotted young faces smiled and listened to tales of the ailments of aunts
At home the cleaned windows of the misguided insects who never got into the cluttered dens brightened by fading
Their children locked by fatherly spews and mothery tears that whispered coos of I was beautiful once but I’ve done good by you tell me I’ve done good by you give me a kiss
And the boys of Ginsberg’s time gave kisses seeing the madness knowing it crawled to them on their faded bedsheets where dingy lamps dimly lit their papers and pens and roaming hands
Leaving the spoils of their sutra weaving for another generation while they looked back on spirited bottles and shook the pillboxes on their mothers’ bedsides
And left the houses of mothers and fathers to seek their likenesses in other men youthful sexual bodies and benzedrine
Lying still in sunflower beds tiger orange recesses of primal state put into letters to Africa and poems and books that breathed through their beat clawing and saying no
And killing the sex driven love driven fantasies but not before the mad prophesies of the men of Ginsberg’s time came together and spoke again
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