AND HERE I SIT
Reading 'Planet News', by Allen Ginsberg. Why?
Those poems from 1961-1967 can slay me. Why?
How syntax-garbled infestation gay man importation
makes Amerika festive flag flutter yes! But no. What
is all this, and why? 'Who Will Take Over the
Universe?' he asks. 'The Revolution in America
already begun....ignore the government and send
your protest to...in my room the sick junky shivers
on the 7th day, Tearful, reborn to the Winter. Che
Guevara has a big cock.' Well fuck me sideways then,
and I could go on. But why should I flatter myself and
read this stuff anew. For my? For you? No, no. My
own fearful, token assault on your premised revival,
whatever this land is now claiming to be, is not enough
to hold attention, or - anyway - not enough for me.
Fuck your monstrous skyscraper monolith dinosaur
bastards Amerika! Screw your mathematics-lumber
distortions, your yellow-ivoried fathers' and mothers'
contortions in all that sexual televised swimming and
the rotating notions of parish and priest. Fuck your
membrane, Amerika! And yourself alone, first and
foremost, I hold onto no other - garbage heap pestilence
supermarket cowboy national android drone faced
Knickerbocker half black man concentrated
pellet of off-traffic speedball ball dynamo
madman frenzy!
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