Exercises in style (24): à la Allen Ginsberg

Through a telescope zoomed on the weird, lonely American world I saw him standing there at the window looking hungrily at the wild full dynamo of a moon,

who unmoving but mind racing through memories of bunkers foxholes mess halls with reek of burnt sausages M1A1 Carbines whiskey and cigarettes, genitals voltaic for her dark, sweet-smelling cunt, her love thick and smoky as the opium dens of Chinatowns in Chicago L.A. New York,

who heard her howling, howls packed with ecstatic repentance, cracking across the antique furniture of the ancient attic of the oblivious life and rebounding off the rainforest walls reminiscent of Harlem Third Avenue the East River not at all,

who put distracted hands to the walls poetic-envy green with painted yellow midday light prisming from behind and struggled philosophically against betrayal & the heaviest emotions,

who froze for hours in his flannel suit and hat heart cooking gently under his white breast in the attic of possibly Brazilian mysteries waiting for the soul to shift into something less acid and burnsome as her wails continued to walk and dance and the hot white moon shed to waxing gibbous,

who paled as the sky blackened and the jungle vibrated around him, swam passively through botanical delights from Borneo, the Congo, and remote Amazonian locales, was serenaded by exotic drunken animals singing and screeching and shoulders decorated by the piss and gyzym of blinking electric blue insects,

who dreamt he heard her suicidal love-death song through the rainforest’s sweaty rhythms of jazz but it was just the bright Californian moon rising higher in the sky and winking to new in the harlequin insanity of dawn, and the last fantastic flowers preening and the hallucinated room rocketing its love-lost archangel easily through the skull of Time & Space.

~ by kingzoko on January 5, 2015.

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