COCK SUCKERS - Inspired by Howl by Allen Ginsberg.

COCK SUCKERS - Inspired by Howl by Allen Ginsberg

By

Robert P. Quilt

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I saw the best, something, of my fuck, if I know, destroyed by something; maybe an atom bomb, or maybe not.

Those madness, wanderings the streets, looking for something, a quick angry fix, through those foggy eyes, bearing the witness to Heaven, seemingly with a cheap disease, something society gave them, expelled from society, for publishing obscene prose, to those prostitutes they slept with two or three nights, in cheap shitty hotels on the streets, broken dreams.

Awoke, drinking alcohol, trying to fall asleep, cheap itchy sheets, trying to pierce their skin, but they do not care, trying to kill whatever brain cells still live inside their brains, those memories, running high on the subways, 3 am, shuddering their in the coldness of the car.

All night, they sit, lie, there under an oak tree, trying to figure out the star, scarred sky, to realize that the fuckers up there, in those ivory towers, should be dragged into the street, kicking and screaming, to be torched, burned, fuck em all, kill em all.

Trying to remember, a better time, St. John, standing there, spear, his cock and balls, in his hands, madness glee, fingering some cheap whore, 25 bucks, all the wine she can drink, jazz plays, somewhere, outside the window; 45 dollars a night, made through some cheap job at some cheap store, fuck this life, fuck this life, screaming in the night.

They burn cigarettes into their arms; cops are called, whales drift, like fairies in the streets; Carl is there, wondering, seeing, John is dying, but pretends he's not, he smiles, as we talk about the liquor on the table, the loves who have sucked our cocks; 1973.

Naked angels drift around; trying to remember, who they were, or if they were anything anyways, to loom, to groom, to room, to find themselves in a blighted scene, ripped mother earth, her cunt destroyed by some Corporate Cock, ripped, torn, naked, bleeding,  The Anaconda, that company, now gone, only a memory talked about by old men, the unions, Copper dreams, the people, their shoes full of blood.

Suicide was not an option, but, the bills were now due, the retirement were not doing it, we took another drink, the band played on, trying to fill the room; 6th floor of the Orange Crate, some shit hotel in some shit town, the last place he knew, his sister had died here, overdosed, his father had cut his wrist here, his mother ran away from here.

Here he was, jazz, the rusty toilet, his legs quivering on some broken chair, the rope around the beam, to his neck, he had a vision, Denver,  Heroes, praying for each other, the soul illuminated by the mind, impossible golden haired children, singing songs to booze in Mexico, fucking in Butte, Montana, dreaming of America, that America we knew, not this hung jury; working at some shit Walmart in Corydon, Indiana, living, for what?

$10 an hour; all the dog meat you can eat, if you can catch the dog out behind the dumpster.

The moon is bright.

The books are burned; the doors are locked at 3 am, all the rooms come with some kind of imaginary closet.

The chair slips; falls to the floor, outside, on that street; cold dark, the new folks, the new hope, wander through them, looking for an angry fit, to feel, to see, that new feeling, to hear, to sing out, Rage, Rage, Fuck you, they cry out, like mad men.

Their hearts beat out in direct jazz, naked in the beat, Rama Rama, Dama Dama, Dani is lying there; her eyes pulled into her skull, bashed in, by that system, that ugliness, she is dying but still alive, breathing, barely, the needle still in her arm, Moloc, Moloc, Murderer, Moloc? Who knew, Moloch? 

The factories ground out the masses, killed those dreams, specters of cock sucking, fucks, fuck, where am I, where is my wine, made from those grapes straight from the vines?

Where is my dream?

Dead.

Dying.

Demonic industries, pulling up the broken, throwing them into the flames, lifting the cities into the sky, omens, hallucinations, down, drowning, trying to bullshit the bullshitters.

I am not waving, I am drowning.

I could be waving.

The waves dump on my head, carrying me down the river, flowing, to that place, a memory. 

You accuse me of being insane; but in reality, it is YOU who are insane, running a sham, a scam, a ruse, Dear world, you cock suckers, go fuck yourself with those atom bombs; GOOD NIGHT!!