(History and Purpose: The following is a modern poet, channeling the eternal consciousness of the Beat generation’s whipping boy, Allen Ginsberg. His long form poem Howl was the celebration of the community responsible for the revolutionary development of raw, vulgar, and vulnerable honesty replaced by modern, superficial, consumerist based art.

The following is seeking to rectify the cultural crime instituted by the yuppies of the 1980's and perpetuated by the millennial generation currently gestating in public schools where the funding for art is misappropriated and spent on glamorizing the brutish objectification of minors by their parents and communities, suppressing and supplanting the innate need of creative self exploration with military simulations which promote conformity and identification with the group through the maintenance of the status quo.

Howl is a calling out in the night by a noble animal with a certain vulgar beauty, crying out for anyone to hear and feel the raw expression of deep love and appreciation for his community of dreamers. The, “... angel headed hipsters,” of lore.

This poem is Growl. This is a confrontational and disruptive call to conscience not by a beautiful animal expressing loss, but a mangy scavenger, digging in the cultural dumpster for scraps of a junkie’s detached wisdom and the alcoholic’s self indulgent tears. Sparing for leftovers and looking for a fix.

Please enjoy.)

Growl

i take pride in the dissonance,
insolence and malfeasance.
distance prevents the chroma stoma,
make your own voice, protrude insignificance.
eat the pain and stake a claim, make things that don’t matter
matter.
its all matter, and it goes away.
capture what you can in cells, embryonic or otherwise.
do what needs to be done for the cause.
that which immortalizes the race horse,
that which is sacrificed after a few runs,
those who burnt out instead of faded away,
nurses who breast feed man-children with powdered milk nipples.
geniuses institutionalized and castrated before their time.

and so we praise the insane,
those who had the foresight to run away,
those who had the sanity to refuse to pay,
those who meant something to those who were witness,
those who bore the brunt, smeared in shit, captured and afraid,
those who meant more than those who were sacrificed.
how soon we forget.
and so we move on to the next winner of the lottery and smile with audacity.
the gods of the harvest will not be denied fulfilled bloodlust.

the capacity with which the plague plays its hand is called the house,
you will not compete.
hushed notes on cocktail sweat drive the force,
the salt makes ink hard to stain, yet the sentiment remains.

there’s no one left for me to diagram, nobody for accusation.
i indict the neglect of the Self.
alone on a bar stool with thoughts abundant.
fools play along motivated by drunk desperation,
we try, we strive to understand common ground and it never works out.
last call.
sunrise.

theres more to it than contrived complexity.
bemused fabricated convolution makes for an interesting conversation.
where does it all begin?
where does it end?
stupid people claim god.
the rest don’t have a clue.
those in the middle have wild accusations, ranging from god to you.
where is the answer?
its with the lunatics, those on the fringe,
sparing for the change of the intellect...
the leftovers of dead culture,
the leftovers of those who didn’t last.
the cons, the cult leaders, the wackos, the visionaries, the freaks, the addicts, the conspiracy theorists, the lunatics, the snake oil vendors, the followers of Enoch, the followers of OSHO, the followers of Gurdjieff, the followers of the Almighty Dollar, the followers of campaign, the followers of the zeitgeist, the followers of the status quo, the followers of New York fashion week, the followers of everything retro, the followers of each other.

what is to come will never happen again.
what is to come is nothing significant.
what is to come means nothing to future generations.
what is to come will never end.

theres gotta be some kind of light,
some tunnel that has an output.
something.
someone who can take the shit and produce gold.
Alchemical coprophagia,
the philosopher’s stone is a flatulent ode to shit porn,
born out of poverty and decadence,
we dance and mambo for our desires.
projections of fantastical denial,
some kind of make believe.

the famed failures who captured the imagination of a generation,
savages, bastards, and whores. the traumatized societal discharge.
they make us who we are, they help us retire into fear based ideology,
they make us forget who we strive to be, they help us stop the progress we
seek.

sacrifice over surrender,
slain before shame.
success is relative,
relatives placate and make failure feel better,
don’t you feel better?
placated and hollow.

surrender to your mind.
let your environment dictate prophecy.
let your doubt be your guiding light.
let your shame interject, and provide example.
let your past provide example
let your speech provide example
let your life provide example.
let your example retain its flaws and weaknesses.

do what Leary said and surrender to your mind,
do what Leary said and let your perception go blind.
do what Leary said and be silent, letting the majority slip through the cracks.
do what Leary said and tune out, ignoring the pleas of the innocent.
do what Leary said and turn off, pretending your life isn’t as fucked up as we all know it is.
do what Leary said and deny your animalistic nature.

Surrender to the fast food religious experience!
Surrender to false transcendence!
Surrender to psychedelic ignorance!

i wish i knew what you people think,
your vested consumerist religion.
i wish i could identify with your public personae.
i wish i could let go of logic to understand your disability.
i want to be as backward
as simple
as traditional
as real
as honest
as basic
as human as you are.
i want to be human.
i want to be like you,
like all of you.
i want to feel feelings, I’m tired of being cold.
i’m sick of the voices.
i’m sick of the pornography.
i’m tired of pushing them away.
i don’t understand who i am.
i’m back to not recognizing my reflected image.
i want what ill never have.
i don’t want what i could very much have.
i lie to myself.
i tell the truth only about the mundane.

distraction is an orgasm,
focus is a hassle.

i play with words like i fondle my cock,
i make myself sick,
fondly, and often.
a method to pacify psychosexual impulses of violence,
i am accountable for nothing tangible.
temper tantrums have evolved into sexual fantasy,
tattooed and disturbed,
bamboozled and frazzled.
damaged femininity with a crooked smile.
show me a victim,
ill show you a vixen.
beauty beyond objectification.
the libido suppressed is a lobotomy.

flashbacks provide a catalyst for communicating with the dead,
i provide the candle, the book, the bell.
the altar.
i am a eunuch self imposed.
castration is bliss.
penis envy exaggerated.
petty judgement,
self serving drama queens looking for six feet under lust.
some scum of the earth type,
some cum in a tube sock mommas boy.
some dumb bastard with too much pride to surrender.
some numb weirdo trying to feel,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.

except it has to mean something,
something to a nobody.
someone who knows what it means to mean nothing to everyone.
it has to matter.
we all have to matter to one another outside of services rendered.
do not silence this distress beacon.
this cannot be a solitary solipsism platform,
serendipity dismissed because of innate sentimentality,
coincidence be damned,
facilitate conscious ties that bind.