Angelheaded Hipsters

by March 17, 2012 0 comments

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz” – Allen Ginsberg (excerpt from “HOWL”)

I see the maddest minds of my generation consumed by sadness. Hopes gone. Dreams destroyed by endless dished-out disappointments. Beaten down by daily grinds. Chewed up and spit out. Pathetic pulp. Finding no solace in empty bottles of booze. Finding no peace in the ashes of burned out bowls. Finding no holy in the crossroads of the thighs. Finding empty in their never ending fight to find something in xerox’d chapbooks & grainy films & endless blogs & x-rated midnight scream dreams & face fucks in seedy bar bathrooms & seeking answers to questions no one’s ever heard muttered in the first place & in the spaces between the lines that dash the back roads that they ride. I see.

It starts in the eyes. The look that goes right thru you. They are dwelling somewhere else. In lonely rooms in shanty houses and flopped on couches scratchin’ at some itchin’ they never can reach. Abused by the muses, these mad ones escape in bottles of booze chased by pills or filled with weed, their crazed eyes greened by Mary’s fumes. I’ve seen the madness take root. I understand their howls. I’ve seen their slack jaws hang wide with words and worms crawling and falling and eating out their insides. Too much all at once. The walls fall, not enough. Hungry and wanting. More life, more highs, more lows, more tears, more fears, more fucking mores! Sharp minds, dulled senses. Lost ones. Bloodshot eyes, twisted mouths, gone ones. Dancing feet, shuffling streets, mad ones. Never enough, there’s no such word, beat ones.

I have no feelings one way or the other. I hold no judgement. For you see, I am an accomplice and I too am being consumed by this collective madness.

I am with you…
…on endless quests to find rock bottom
…whetting the dreams that wake you screaming whispers of regret
…in the pools of blue eyed bimbo’d bitches pitching fits and saying your poetry ain’t shit from some duct taped bar stool
…flippin’ the bird to thankless zombies who have no clue who you are, were or will be
…baring your wares for those who kinda care and kinda don’t and won’t admit it even if they didn’t because it ain’t hip not to get it
…on this ride into the endless nights

Unholy is the…
…never ending cigarette
…dirty faced ashtrays
…tombstones of believed bottled dreams
…terror faced stares in broken mirrors
…throwaway seeds and stems
…rejections due to style
…dejected dreams that didn’t fit the status quo
…short lines of open stages
…long lines of closed stages
…wishes for the discovery
…promises of someday soons
…pity me and my self-constructed self-destructing woes
…envy for those with no egos
…dreams and screams of drug induced screens
…the bird song bringing in the dawn
…you I be
…me you be

click <a href=”” target=”_blank” >here</a> to see the video of this poem being performed LIVE at Mad Swirl’s Open Mic

editors note:

“…end,” he says; “…nope,” we thinks. This inspired by birthday Jack from Monday back, tickling his Ginsberg muse, wound-up swirl of words carries on as long as eyes read and voices speak – this methinks. – mh

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