Tag: Poetry

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

I ask for universal
galactic approval to
Amend, Revise, lengthen
or make intelligent
Any remarks I may
make in my life
Till such a time
in which I determine
if intelligence is neccessary

you have the right
to remain silent
and amend and extend
anything you wanted
to say after the
trial is over

The electric gate. repair
man with the massive
handlebar mustache dangling
out the window of his
1970 dodge dart drives
home.

upon opening his door
he realizes everything has
been stolen.

nothing is revealed as
he slowly transforms
into a medium size
garden snail which is
stomped by his young
4 year old daughter
head gear bonds
her retainer
gleem in the deset
sun as she slowly
cleans her shoe
looking for someting to do

calling to late or not
often enough

A global reduction

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

Walks on stage
Who are you plays
As the red ligh
brightens

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

The flushing of stuff
to sea
Toward the gulf

Whoosh

Not primitive bombs
of death
or slowly rot embargos

But visibly repulsive
Lumps of filth
Printed daily on
paper cheaper then
charmin

But much less absorbing

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

I

lulling and wallowing
wait

For a picture show
remaining unseen
as it dangels

from its (our
only
Precipice

“So much depends”
And all of it is
malicheous

Nature unlocked by the
Hai Ku
returns

with in
a new

Anatomy is destiny

Oleon moaned, slowyly
turning his tan
towards the sand

Darkening to th ebroken
Flushing his stuff toward
the gulf

A blast of destiny destroying
all anatomy.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

I sit in a 50’s
revival joint
jonsing
Fantasizing about a suicide
Yoko’s for John
would not ahve
been as epic

Yet
not Yet
for Yet

It is raining
And
I have more letters
for to
read.

All bets are off,
Charles!

Howdy Doody your order
is ready.

Cries of joy for
fat fried french
fries

An undercurrent slyding
past slow
fast
Doses Doses Doses Doses doses

Born not only into a
Deep sleep

Closed wells sunken deeper
then Freuds
Swell

And everything anything
can and will fit
for humor will fit
it in
and Death is rape
a violent not sexual
crime.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

I sit in a 50’s
revival joint
jonsing
Fantasizing about a suicide
Yoko’s for John
would not ahve
been as epic

Yet
not Yet
for Yet

It is raining
And
I have more letters
for to
read.

All bets are off,
Charles!

Howdy Doody your order
is ready.

Cries of joy for
fat fried french
fries

An undercurrent slyding
past slow
fast
Doses Doses Doses Doses doses

Born not only into a
Deep sleep

Closed wells sunken deeper
then Freuds
Swell

And everything anything
can and will fit
for humor will fit
it in
and Death is rape
a violent not sexual
crime.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

I sit in a 50’s
revival joint
jonsing
Fantasizing about a suicide
Yoko’s for John
would not ahve
been as epic

Yet
not Yet
for Yet

It is raining
And
I have more letters
for to
read.

All bets are off,
Charles!

Howdy Doody your order
is ready.

Cries of joy for
fat fried french
fries

An undercurrent slyding
past slow
fast
Doses Doses Doses Doses doses

Born not only into a
Deep sleep

Closed wells sunken deeper
then Freuds
Swell

And everything anything
can and will fit
for humor will fit
it in
and Death is rape
a violent not sexual
crime.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

They want my mind
to save their mining
Their possevive solipsitic
ownership – their oil –
They are going to come
for me – and you.

Figure 25 they got
you – either in the System
in jail or in the ground
all the same thing

Which means I have the
longest – mile still to run –
3 years – a mad dash
away from in family – Away
from miscellany – Toward
freedom.

All our fates are like
Lennons – There is no escape
just run your own race
run fast and pure
True to the dirt from
which you spawned

Hey! I have no problem
if rich people want to
kill themselves or their
kids.

“State funds must, therby
be employed to fund
abortions…”

Yeah that!
Aborition is ok for the
rich
There will be less of them
They wil maintain a
repulsive pretentions air
of form
They will feed their own
sick medical system
with the souls of their
young.

“…we need educaion…”

Damn Right!

I will not seek
justification in the past

Tradition therfore becomes
useless
I will accept your long
I need words to make
it see
That will and need are
the same thing.

32! The race was run
I hope everyone had
fun – I was over
way before I came
along.

Glad all those people
sought eternity
fame forever.
Now the only ones to
laugh at.

Dangling after a
long dinner
Mr J’s 5 North

I run from existance

I enjoy existance

I kill myself
with out persona
with out fear
with out desire
with out the Ten
commandments

positively

With love
With all energy
availabel
With eternity in mind.

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

Lot 21 Without Fears!

The freeing from lot 21

___
___
___ Sung
_ _
___
_ _

Ernest was never in Jail
HST

I have seen the best
minds of my generation
liberated by Micks!

Flying down the 405
Good loving filing the
car at over 70 mph

Reinforced by voltage
intenxive pressure
waves sent out
for free

Pust starting a
calediscope with a
flooded engine backwards
down kelton.

Howling, Till breath is
gone, that the
revolution has begun.

Neal has become Nat
the wheels sping just
the same.

Apathetic nothing, to
sooth sayers blooimg
In the warm Santa
Barbara sun

Martin Raising the
banner of sound
Ignoring protocol and
preaching enlightenment
for his school.

Stone ensuring that everyone
is
ON THE LIST

Ideas and synapses
begin to explode
Grief and Angst
laid down before the
flag unfurled.

Songs sung another
Knock on Heavans
Door just like
Santa Barbara in
The Nineties.

Craga and Marc have
no fear And respond
to police intimidation
with honest
communication

Takes token
before approving
faculty

Psycho Analusis and Honesty
slowly grow sliding south.

And I sleep dreaming
of Ginsberg
Revolution
me.

– 11-27-90

Always be on your own list!

#This is some bad poetry from a journal that has a pink bandana cover. It starts with a
#newspapaer clipping dated June 2, 1989

The best Mikes of
My Generations
Harrased by mindless protocol
Victimized by Police Intimidation
Preaching enlightenment at Ja new school

Santa Barbara – found
Dead in a Blue convertable
Outside a Bank of America

Revitalized by voltage
intensive pressure waves
Betten then 41/2 foot
surf,
And reinforced by Martins
curse!

Fear brought the boys
in Blue
Terror at teh tought
of something new
An unadvertized Event
Here find chroicled our
Disent.

Four occidentals stand
Back to admire
Their achievement.

A lions roar is heard
as the paint dries.

Flowershops! Pizza!

Protective masks removed
and all is ready

But alas the glory
of the bus fades
Flodded Engnie

More cars are found

Estimated! 405 N!