Ode to Allen Ginsberg

Published on Tuesday, 27 March 2012

 

America,

I don't cry for you.

I'm sleepy.

Your noisy buttery spreads

and your lilac larynxes jiggle

in your sewer-trapped licorice wraps.

America,

I don't cry for you.

I'm cold.

Too many have sworn their shoes to the

garbage heaps of shrieking shit-faced toad buckets.

America,

I don't cry for you.

I'm weary.

You paint your omelets

with custard-green stainless

monkey noodles,

with cramped cock-sure cupcakes.

This is your mission.

This is your goal.

This is your purpose.

Stand up!

Stand up on your doghouse fashions.

Stand up on your banana powders.

Stand up on your pulpits of

lovely,

licentious,

lobster leaves.

Stand up!

America, I don't cry for you.

I don't cry.

I don't.

I.

Cry.