In Which I Write Beat Poetry

Mitsubishi Colt
Soundtrack of assault
Calling Halt
Or Hold or whatever the fuck it is
When you’ve fizzed
Like a lizard
Or something. Eating some gap
In an already streaming something else.
At least there’s a word to use.
Plenty really, when you think about it
And give a shit for a bit;
Not really happy with that
Or how it felt
Driving between high school and Kerouac.
Isn’t that also on the stack?
Not taking any flack since there’s no attack to track
Should probably look back.
Dragons be there or at least
Pretty pictures of heraldric dolphins.
Why doesn’t this look like a map?

Arhythmic. That’s a good word.
It may seem absurd
That word.
That’s what I heard, at least,
But my lungs
Or my diaphram beg to differ.
Pretty sure this has been sung when there were tenements left.
When masturbation was still fun
They had races. You made your own checkered flag.
That’s what they tell me is the case.
The snap, snap, snap of skin,
The grin, of a hundred bongos in every seedy corner.
That’s when this poem was in order.
I don’t want this to be a paean.
I knew that word was spelled wrong the furst time.
Almost corrected that one, but I think irony’s sublime.

I might be done with this,
This trick of backlit shadows.
For the first time I get the flow.
“At work. Must go.”
Who would ever know,
this low,
What beds are for? I know
and it sits there waiting to be recognized.
How many warnings and chances do I need?
My guess? Thirty three,
Maybe a few more for good measure
To make sure I can find my pleasure in it again.

There we go.

Tacked on because I need to be more meta
And get a
Granade.
That’s the first word I made,
because Beat poetry doesn’t have to make sense
And I like it better that way.

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