Feral

I'm feral, gone to seed, over civilizations

wonders, back to the senses, reduced

to fecund minimum, out of the box.

I tamed my own mind, thank you, with the

help of wise people you trivialized and

ignored; blinded by blood sport and bad

chemicals.

Fantastic culture I witnessed...the art of

howling wolves...twittering birds in Miro

bodies...hard driven prose of exploding

mind bombs...rivers of description of

eternal nature...hearts on sleeves of

wonder.

The Underground will always be over the

top, too much for cowards. It takes guts

to live and get what you need out of it.

You folks who middle-manage your fake

selves just trying to avoid the pain that 

comes from knowing life will never grasp

the golden eternal ring on the merry-go-

round. Burroughs plowed through that

middlemind like the cosmic Jim Brown 

half back he was, spectral in physical

being because one foot in the dream 

world.

That Underground is Well's Time Machine

world reversed: the Morloks are the ones

that roam the status caveman veld, while

Eloi hide in plane sight, invisible to grasping

claws of primitive belief-ers.

Speaking freely is the greatest gift of man,

singing, dancing in the face of streets of

Moloch intimidation and slaughter, running

circles around head trips of concrete insanity,

laughing at the firing squad.

I'm invisible...fame didn't catch me in it's 

gluey trap. And, telling the truth, I lost 

many friends, or, were they?

Sad, for my family even, still in Amerika,

bombarded constantly by evil, controlling

machineries of engineered social 

enslavement. Eliot framed the hollow men,

Ginsberg howled at the loss of his fellow

angels, and now even some intellectuals

have come around to understanding. But

it's always the poets that are the canaries in 

the coal mine, slaughtered by apes like 

Lorca.

The truth will set you free, even if you sing

in your chains like the sea. Your mind can 

fly and soar: that's what it's there for.