Monday, February 20, 2017


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

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

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 

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 

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.


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