I
Allen lived to see this
printed,
the worn yellow purety of it's
white pages exist now in
absence
of his powerful mind
and
dedicated prose, striking the
fear
in all the hate-filled state
communazis.
His fucking, his love, his love
of all,
is here, my chest weighs, my
heart pains,
Where is his child now?
His wife? Former Life?
Former life do you call?
He was greatness, i cannot
attain his beauty, no one,
not us rigid fuckers, we are
trapped in our time, he was
free of his time.
II
We are trapped...
...in all time,
emotionless,
...in social responsibilities,
loveless,
...in the heat of nuclear sins,
lifeless
and painless
transcendental thought,
the OHM, absent, imperfections
overpower our need of absence of
anal striving, false pride, privacy,
gross exploitation; what world
and actions have transpired since
you immortal Allen:
Transcender,
Lover,
Fucker,
Unwilling, unmeaning mentor
to our tortured youths,
tortured by boredom, a staleness
only half-baked dreams of
exploration and expansion can alleve
our gross middle class suburban blues.
III
The only guiding
light left,
are worn pages.
The masters
expired long ago
and we are left
with meaningless
prose, the "Z"
generation are we,
but what does it mean?
A disillusioned
lackluster people
we believe nothing,
follow no one,
Our hope resides
within, burning
hearts,
can love prevail
over systematic
desensitizing
in the form
of casual divorce
free sex, but none
of the free love,
the hippies grew
to yuppies and
forsook you.
And your Jack
failed daring
greatly to break
the bounds of
social bars and
human limits
he strove,
and expired
the beloved bard
of all times our
inspiration, he
is a shade of
passion and
expression now.
IV
True life Love died with
you,
But fell ill with it's
soul
the twins entwined Neal
...Jack,
Perhaps, tho, it relives,
resurrected
Like the Hesus Saviour
you trusted so deeply,
Live again Love in my
pen for my page,
My mind for my learning
My heart for my Elizabeth
Sarah Elizabeth,
The wide great world of
lights to be rekindled,
a few flame for me,
A million for your Vision
You lie, concealed in
the faded print, dog
eared pages screaming for
us to stop, and when
the deaf forgive their
lament, and drop it's
soundless tomb, they'll
listen, learn, and fuck
the fight, they'll lay
down, roll, kick their
legs, and die the cartoon
death any idiot warfool
should.