Caterwaul

Its from this plateau of freedom that I can see

the future flames of insignificance,

consuming the city as Time Square fills with

thousands of jaded souls all chasing the boot heels of Sparta and Rome,

reincarnated by Samsara as fierce Aztec warriors,

with their skulls cracked and broken to feed the pyre,

which serves as a brutal sacrifice to the morning star,

The God of confusion, The God of marketing, The God of materialism,

The God of socialism and capitalism,

Isms blessed by the sacrament of pimps and thieves

who quiver in a dream of serpentine misery

alongside sixty year old flower children who after eons of being fed reality television,

pillage across Manhattan coughing in the shadows of disarray,

stripped clean by this so called "American Dream,"

transformed into authors of a New Translation

meant to hoard and feed off of all the fresh souls,

who were baptized by a ring of fire and were left screaming in the gallows

"Lie down; close your eyes, this wont hurt you, See the white light?

Feel this prick? Sit back and enjoy a fresh new microchip,"

fueling the seeds of your insanity with a delicious,

government approved, subliminally octane,

syrupy dream nectar that hollows out your memory

and erases all traces of pain,

all to protect the system mainframe from overloading

from too much anarchic meddling

from those who choose to shake the status quo.

And I am here fanning the flames of insignificance,

caterwauling through the streets in a drunken cold blooded stumble,

waiting for Samsara,

wading in the tasteless pools of false Nirvana that gather at the hips of freedom,

dreaming for you Tim Leary!

You who is smoking with your Cheshire cat smile

and pocket full of pills, breathing in "consciousness expansion,"

searching through the sepulcher of time amongst

all the failed seekers for G.O.D. W.A.R. and S.E.X,

serving two masters with one who doesn't exist!

And I gallop through the pharmacologically constipated herd of dissolution

Shouting 84! and Brave New World,

breathing in the embers of Toltec kings

next to the remains of the museum of natural history,

maintaining that the beginning of this end began with a bullet

soaring through 1 west 72nd street when Holden killed The Walrus,

killed all you mad sinners,

failed husbands and wives who drink at the pools of existentialism and theosophy.

And I refuse to say "Imagine,"

with the fires of insignificance wuthering in the heights of heaven,

down across Liberty Harbor and the Golden Dawn,

beside khayyam, gibran, avicenna, rumi,

I’ll light up a cigarette and watch as freedom

and hell opens through a crack on 42^nd street,

and when the debt finally rises to unfathomable levels,

I’ll strike my match with the four horsemen whooping up dust around me,

lighting the sky with their pale horses made up of dry bones and starfire,

raising this city in an arc of smoke.

And I’d stand there, soaked in Whitman's tears,

Unshaken.

[Edited 8/15/10 0:20am]

BUMP! Decided to reformat a bit,

plus I really like this one (which is odd)

reminds me of "Howl" by Ginsberg