I'm so fucked on beer,
John's holding my hand
walking us down the cliff.
we left monterey for the day,
down squished in joan's jag,
she and ron,
me and john - we're all so skinny.
I remember drinking...
i'm an emerald troubadour;
idols blazing -- pitie a nous;
pious infinities, infinities.
back at Alex eddy's,
chi-chi bobby's wrapped in the rug,
trying to smoke with what wax your name,
who gives a fuuck.
but, here come joan
with her bingalo,
bobby gets it and he's out.
what's it like, being around young
preppy beatniks in monterey
i'm not queer, you know.
I'm not queer, you know,
I'm not... ok, I get it...
i'm not queer, you know...
I wasn't asking. I wouldn't dare.
boy crush, and I am very certain
it's been saved on ampax
for the crystal ball,
where beats are chiks with diks,
and, I'm a boy with a dick.
and, I am ser tan
the world is owned by cocks....
now owns half of boy's town,
poet in residence on allen's bed.
and keeps a tab in motown,
mr. vaseline man.
I'm in big sur and i see sound,
I space out on alcools, we had to get out.
Bobby says, "what do I need you freaks for?
you're too uptight,"
gnawing on a pork chop,
that's how he talked.
handing up a crotch band,
looking for a boy's egg... mr tambourine,
play a song on me, i'm 16. any cosmic
rondo; i'm your little brother of cactus lilies;
"fucking freak, go back to jersey."
everybody tried to sound like
they got here from the village. I see sound...
sister, the sun burnt all your vinyl.
go back down
to essay-lan. wait for an invite
from mr. trampoline man. that,
was the end of beatnik. I was too drunk
down here at partington the water's green and purple
hissing. mr. Miller's up there in paris, up the ridge.
and, larry said nobody reads henry miller any more --
this to shig, cause of so many tropics in the arctic noon
of San francisco, and, shig knew every dog has its bone.
creeked between big round rocks,
me and John suck a first quick bliss;
waiting for that for a week now,
thought he hated queers.
joanie's been with ron,
comes up from naked cove:
sees us, trips: flips... can I borrow a fag?
it was, i mean, hip to be worthless to non-conformist
radicals and all, you could ride along, those hipster days.