Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Visions of Ginsberg. An excerpt / It's Easy To Be Lonely

Paul Crompton

Paul has been described as a bounder, cur and eternal wretch but after therapy his Mother is now excepting his long distance calls.

After a youthhood bringing life into the world and watching it extinguished on small holdings he left the incubator cocoon of Norfolk, England like a roaring James Dean figure, or bashful Kerouac anti-hero hunting for the meaning of life by scratching the worlds underbelly. He found one night stands, plants and booze then denounced love as a concept. He also read whatever lay on the table in front of him until he figured he would write something… paulcromptonpoetry.blogspot.co.uk

Visions of Ginsberg. An excerpt

A homage to beat writing inspired by nonchalant sex, idle chemical romances and boozed up house parties (otherwise known as university)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
by education,
half starved on beans and booze rations,
who passed through universities with LDN dreams,
and their dad’s Amex’s
hallucinating working class veneers,
wearing down trodden connotations.
Expelled from the college blocks and uni’s
by the scholars of war and Marx,
in their crazed cotton shirts and up-turned eyes
installing obscene odes on the windows of the skull.
I saw the truth of the night
light up the small town secrets,
explode the dreams of teenage years
as the moon shone rays of ghost blue
cloaked in radical new signs,
of life hidden beneath the high street and mortgage brokers.
Scrambled remains of Spiders cover the lofts of pigeons breasts
writing obscene notes and obscure letters
twelve feet high across the hearts of their friends.

I saw them escaping their mothers with hard drugs;
their fathers with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock.
Whole intellects discarded
in total abandon to Sambuca and bong rounds.
Bone-grindings and migraines of China
under poison withdrawal.
In the austere foul-mouths of bleak student rooms,
A silent reminder of a monochrome Dylan, hung
framed with coloured muslin, saris and silver wall-hangings filtering light from tea.
Floor’s and walls cracked deep with polished sheen
where the light bounced and sparked alight the colours
picking out the sequins on the Indian beading
which hung like stoned eyelids from floor to ceiling,
blocking the paths and parked cars from interior ideas of separatism
by those who howled on their knees on their way from remedies and were
dragged from the roofs by day-glo cops
Who stopped them from waving their genitals and essay scripts.

It's Easy To Be Lonely

It's easy to be lonely,
spend solitary months
speaking only to buy beer
hid in busy pubs,
watch receding tide line
of cheap porter fall
in unison with the sun,
and later coke black rum.

Silent for whole days
walking without destination,
waste empty afternoons
filling time in dark cinemas
draining contraband cans
like playing field teen.

Finding old broken bench
from where to watch
churning eternal water
swell and fall away.
To feel the ebb and flow of life
wash through poisoned veins.

Sat next to a stranger
with daydreams contained
in blue curve of jean thigh,
rose lips;
but no words seem sensible
making hello redundant
so we watch the day tick by,
quiet in each other’s company
because it easier to stay lonely.

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