photo of the late great poet genius Allen Ginsberg

may the spirit in its blind contest the jesus mind
of seven serried thieves in the graves of token thieves
and may the chapel in its turn depose the prince of urns
in the semi-comal bind of the woman in the spine
and may the thomas in the sperm depose the sainted fern
of the strutting seed at large in the butterfly barge
and the may sucker in the sun denude the moon in gun
and the parried blood of christ lie raped inside its heist
and the coil of judas clan lie buried in the lamb
of man and woman mine and mine deposed at spine
by the doctor in the vein and the skeinward daisy chain
that hurts the bible's mouth in the dawning of the south
and may the kine who tow the line lie broken in the sine
of seven herod thieves in the drumming of the leaves
in the sino pact of blood in the coming of the bud
and the course of hero doom in the iris of the room;
the room containing death in the driving of the theft
that breaks where light don't shine.
in the scrying of the brine
in the balls that shed no seed
in the braining of the weed
in the mouth of mary christ
in the drumming of the heist
in the thraling of the doll
in the plastic herod moll
in the dining halls of doom
in the mining of the moon
in the place that knows no aim
in the reigning of the rain
in the fall of time begun
in the course of kingdom come
in the sinal nose of death
in the rose of anal theft
in the force that drives the flower.
in the dawning of the hour
in the wrack of rock-n-roll
in the chiming of the soul
in the bones that do not speak
in the wreaking of the weak
in the caul of baby man
in the dunning of the clan
in the scent of judas love
in the dying of the dove
in the roll of rose and rain
in the plying of the chain
and the scent that drums now.
in the scorning of a laugh
in the cain of dead disdain
in the pauling of the pane
in the window no-one sees
in the turning of the seas
and the curse of jonah god
in the slanging of the rod
and the purse inside the mane
of the lion in the skein
of the law that lives ahead
of the mason in the head
and the builder of the tears.
in the coming of the years
in the child who lives no more
in the op'ning of the door
on the world that knows no way
to reap the change of day.
in the sizing of the lamb
in the field of alsorans
in the firesigns of the dawn
where the earth is toadless spawn
and the stars come down to sleep
where the tides are out to reap
the sea inside the sun
where the alligators run
and break the angelled heads
of the children out of bed
where this life is rare
as the flair of endless prayer
and the summer is abroad
with the dawn outside the word
of the kid inside the stable
whose guise is steady abel
and the earth is out on limb
for the woman in the skin
whose dreams are macadam
and speak the words of adam.
I know that this verse lies riven in the hearse
of seven kids denied by the daughter, dead at eye;
as much as I am tame and as much as hero names
the sons of herod love, so too, this earth of blood
decries such infants run from the ferine pulse of cum
that streams down childish necks
and builds a house of sex.

Get Out !!!

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jim bellamy, 2,000