Ginsberg’s Specter

Finding ones voice is a jumbled sea of sin and heaven alike
 aloof in its careless nature of loss, reminding me of sailors lost in the treacherous trenches of
mermaid sea, their with flax-seed hair and beauty calling Venus herself out christening and cushioning the concrete waters with their girls at home sleeping with the best friend. It is tenuousness and mystifying and inconceivable and insufferable and it is
intellectual expression but without the expression or intellect  and meaning because all meaning is lost as soon as one pens the tales
of travesty and tragedy and mirth and rapture and angelic delight of existence and nonexistence. To encompass the world in words in
between the lines lies a story of every every every one and everything. I don’t know how to express all the beauty of the worlds of
the galaxies of infinitude,  more than saying its like hearing words from the yesteryear and nonce in your ears, ancient and modern élan vital  bending and weaving their souls to the collective universe to unravel the fabric of Time like when they used chug bottles of  cough syrup and candy
acid tabs and two grams of shrooms and listen to rappers try to transcend their genres and influence our macrocosm but we only hear how pointless communication is and we are all under the influence of something, whether it is fucking and sucking or loving and praising or pretending but we’ve been robbed blind of our thoughts
only we don’t care to see our losses. We have learned that the calamity is natures way of reminding us that we are not in control and we never will be
but that doesn’t stop the carnage of every soul ripping themselves to meat bits, clawing flesh and blood and muscle tissue and bone— them already sick with decay and Time fight uselessly. We are pulling our insides out through our mouths, our ruddy cooper innards gored and naked and sanguine
bleeding out to be free. We are bleeding ourselves dry in the hopes that we will be free or that someone will look us in the eyes and know that they match and they
understand and we understand that life is despondency but that is a cliche and if you’re a good writer you can never ever be cliche but that in itself is cliche and it’s a snake
eating its tail and it’s the endless circle and it’s everything but it’s noting but an illusion. We closed our mouths and eyes and shifted our attention downward to
selfishness and hypocrisy and judgement and music television that is not even music, not really. We have been robbed blind but we are at the party where the girls
wear gold sequins skirts and tight crop tops and with their harlot Cherry Me baby lips and apathy for men with useless hands and overly eager mouths and we are in a haze of
hashish smoke and UV blacking out in the neon blues, reds, greens, pink lights. Panting for connection but failing, we are dancing with the pretty boys that lean against
the walls of the schoolyard because those boys know what the others have not, dragging our tired bodies with the losses of millennia makes you powerful in your knowledge of the universe. The galaxy of your consciousness, your cells
blood, organ, tissue and tender heart that grew calloused with cruel nature and died while you lived. We are hopeless and lost and wanting and groping mindlessly in the dark of night and day because the sun
has resigned and the light is lost but yet remains tiny and hopeful and waiting and patient to counteract the black I cannot find my voice because I am not a singular voice, we are a collective unit of competing voices
all with the desire to be heard but any attempt at transcendence or utterance is simply to yell  fruitlessly at a uncaring azure sky, knocking uselessly on the neighbors door with a  .22 slug still pinging around your head but our neighbors aren’t home
or they hear us but don’t care.

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dropping out of school to become part of a chicken nugget cult

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