Whimper
Allen Ginsberg saw the best minds
Of his generation strung out
In the gutter of Los Angeles,
While I have seen the best minds
Of mine stuck behind desks in
Libraries in Middletown, chained
To the desks of their universities,
Yoked by force to the altars
Of their religion like dogs
Tied to a stick driven into
The frozen earth of their yards,
And the booze and smoke they
Pull into their bodies like cancer
Is the war cry of a generation
Caught between police jurisdiction
And the schools benefaction,
But most of all the desire to
Transcend this world and
Everything inside of it, until
Everything blurs together in
A Lovecraft nightmare like
That Cyclopian landscape,
And nobody can even change
Themselves, let alone the world
That has us all down in the
Gutters we wish to escape.
