Here's one or two I wrote a while back
Skip
Spinning on the spider thin spinnerets of my mind
the needle's worn the grooves too deep
and only echoes resound blues, jazz, rock and roll
that poets write about
The needle's worn the grooves too deep
rewind, original cliches over and over
like my pieces, mothers and shark's teeth
all stepped out, left 2 3 4, the march beat of angels on pinheads
rewind, original cliches over and over
like horrorshow and ultraviolence
all lovely Ludwig Vann, and swallowed knives
Kubrician grins, and the height of fashion; jackboots
Like horrorshow and ultraviolence in
boxcars, boxcars, boxcars
Riding through paradise pits and black lipped lovers kissing
nirvana, iron statues prophet Ginsberg Proclaiming
Boxcars, boxcars, boxcars
Because we got companies for good vibes
on acid soaked beaches, laughing as floating islands fell
laughing as the bombs fall on plastic shores
Because we got companies for good vibes
violent youth bathing in turpentine
throwing stones in crystal castles, suffocating
baptisms, on chalk feet in violet dreams
Violent youth bathing in turpentine
shrieking sulfur and devil trombones
curled up numbed up in dried up wells
stampeding kicked alive by the brass
Shrieking sulfur and devil trombones
the notes resound, cataclysmaly inept
bearing shouts, screams and bleeding throats blending
the reverberation of a thousand souls under the ink needle
Mumble
After Allen Ginsberg's ?Howl?
I saw the best minds of my Generation waste away bloodshot, starving, naked
Still up at dawn seeking a seconds entertainment
single minded slackjaws who staring at endless celebrities in reality
Seeing all reality in endless depravity
Who bent and bowed under the relentlessness of boredom, hooded mundane
tortured, by their own security, who composed verses of endless repeating fantasies
and saw dragons in cigarette flames
Who Through kicks and kicks in endless paradise pits, in padded cell living rooms
wearing black eyes as a testament of fist fight nights
and who sought endlessly subterranean entertainment, and ultraviolence
Who prayed to red leather jacket prophets, that were white collar workers
Seeking enlightenment through therapy, occupational, or analytical, or psychotic
or just a nicotine patch for the soul
Who lived everyday submerged in a bottle of fears, and cake vodka
their thoughts racing too fast in to slow brains composing endless drunken manifestos
their spittle flecked beard bears waving endlessly
Who swallowed knives and britvas and endless lovely leviathans, and Beethoven
with droogs in back alleys, sucking canes and gun barrels, and rehabilitative torture
the products of a thousand similar towns and a million similar families,
Who stood at polls in white hoods not because of the cold, sipping tea, with picket signs
preaching endless love and endless hate, and endlessly nothing
while marching in jackboots, jackboots, jackboots, Fascists
Who Kissed their lover's only once in a Poe-esque bathtub nirvana
after penning their briefest and longest love letter to Nietzsche, and nihilism
and kissed the black double barrel lips farewell, Bang
Who Reawaken in cardboard refrigerator box coffins, less fleshy and hungry
for the apocalypse we all endlessly wished for on 12/21 or any other day so long as it's tomorrow
loving Nyx and the Tv Armageddon
Who fantasized end of days in vapor trail lives and counter top jobs
talking shotguns and cannons and katanas while staring down consumer zombies
their already living the dream, they just need the guns
Who donned trench coats, and ballistic armor in schools, soldiers of doomed revolutions
listening to rock music, and television, and news stations and endless bullshit
tired of not being special enough or feeling too special, snow flakes
Who spin endlessly on craigslist sugar daddies laps, with too many children
they all twirl around his pole to make the rent, and pay for designer clothes
while nuclear age jukeboxes sing Roxanne
Who sat up at dawn on the rooftops above the smoke stacks, smoking ciggaretes
reading Ginsberg and contemplating the blues and the things poets write about
cynics humming float on knowing what it means
Who endlessly smiled injected up with mushrooms and medications and rubber cements
seeking more rubber cement, more cash, more houses, yachts, and a spot on cribs
because the high life can always be higher, when it's lived in a gutter
Who slurp on endless needles proposing neo-angelic vikings and Saxon messiahs
they belch perpetualy slurring between teeth black from the white, huffing
false spirituality with every breath craving imaginary salvation
who hid endlessly in dark digital era rooms, fetal, in sweat pants and rags
faces turned pale in monitor sunlight collecting plus five greatswords, hoping
That tomorrows world has dragons, pokemon, or people to talk to
who sat in a million coffee shops in million places with a million feather pens
building poems poems and more poems to show to themselves, terrified
of feeding effort to the hungry Moloch of press
Who wake up everyday and realize
Nothing's changed
Both of these are still rough and the second ones just an imitation of "howl"