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Beat poetry

Welcome to the beat poetry section of my portfolio. Beat poetry is a free form of writing that deals with the thoughts and opinions of down and out people. Often angry and immoral in delivery beat poetry is not for the faint of heart. Beat poetry began in the 1950’s with figures like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg and have inspired many poets and writers since. As a free form beat poetry isn’t privy to the traditional rules of grammar and is linked to ‘stream of thought’ writing. It doesn’t always make sense. Often beat poetry is perceived as having a rhythmic or smooth quality to the words as they are read but don’t have to fit into a rhyme scheme.

Personally I enjoy writing beat poetry as it gives me the opportunity to break the rules. I don’t like the idea of being controlled and that probably comes across in my poems below. Enjoy.

 

Sitting in the coffee shop.

Sipping on my Americano, taking in the feel of smooth jazz.
There is something about that lone piano instrumental that soothes the soul.
Watching other slaves of society come and go.
I love this, the anonymity of being just another,
Robot.
It’s cool between these four walls with the cute looking secretary at the counter and the artist in the corner.
People look at me as if  i am lonely.
Oh how wrong can people be at times.
Me + coffee shop = relaxation
The happiest part of the day which i savour gladly before going about the function which i am programmed to do every day of the
Year.
Any how, back to the cute secretary at the counter.
On the outside as you are rushing to your hell on earth.
You probably wouldn’t even notice her.
But in a coffee shop she is transformed into a caffeine goddess
You can just see the artist lift his busy head and the middle aged lawyer peer over the top of his daily times.
You can learn so much about people from my position.
So much about human frailty in the face of an ‘oggle subject’.
Who wants another accomplice with you spoiling the view?
An idea commercialised for the purpose of whittling down our monthly ration.
I prefer to fritter it alone.
Here is the final equation.
Me + coffee shop + oggle subject + psychology subjects + a nice black coat = a beverage and free pleasure.
So keep on oggling.

 

Paranoia.

Who is that guy on the street corner looking at me like i need a beating?
What is that book for?
I strike a match for defence fearing the very worst.
“Hear the word of the lord” he roars.
Oh no.
Another fanatic, what if i upset him?
I’m an atheist.
God help me.

That pretty lady is sizing me up.
It feels good, but isn’t that how hookers work?
They get me to take them home and five minutes later while in the act.
Her pimp breaks in a clobbers me with a baseball bat and takes my sterio.
I can’t call the police.
And of course.
Once they know where I live they could be waiting outside my front door the following day.
Or they could put a burning match through the letterbox.
Either way, I couldn’t go home.

Surely that would effect my job too.
I would go in stressed and come out sacked.
Because the bosses don’t care.
You can just see them armed with their notebooks jotting down that Larry was five minutes late today.

Everywhere I go, is a chaotic mess.
Every street has a mobster.
Every dark room has a ghoul.
Every back garden has a man eating rottweiller.
Every beating heart could fail.
Better I remain on my own

 

Things i hate.

Empty coffee jars, cheesy pop music.
Cliches, especially the ‘university of life’ statement.
People telling me I am too young to understand.
Institutions and government.
Spare clothes.
Coats in summer and bananas.
Going to work early in the morning.
Going to work, full stop
Buses and hand me downs.
Commuters in my favourite seat.
Light rooms and tidy floors.
Repetition in poetry
Repetition in poetry.
Repetition in poetry.
Flogging a joke.

Hypocrisy and limes.
Strong minded independent ‘gobby’ women.
Use of the C word.
Organisation and control.
Crashing computers.
Space invasions, summer.
Sleep and insomnia.
Sugar in coffee.
Fruit on pizza and stale bread.
Mistakes and dead horses.
Shopping and headaches (they are both the same)
Notes to myself.
Running out of time.
Stepping in line.
Doctors and screaming babies.
Vomit on the pavement.
Repetition in poetry.
Repetition in poetry.
Flogging a joke.
Inappropriate use of humour.
Long lists.

 

Insanity.

Over and over and over again.
Under the weather.
Whirling and spinning and spinning and whirling on an endless loop.
A living nightmare, can’t wake up.
The cube is my downfall.
The all enclosing tube.

The door is open, anyone could walk in.
But i can’t leave.
For danger is secure and pain is consistent.
It is all i know, oh to be me again.

The sax plays white noise and the ground rumbles.
The drones are watching.
The polystyrene box in the corner will take the first chance it gets to eat me alive.
Oh my word, i can’t ever seem to get it right.
One leg is shorter than the other.
The coffee pot talks to me and tells me everything is going to be ok.
The kettle tells me that we’re all out of milk.
Intense music makes me see dangerous visions of a paradise far far away.
The man on the street passes by and stops at the traffic lights to eat a bagel.
Where am I?

Women laugh a sad song of prejudice and nail varnish.
For all the horses in the world couldn’t make the pig soar.
Sulphur sits on my plate and my plate is empty.
I dine with Albert the apple and Dave the shepherd.
The box closes the lid and i weep to be busy in this thicket of obsenity

 

Revolution

The superiors rant.
The inferiors take the shafting with grace.
What choice does one have but moonwalk the eggshells.
When the rent rubs it’s greedy hands together.
The clipboard fires up the siren.
The end is near.

As the drum beats it’s  tarum t t tum t t tum, tarum t t tum t t tum.
The artists and visionaries rise from their stupor.
As heads bash concrete to pieces, the artists ride to a new vibe.
And all the police in the world hide in their pockets.
The moon is rising.

Wisps of coffee smoke fill the night air.
Battle plans are drawn.
The violin rocks the mic.
Music is reborn.

A new dawn is coming.
Discipline is redundant.
And as the cuckoo hoots in the cold light of day the writers and the painters set aside their tools and save the robots from deletion as the organisers try to change the world without thought of the consequences  of putting a dampener on progress.

We are coming, time to shiver.
That’s right. hear us.
Discipline, control is the new grey.

 

Jazz bar liaisons.

I hear the lone piano sifting out a melancholy vibe across a dim room from side to side
Cigarette smoke fills the air.
Emotional movement, tugs my strings to a point of snapping tension.
Softness drowns amongst a dark room beat as the photos hang, half processed forming apparitions with a frown.
One on every table next to the delicate lamp and shade.
Tittle tattle on my feet, the beat washes my body with an aspirin.
I am here in this blue room to play.
Notational echo radiates across the parquet floor with hues of creams and browns and lemon yellow.

My eyes pan to  beauty undisputed.
Table for two by candlelight one seat taken, one seat laying on it’s back next to the table of the fallen heart.
I walk over, rectify the seat and offer to take her to a place she’s never been before.
Before the other faces register me and her, our feet patter towards the door.
Pulse racing liaison’s barely make it out of sight as hungry paws tear and pull.
Sweat and tears merge together with two broken people fornicating on the floor
I am home, in this.
The emotional labyrinth.
Beauty in brutal form.

 

Unseen

I often ponder at the wonders that we fail to see every day of our routine enhanced lives.
They are there.
They glare at us in a manner of humility mixed with apathy, a combination that doesn’t even bother to scream “look at me!!”
Contented to wallow in a world of untouchable dream space for often seen is rarely free.
We look at the same image and see a million possibilities but everybody chooses just one.
Before we know it, we dismiss the hidden for it requires too much effort to give in a life filled with demand and expectation.
We haven’t the time.
The camera swivels to the obvious or should I say the ‘dominant’
The shutter goes down and the big picture comes out yet the zoom seems broken.
If the lens were pointed in another direction then maybe the zoom would be unnecessary  for all is laid out like a buffet.
The unseen treasure hides appropriately from a race of claws and fangs that speak as one and focus on prey.
To remain unseen, untouched and free.
But by hell they do, they whisper to me.

 

Switching off the machine

With computational tendency, life is correlated into order by an overly analytic factory of paranoia and confusion to that of a ever switched on machine.
It takes a laxative of the grey cells to smooth out the terrain.
Inhibitors of intelligence serve their purpose every once in a blue moon.
The fulfilment received by the subconscious lays bare the shimmering armour that protects from the good and evil of a social existence.
The damaging veil that many a victim adorn act like a double edged sword.
Magnetism can indeed bring harm.
Antipathy can indeed liberate the wall.
This is the routine that many a chosen one adopt to understand the pointlessness of it all.
The stars they spin and the halo dissolves as frustration awakes a darkened imagination.
How to deal with such a phenomenon becomes a labour for the average troop.
How to deal with a loyal soldier becomes a mystery to the romantic mercenary who has no place to stay.
The laxative covers up the stain that grows as the ink pen applies more fuel into the absorbent canvas.
Justification is not merely no longer necessary but a alien concept.
Bliss collides and explodes silence.
The mind is in a state of oblivion and in that rare existential moment, borderline insanity is condoned.

 

Dazed

Which way to turn.
Where is the base where i rest my head.
The veil that covers me with silver glow.
And frees the cloud of confusion that hangs over me like a curse.
So dense is the forest that i try my level best to move, yet fail in true spirit of loser.
What a mangled viewpoint to sail the dreaded sea of sub-conscious.
Alas, i move.
Ever closer to the point of predators who lay in wait for the coming feast.
Backwards is to the left and i am stranded.
Dazed to the bitter end.

Desktop warfare

This thing refuses to work properly.
Time envelops like a true enemy and the stakes are high.
Pointless wasted moments as the cyber struggles to make ends meet.
The recon is frazzled and the view is dark.
Many times this clash entrees and expires.
A clash of wills battle with hardened temperaments.
The cyber too primitive to show the way.
Blows exchange as the desktop reaches its limit.
Time to go to sleep once more.
Lost is the progress on this rocky battlefield.

 Street corner blues

Plucking on my sweet six strings in city rain.
Engines purring past my harmony dot.
A street guy’s life is up and down.
Office lights blare of artificial dreams.
The corner doorway is my rooftop.
For when the blues and two’s wail intothe dimming light.
The entrance to the backstreet night filled with raw.
Spill into the chaotic fight of another drunken brawl.
Rest tonight upon single sheet of warmth and compassion.
Until city life turns on at chucking time.

Grumpy Jones

The busy road on the way to work.
Grumpy jones curses the world.

Good morning sir, your coffees on your desk.
It better not have sugar in it.

I’ll just go and get the photocopy sir.
Yeah darlin, work those curves

Perhaps i could assist you in your search.
Get away from me, you leech.

How can i help you sir.
Start by closing the windows, i have flies all over me.

Your taxi is waiting for you sir
Who the hell are you calling a slow coach. haa!

Eat your supper honey.
Oh yeah, that’s where it all went wrong.

You’re restless tonight dear.
Shut ya pie hole, all right! I’m thinking.

 

Troubled love.

Dinner for two by candlelight, cooking up a shitstorm for a commitment issue ridden sweetheart.
Her fingers tapping on the hard wooden table leg, a subtle scream in morse code.
In blindness, i cannot see the reality laid out on the platter between the two of us.
That this relationship is some form of twisted troubled tasteless love.

When the walls scream of extacy, the truth comes out.
The crack of the whip and the bassline grunt.
The smell of sweat and sound of profanities.
The clawing and biting and groaning and shouting and crying and ripping and knawing and screaming.
Prayers are said in the room up above.
We don’t care, we never give a damn for the dominatrix girlfriend is poison only to be desired.

But a man with a conscience can only take twisted so far.
Doesn’t work for a dark hearted she devil with one foot in the pits.
Domestication kills a woman so used to chaos.
Out comes the knife from the stockings as the only man who ever touched her heart gets down on one knee.
The knife goes to work slashing and gouging and striking and slicing and scraping and painting the walls with his blood.
This troubled lover has been set free.

.
.
Pit of hell.

Welcome my friend to the pit of hell.
Burgers on the barbie, come down and mosh my friend.
We got swarty strippers dancing on broken glass and charred, throatless goats.
Your alcoholic best friend is down here.
Come and punch him for destroying your ex girlfriend who is by the way, waiting in the bedroom for him.
Why not make your presence felt.
If you know what i mean.
But first, i’m feeling horny.
You’ll find the vaseline over there next to Hitler.
Just don’t let him take any more valium.
He’s tanked up enough as it is.
Don’t even get me started on Pol Pot.
That twat just broke my glasses.
What did you do to get here anyway?
Believe me, whatever it is i’m not impressed.
Now get down here and show me what heaven feels like.
.
.
Walking through danger

The hour is late to be walking home alone.
The drunkards are waiting on street corners for fresh meat.
The alleys shoot up with needle dreams.
Safety is a long trek ahead.
Better a taxi in this metropolis apocalypse.

Rat’s tidy up trash in the dead of dark.
Hookers wear their fake smiles.
Homeless dudes curse the privileged world.
The devils own watch this urban backyard.

Sirens wail in the distant Eden.
The civilised quarter is under attack.
Walk through this constant danger.
The comparison can take you aback.

Caught in the crossfire, war untangles.
Playing dodge the bullet on the way home from work.
Honest games with a killer prize.
Home again in one piece.
Better a taxi in this metropolis apocalypse.
Better to starve than be shot.
Better to breathe behind sheets of glass.
Chauffeured by pillars of the night time community.
Better a taxi than weary foot.
.
.

The drugs have worn off

Something is wrong.
Something seems gone from this atmosphere of peace.
It is not apparent why.
I just feel that some shiny partygoer has left.
The dregs remain in paranoia and contempt.
The peace has given way to awkward, anxious silence.
Eggs shells and pin heads decorate the carpet.
The roof is giving way to gravity.
Senses are numbed.
Sight is blurred.
Taste never existed.
A haven contorted.
A celebration deserted.
Oxygen is sparse, oxygen is sparser.
The drugs have worn off.
.
.

In the dark

Why is that guy over there looking at me like he knows something I don’t?
He has that smarmy grin that makes him look like he can’t relieve himself.
What have I done?
Who have I cheated?
How have I failed?
To not know what awaits you is a mind trip with a one way ticket.
Down.

I want to go over to him and grab him by the neck and throttle the funny thought out of him.
Find out my fate and decide upon his.
I can’t do that.
I have to sit here sweating.
That is my only choice while I wait to be enlightened.
Some day, hopefully soon.
Maybe never.
Forever in the dark.

 

Stereotypes

Too many label based on generalisations.
Don’t work to open their one way mind.
It hacks me off, it hacks me off.
IT HACKS ME OFF.
Information, knowledge and truth shouldn’t have to struggle to bring variety to a healthy dynamic.
No, the labels pressed on with factory precision.
The production lines of arrogance work to a robotic routine.
Attribute to laziness, lack of will.
The labels, stereotypes stick.
Fat, scrawny, ugly, old fart, too young to know, shortarse, tall dark and handsome (ooh), rich bastard, peasant, like a schoolchild, four eyes .
Stereo’bloody’typical
The beholder needs a new pair of eyes.

 

Institutionalisation stinks

Institutionalisation stinks.
Need I elaborate?
Hey you, don’t be you.
Be me, you’re shit.
Empty your cup so that I can fill it with my own brew of myself.
What is it with humanities obsession with cloning?
I see something in you and I want to help.
You want to help?
Well, stay back and leave well alone.
The only thing you see in them is the ability to murder what makes them unique.
Take away their identity.
Simply so you can say, I taught that person everything they know.
That person got it all from me or from us.
Look how good a job I did.
Worship my shadow, bitch.
This is how institutions work and one man institutions count.
I know who I am.
I know who I want to be.
I know what I have and I’ll burn in hell before I give it up to become the reflection the world wants me to be.
I have said it before.
Institutionalisation stinks.

 

 

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