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Leaving the taxi
at the stroke of midnight,
I encounter
Mr. old old Drop-top Mercedes
with his ruddy rubber-face
and his slick rubber smile,
an obvious devil
(all but oblivious)
full of bull-dog guile...
lives in an apartment
on the lower west side,
buys the best of candies
to take young girls
on goose-chase rides:
he laughs like a hyena
at a lost boy,
towering close over the face
of the wheel-chair man

stroking my tribal beard
with one hand,
(through the hate)
I wave anyway;
it's not worth the weight
and the glares

Then there's Pathos Punk:
beautiful cat,
though his hair is short
and preppily spiked
he reminds me of long flaxen locks
on waiters in truly elite restaurants,
such as I dined in more often
in my youth than
in my higher and older life.
Pathos Punk makes 'opioid' tea
out of organic poppy-seeds:
strong narcotic stuff.
Pathos punk is gay;
he only rarely returns my phone-calls
we were never lovers;
(he reminds me of Swing in Sweden
who introduced me to jazz, beat poetry,
and Robert Johnson,
that wandering bohemian
father of the Blues.)
another once close friend,
let's call him 'Renton' :
my passionate partner
in primitive politico-philosophical conversations
on the tennis team bus
married a comely blonde youth
named Dustin
after quickly making partner
in a dry but lucrative law-firm...
and I must admit I find
the film:
'Behind the Candelabra' nightmarish
but sordidly intriguing
like an Asian sword-fish dish
you lust for yet fear

there's Courtney Silverman:
my mystery woman,
black sheep of true Hebrew elites
re-enchanted by our former love,
I "rescued" her
from a lavish mad-house
and gave her again
the life of soft and sordid savagery
we "free" modernites
(possessed by daemons
we knew not of)
have come to consider
almost the good life;
She may be expecting
my 4th child now
this October 14.

So Fortuna,
you great and mystic Roman ghost,
I spray perfume
for you
and then for Ganesh
and then for Ganesha

now, my telephone;
"There is nothing more erotic
than a telephone."
- magazine, "American Photo"
back in the years
when Kasparov first crowned
"Deep Blue"

I'm lonely;
now I have to take adevan,
then call Chelsea then Fielding.
That's my punishment

I'm sorry if
I seem frivolous tonight,
but you see I've got the blues:
the lonely beastnik blues:
the "youth sickness..."
I dream of bats;
The moon's sickle-cell
is in my blood;
my genes are transmitted,
my health tested
and my head shrunk
(I've gone to the devil
for cinnamon whisky
and have gotten a little drunk.)

'na long story jor'

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The following comments are for "the beastnik blues"
by Seanspacey

I tried something interesting. I read your piece one time. Then, after a series of minutes and analysis of commitment, I decided to listen to 'Moon inhabitants' by Ornette Coleman WHILE reading it again. The results where awesome!

Thanks for sharing.

( Posted by: pablowilliams [Member] On: October 14, 2014 )

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