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Varnished violins
hang in muted melodic scream
from the gnarled tendrils
of each of the verdant old oaks
that line and dwarf
the ghostly side-walks
of august Queen Anne Ave
as Saturday's sanguine sun
sank into the "blue remembered hills"
surrounding Beatville,

and a soon-to-be insatiable pink moon
emerged like a sweet phoenix
over the gloriously strung-out
landscape of the late 60s...

drawing her fire
from the serpentine jungles
of war-time Vietnam,
from the plethora
of casually covert mota smoke-outs,
and from the daemon red cigar tips
of pathos-confused patio raconteurs
and glowering wall-flowers
and those that come and go
come and go
'talking of Michelangelo...'

emerging to the howling symphonics
of the manic city:
fire-eyed and consummate
like new-lit vampires,
they step mid-conversation...

from the ethereal recesses
of "The Mad Yak Cafe,"
tying their fashionable scarves
or lighting cancer sticks
with that deliberate delay
that allows the city-taught eye
time to survey the edges
of the concrete labyrinth
for muggers, social banana peels,
and other street hassles

Like Kerouac's starry-eyed entry
into the sordid Aztec streets
of Mexico City:
this was their glowing crescendo,
their vision of the Angel Anarchica,
their golden time
they would entomb
like an American Xanadu
in canonized tomes
to rest like beautiful moss over

the quiet carpeted halls
of countless university libraries:
mixing their bindings, their blood,
and their seminal spirits
with the hallowed histories
of literary titans,
Roman Emperors,
artistic beasts of lore,
and lightning-blessed war heroes

but silver dims to grey
and "nothing gold stay..."
after this, the passion fades
though the flute-song lingers
lionizing past victories
and recalling
the curves of Josephine
in the key of Prufrock

soon shadows will rise
and knowing Puck will excuse
as the black-dressed musicians
take their literary bow...
and quoting
Chaucer, Corso and Ginsberg
with the disdain of familiarity,
aesthete critics will with arched brows
confer upon the calculus
of the cultural wave...

and who's breaking now?

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The following comments are for "Beat Symphony"
by seanspacey

I'd Rather Smash My Guitar Like Jimi Hendrix
Life provides...
the violins...
For the chaser of the flute song

( Posted by: awhippingflame [Member] On: April 11, 2015 )

good stuff
Your poems are the only ones - these days- that I print out and have to hold to read.

I really don't have too much to add here other than to say that I enjoyed this greatly.

( Posted by: pablowilliams [Member] On: April 30, 2015 )

a real interesting
period of time. your poem captures it nicely.

( Posted by: johnjohndoe [Member] On: May 31, 2015 )

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