Okay . . . I admit it . . . this is my other voice, the voice that just has to vent once in awhile in order for me to not feel the pain of this world too acutely. As I have said in the past, I have a tendency to get caught between a gentler, more Asian way of looking at things and a Ginsbergian, almost cacaphonious explosion of emotion. A great writer once said that the poet's duty is to be the guilty conscience of his generation and I believe him to be correct in his assumption. Anyway, bear with me gentle readers and understand that I do not wish to offend or upset anyone . . . Namu Dai Bosa, Marc
Bleaker Street, Ginsberg's children wander aimless
on broken sidewalks, numb-eyed, seeking
substance in supermarket aisles stocked
with fleeting hope and advertisement.
Thus, I sing of incomprehensible babble
that threatens to deafen the holy ear.
I ramble outside the cardboard box of citification,
alone, but free, not yet smothered by a pedestrial
voice of non-tongue.
I grow weary, kiss the frozen mouth of poesy,
a mouth that is unbalanced, that has a syntax
of boredom.
Deadening lips, slightly parted, only speak
from the safety of agreement,
Perfect little lines that support your decaying
playground, Oh Bleaker Street.
The Dali Lama still in exile, Chet Baker
and Tim Buckley, oracles of once living pain,
now dead, Dylan silenced by his own mind.
Ah, fresh word slingers move like shrouded shadows
upon the horizon, scream from a distance,
unable to crash through the pedantic pandemonium
below them.
And politicians spit angels into the waste basket
of democracy, bankers hold the key
to luxurious latrines.
Video game sickness, super hero mentality, putrid,
blood sucking swill of unbenevolent knowledge
to poison children like rats at dawn!
What goes on here? Who handed hands of flesh
to these skeletons that rattle inside
history's dusty closet?
Whose withered footprints startled the purity
of virgin snow, melted it beneath the heat
of spiritual disease, caused unwanted rivers
to run through your gutters of dispassion,
Oh Bleaker Street?
Bleaker Street, life-defying cancerous custom
of the ages. You grow, swell up with pride,
vomit laughter into the paralyzed hearts
of the masses
And unfortunately the masses think it normal,
they can't understand that their internal pain
is created through acceptance, that this cavalcade
of anguish that rot-smears inside heart corridors
is unnecessary.
Oh blinding Bleaker Street, Oh Bleaker Street
of incomprehensible asylums where the powers
that be pull the strings of their patients
without them ever realizing it.
Wake up, ye pre-conditioned souls!
Understand that a rose does not smell of plastic,
that the romantic agony is formed by
the manipulating hands of glamour
and Hollywood and pharmaceutical companies.
Oh the once blissful empty void is now over-run
by gurus of apocalyptic nightmare, the great secret
forgotten, hidden away, hurried away
by a dump truck that rattles out the back door
of the holy house humanity.
Oh Bleaker Street, your angels wear black wings,
their haloes are rusty and bent.
Bleaker Street cantankerous procession of misery
where fire hydrants spew outlandish statements
laced in confusion,
Where anarchy is dissolved, grabbed by its youthful hair
and smashed against the bloodied rock
of politic.
Bleaker Street that eats its young.
Bleaker Street that withers the minds of the elderly
from birth.
Bleaker Street admonisher of hallowed spirit inherent
in mankind from the initial millennium.
Oh Bleaker Street poisoned rodent of pretentious
posterity, trickster and hustler of decay,
disgracer who cauterizes insight with a blow torch
fuelled hot and blistered in samsara.
Ah . . . no Buddha-mind here, no clarification
of every man's right to divinity ---
Just evil headed monster who violates the garden
with chemical fluids and breath of foul
yellow air.
Dis-ease it is rampant, moans from nondescript
television screens, crippler of ponderous time,
preserver of bloody swords, gangrene genitals
and seeds of mockery that atrophy in the heart.
And the Earth all covered with unhealable scabs,
murdered meadow lands, splintered ozone
and trees wracked in pain.
The onslaught upon the mystic properties
of Nature --- Oh blemished, trying to weep
forth tears of rejuvenation.
And dumbfounded anguish goes ignored
And consumption of spirit causes the infinite wisdom
of holy men to be cast aside like some
cosmopolitan joke.
O cruel lie, Oh castrating scalpel that creates
a blood bath inside the collective body of the soul ---
AT WHAT POINT IN THE MONOTONOUS
MARCH OF HUMAN HISTORY DID YOU
TAKE ON THE ROBES OF OMNIPOTENCE?
When did you slaughter the possibility that all living
things could live together in harmony?
Oh Bleaker Street, I do not wish to scribble forth
this landscape of black mist, like Culloden,
like Wounded Knee, like Tienanmen Square.
But what choice do I have?
From what angle may I approach your existence
that is not a masturbation of despair?
Oh Bleaker Street blood red skyline,
Oh Bleaker Street ushering in unseen hallucinations
and absurdist utterances from political mouths.
Oh Bleaker Street of unattached retina,
Oh Bleaker Street of pervasive paranoia
inside living rooms lined with portraits
of crucifixion.
Oh Bleaker Street, your benediction is to found
in coffee cups, between mouldy thighs and sighs
of ecstatic non-communication.
Oh Bleaker Street, the undergarments of democracy
are soiled, taken to Communist laundromats
and left to hang on Christian clotheslines.
Oh Bleaker Street of dishevelled faces,
Oh Bleaker Street of broken poets.
Oh Bleaker Street of slobbering viciousness,
Oh Bleaker Street that obliterates tranquility.
Oh Bleaker Street of illusion, illusion, illusion,
petrified mask of thought and disgust
in the human form, leech of this pained globe,
this growing but lifeless planet of folly.
Oh Bleaker Street mental mania,
Your mechanical unfeeling robot causes
my balding head and aching body to shake
in disbelief.
Oh Bleaker Street, Oh Bleaker Street . . .
I will try to denounce your archaic presence
and herald the coming of softer avenues.
A contest entry
- Do You Deserve To Be On My Favourites? by Allure of a Rose.
950 points, ended July 22, 2007, 17 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - The Second Battle of the Poets Contest! by Previn.
540 points, ended September 6, 2007, 19 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Nothing Boring by cali951.
500 points, ended December 3, 2007, 104 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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This is good.
Told with a strong resonant voice.
A little too long for my liking and the repetitive Bleaker Street did become a bit much but the message is clear and well conveyed.
Thanks for entering
Previn -
Wow, really fantastic.
I'm very impressed, if a bit speechless.
I kept having to remind myself to breathe while reading this.
I like the way you address "Bleaker Street," sort of helps keep the eccentricly beautiful but adventurously controversal descriptions and seeming side-paths in a forward direction.
-Allura
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hey
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Holy f! Wow!
This is just venting? This is easily one of the best poems that I have ever read on this site EVER!!
I'm not sure words can explain the impact of this poem. In my opinion, this piece personifies the voice of the worlds as it is today and hopefully in the future it will instead "herald the coming of softer avenues."
You did an astounding job here. I will bookmark it. Best wishes to you and yours
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This has some really great moments, powerful images, just a little long to get through. But I bet you feel better now for having gotten it all out!
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Omg...
You are simply amazing...you echo the voices within my head in a way that I cannot.
BRAVO WONDERFUL WORDSMITH
BRAVO
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Dear Marc
I thought writing like this had been relegated to the Smithsonian, not so much to preserve it as to keep the public from having too much access to it!LOL
Very good stuff, as Johnny Carson used to say.
I thought at first you were speaking of Bleeker Street in NYC but I know that the place isn't all that bad, so I guess you are talking about some place else.
It is really good though, and has to go into the Guiness's for one breath!
Well done..........John-Las Vegas, Nevada
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John . . . thank you for your comments, they are much appreciated. Bleaker is in reference to bleakness, desolation etc. not to the street of the same name in New York City . . .
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I love the word "Ginsbergian". This was realistic, raw and entertaining if you can digest it. I happen to like writing like this so I enjoyed it.
Soulful Woman
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This IS in the house!Love the name you chose"Bleaker Street" Apt and original.Liked the breaking up of " Dis-ease" creatively creating a double wham! with one word.Neat.Your poetry is not offensive in content,the only offensive thing is that the content is reality,it is raw,bleeding,starving and beaten society by the legislation,manipulation and manipulation of the suited and booted who have shares but care not about sharing.Am bookmarking to read again so that I can appreciate every nuance within,you have talent dear poet,your voice is your own but speaks for many,your poetry may be influenced by others but it is your own pen dipped in postivity and penning creatively and yes those gone before are remembered for their thoughts too but if we only rely on those past how do we effect a change in the present?One voice echoes but many voices in unison echo louder.End of rambling,time to applaud loudly
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Carol . . . I knew that you of all people would truly understand how difficult it can sometimes be to vent on such a large scale. I thank you for your response, it is very much appreciated . . . it gives the poem itself some credence to have someone as perceptive as you respond in such a way.
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I hear you...
Then i look into the eyes of a child who does not remember it so and has not yet learnt it to be so...would that I could give them the sense of knowing they can find the beauty and restore the eyes that smile in this world. I pray for that but until then I am on Bleaker Street with you my friend. Just amazing.
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Holy god! " A great writer once said that the poet's duty is to be the guilty conscience of his generation and I believe him to be correct in his assumption." Aw yes, friend pen, and I willf rogive yours if you will frogive mine. Btu we are vices of truth and it can nto always be pretty, pretty. Sometimes we must delve into that dark, damned movie, and know the taste of it on the rise of bile and eloquent voice. If not us, then who?
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