Pedestrian - Generation Of Dead Beats

the pedestrian:
neither a protest song nor an endorsement.
generation of dead beats we headspin on the tombstone of ginsberg
enduring the banality of a sober burroughs for so long
as sole pours out a bottle of evian for the disembodied and gin for hemmingway.
we without impetus born through a trap door into this history,
the universe shrinks and our conception of it doesn't fit anymore.
an electric candle burns bedside in a remorseful elegy for elanor rigby
and her middle-aged daughters,
a wedding gypsy band bangs out a domestic lament on antique ukulele
and petrified elk bones,
a flower on a guitar withers wantonly hippie anthems
entangled within broken strings and baez tunes
reliving those moments otherwise left alone
throughout these gutted crates and creative gutters.
woodstock burns as we windmill on the wasteland of eliot,
my windblown voiceprint on the ruins and verandahs
around imitation roman columns at the outpost of mediocre
where mid-level administration is making it the romanticized slacker
in all threadbare elegance questioning the eternal amid echoes like tendrils.
might i be the only one here in the roll call of minor set backs and major failures?
a dim yes faint no and a resonating maybe saluting the first flag visible
through the settling dust in the setting dusk embroidering my uniform of deathless song.
i whistle woman with the curviest of drums would be libertine
but my wounds are literate so i make slut of it all
with a skewed perspective and scurrilous adjectives.
it's like lysergic acid verses venomous incantations
over influenced of our tongues.
look at me growl mouthful of venison and perennial yawn,
when i wake up i may find it all gone.
my cheaply inked innocence is indeed wearing thin
and being holed up in a motel with a case of whiskey
and a typewriter is not a vision quest.

dose one:
oh and actors of slightest idea left stuffing in lockers
to make their walk home short and nightmares the kind of crap
their kids couldn't eat off tv with hook hands and poked holes for eyeballs.
nowhere to go by but the canary,
it's minimum wage in all out war or hide
and work played to the wheeze of a dead beat in autumn
of no man is island and everything has already been done once.

the pedestrian:
somebody get me a hero and i'll author a tragedy
yet murder in the theatre on an idle afternoon where duchamp
and death meet and don't create but do play chess in the park
until the curators and clerics recede to their quarters.
heritics in the paradise of fitzgerald
and in the alleys of 'frisco,
our recurrent tourist can only begin to think
picturesque of more distantly postcard.
once a cipher rat, now i'm looking for a publisher of dead beatitudes
and parables as absurd as the world we've woven for ourselves
out of worn down wonderment and wormwood,
rewriting the masterpieces word by word.
listen carefully, this song's an empty shell on the shore of the worthless ones,
my stab at simplifying beyond the hybrid of a smiling sambo and stony buster keaton.
phantoms in black face dance provocatively
around bundles of fanon's psycho colonial tomes,
oh it's as obvious as i get without hollering "fuck my father"
in double time freebasing placebos in a corporate experiment.
i've seen some of our most brilliant minds
corrupted by boredom and booze like sixtoo howls
but psyche shit stained and incoherent.
i'm a cycle myself still chasing the aesthetic
with a hellhound on my trail and a rent bill in his mouth.
maybe i'll just make a living out of question marks.
it's the recovering junkie poet slash alcoholic novelist part of us all,
any number of crossroads for yonder children of divorce and bankruptcy court,
hardly a great depression. we're all spoiled and mildy neurotic.
by day this middle finger is a white flag
signifying our apathetic middle-class course,
look at me roar, jaw jammed with raw flesh and perennial yawn.
when i wake up, i may find it all gone
wondering if the glass just half is in an empty world.
by now dylan's harmonica's museum bound soundtrack
to a bank commercial they'll bury you in the suburbs
with car keys and cell phones warmed over death in prefab dream homes and bingo on sundays.
they'll forget you in the ghetto banging on your chest
to hear the gold rattle in your gums.
this pointlessness pulses through my dearth of faith,
pointless in an imperfect circle without center.
each of us hypocrite preachers without flocks,
every generation is lost and makes songs out of it
but ours exiled from the search.