Nothing Feels Me

A ripoff of Ginsberg's Howl cum ripoff of Walt Whitman. Accidental, really.

Nothing Feels Me

 

Massive influx of polemics on their s**t stained horses

            With aids and a thousand cosmetic prayers

            Rained down from the heavens

Kaddish " outside of Auschwitz at 17 and praying

            For the ash that will deliquesce back into messiah

            When the Jew drinks his Voltaire without complaint

The voice that eludes basically everyone with ears

            And you treat it as the outlier with indifferent

            Sacrifices to it and fall away with forehead stamped

Avernus, Hinnom, Golgotha, and WTC

            Where we send out anticipation into the cosmos

            Cape Canaveral style and there’s no wonderment left

Pompadours and secret gay lovers and hipster beanies

            That fallicize the head that plunges lubricated

            Into miasmas of self-hate and daddy issues

To Dan, who is me with better looks and women

            Lamenting a marked lack of martyr-heroes in my story

            Delusions of grandeur washed away by morning

To Lethean dogmas of moving on: sick rose insanity

            And self-destruction of the Jew writing little girls letters

            Under lost teddy bear alias - $2 coffees and a lobotomy courtesy of Charon

Galatea who we can’t know if she settled by a still hearth

            So teen girls wax their p*****s away and there’s nothing left

            To give to the philosophical zombie or solipsistic boy stowed off with his Proust

To manhood laughing away like god, Hitler, and the wise old man

            Woman with her bleating heart that mockery couldn’t find

            In Iphigenia but was billionfold in Deborah, cutting away!

To Salome! To Salammbo of the coffeeshop with eyes like the apple drop

            Stealing my poetry so ill know my genius of romance and perversity

            Is being dissimulated by her recherché femme fatale shamanism

Suicide that preys on the irony of friends with hairpin hearts

            That looks for love in pain and won’t just have the self-denuded martyr!

            One eighth of his soul is lit like children in Moloch’s breast

To Jane and Molly who had no voice to call their own

            Who waited on the first prophecy to show itself between their legs

-          Jordan, who wove one from the hair torn from her head

Dictionary poetry that wallows beneath the foot

            Of my as yet unnamed unborn and unfucked chanteuse

            The least favorite poet I ripped off and the Lou Reed poking at my mind

The nave and into the devouring bosom of Jesus Christ:

            Pharisees that mix alcoholic hedonism and portents of orgiastic proportions

            With their fetal position proclivities

Works of art sparked by a hand pleading with its brother c**k

            And the squabbling odalisque painted to avoid serial murder

            Of every last c**t in this subwayless town

To the stars condemned to the diaphanous at break of day

            The pizza grease waterfall off my chin, the boys and girls

            Stuck to the armature in compromising positions

To the parodying froth on my coffee whose images of me’s

            Pop and sipped away without remorse since there’s masturbation, writing

Writing and useless reading, comsumerized Golgotha escapism to be done.

 

              

Author's Note

Ignore the lack of congruity