After Allen Ginsberg
Tyres screech across the rubble of my adolescence. All sanded blood and cat’s eyes.
It’s my corset, my boa constrictor—the cheek-smacking heat of it, the impure filth,
muggy as a bat cave. Solipsism chased with quick hits of ice cream, pound for pound.
The hopeless make their music out of rat-infested boxes and frying pans thrown out the back by oil-slick chefs in their plaster, shouting orders at the peppered steam.
All are the lost boys following fairy dust, drawn with tar and goose feathers. Where do we channel our beliefs? Do we cast them in iron, do we screw them in. The merciless toil
away in their glass towers, burning all the pennies they found on their way up, as though currency is a blank canvas. Blueprints pinned to the freezer, corners folded in like
envelopes. I take an elevator to some candied hotel, pickled apples pray to the reception desk, dried flowers coo like otters. Here I am valuable, here I am the dog star. Adolescence is
a mortician applying my lipstick with a navy-gloved hand, exonerating with embalming fluid. The plagued push shopping carts through fire and ice, wheels sticking to orphaned tax
forms. O adolescence, you dustbowl of fresh lust, I should have known you’d hide from me.
Had to read another...really good.