Mewl – Part 2

pilfered from Allen Ginsberg and
abused by driftglass

...

fascist solidities of war eternal,
synthetic poteen pity drizzled over unfilmed closed-casket military cemetery dawns,
Seven league boot powerdrunk leapfrogging over habeas corpus,
stormfront blogs of meatmush neoconnunism acolytes
straffing the truth to aspic, while fallen angels of falwell's pit
shred the sun and moon and tree to fit a little broken book;
teevee vibrations nurse roasted spectral dusts
that still grope the alleys of our subconscious Brooklyn,
where Murrow stood, now ashcan rantings
and a child king of sloshy liquid sadist mind,
who chained themselves to madmen for the endless
ride from lynchburg to pennsylvania avenue on benzedrine
until the noise of slaughter and parboiled rights brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain all drained of evil clever
in the drear subpoena light,
who drank all night with the father of lies on a fake ranch
swaggered across a steel deck lied through thirty years to alcohol;
high noon for the freaks, opening the crack of doom for empire and a better ROI,
who lied continuously sixty months from florida to
nyc to the Iraqi national museum to ohio to the Tigris Bridge,
ghosts of wasted battalions waved away with cocktail weenies
asphyxiated by air-thieving teevee conversationalists
conjuring memories of humans jumping off fire escapes
off windowsills
off the towers of the Empire State
out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering spin
to keep us stupid afraid sleepy hiding from the parade
of shock of limbless and hellfire and wars,
whole verities disgorged in complete detail every day
verifying in stone fact and blood and unimpeachable history
the crimes of the pernicious men
with the rodent eyes,
meat for their offering to Mars cast on the pavement,
budging the tiny thoughts of the wretched not a millimeter
for whom past vanishes into Hate Radio nowhere Zen leaving a
trail of oxidizing yellow ribbon spoor from triumphal ape screams
to shutupshutupshutup you dirty, dirty hippy,
suffering the sweat of the dead wrong standing eye-deep in the dying
turning Rush up louderlouderlouder to bone-grind-ing amplitudes,
migraines of morons under hate-withdrawal in mommy’s bleak furnished basement,
who wander around and around at midnight in the
junkyard of right blogistan wondering where to go, what to think,
leaving broken men, crushed children, violated nations
…