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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v222) (the July 2011 Issue, You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This is also in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Exploding on the Scene” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

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Dead Beats

Roger Cowin

1.
Pale / fat
alcoholic Jack,
married to his mother
till death did he part.
Never wanted to be a Beat /
secretly desired
to be one of those lame,
middle class cats
he professed to despise.
Now they teach
“On the Road” and
“The Dharma Bums”
in college classrooms.
Guess you made it after all.

2.
Handsome Neil,
like a modern day Adonis,
rushing from coast to coast
via thumb or broke down / jalopie,
fueled on weed and speed /
lover of men and women.
Broke all their hears /
a regular Casanova De Sade,
found frozen
on some railroad track
in Mexico.

3.
Sunken eyed / wraith thin
junkie street hustler punk,
Herbert Hunke
who cut a swath
through New York’s seedy underbelly.
What’d ya think
of your intellectual friends
who lifted you
from certain obscurity
and an early death
to mythic status /
supporting you until
your death as an old man
safe and secure in your own bed?

4.
Burroughs you old fuck /
heard you read once,
gravelly voice grating
like nails on a chalkboard,
a match
scraping against sandpaper.
High priest
of the Beat generation.
Unrepentant junkie / faggot /
murderer,
got blood on your hands
just like your buddy Lucien.
What was June thinking
just before you put a bullet through her head?
Guess you took that to your grave.

5.
Ginsberg / sex obsessed
Buddhist rabbi of lost angelic hipsters
who bled poetry from his asshole
who fucked Neil and Burroughs in the ass
who sucked off Jack and Lucien
who supported Hunke when he was old and dying
        and no longer able to steal for a living
who wept salty buckets of crocodile tears over Neil’s ashes
          (he never really loved you, it was just a reflection of your own obsession)
who loved men but wanted so much to not be queer
who wrote Howl for Carl Solomon
          and Kaddish for your dead, mad mother,
whose words birthed a generation of crazed poets
who should have called White Shroud “White Cloud”
            so I could have wiped my ass with it
who loved Peter above all others and who betrayed you on your deathbed
            by going out to buy a stolen bike
            instead of watching over you as he promised.
Allen may the Buddha go with you.
Without you we’d all still be writing
                                                tight rhymes in iambic pentameter.

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