The Skin of Beat - (reaction to "Howl")

They can spin in their nebulae of screaming and funk- freedoms
Friable fucked figures of poetic fecundity and fortune
They can shoot the stars felt into veins of pure numb pain
And they can die and live again…LIVE! LIVE! and die
And their spoilt spilt suffering tears falling onto pavements and butts and drains that run into the dry neon light filled sub-bitumen sewers of the interspacial atmospheric storming cities.
O’ the excitement of that electric storm, those winds
And their ruffling hair
And in feeling it call it the gracing breath of some clinging justifying all merciful pushover of an angel.
Only so as you remember it in case you never feel it again
Like a spell of words to catch the breeze in for yourself.

Who am I to say that their words were or weren’t truth, beauty…but careful of some messy perfection:
In case such was recognised as a kind of perfection and was thus ruined.
Is this nihilism? Is this afraid to live? Is this life a failure because you see all your chances as disappearing in the void of
“I was digging something else at the time”
or in the over- exposure of hindsight and comparing yourself and self’s life to others and that of others?
You’re faltering because you somewhere wish you felt you deserved something to match your desires.
They too are disappearing aren’t they?
Humbled, opened and bled, they are anaemic desires, leached and sagging.
Empty is this scribbling silence; this wish of sensation; this wish to sensate
And to justify any little mistake, to clean the slate
Cleaner than birth.
A wish to bring something fantastical, like the feeling of having been right all along, to whatever you all found death to be.