Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don’t care who’s listening. Allen Ginsburg (Author of Howl and other poems)
Some things reside, reluctantly, in the soiled shadows. Like when you make a wish and throw a penny down a wishing well, it’s there forever, in the dark. That’s not nice.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I peeked into that unlit void, and shined a light on the wishes I once had that fester now like old pennies in the deep. You know how rats scurry out of the way when you drive down an alley at night? It’s like that. A bad neighborhood where (here I sarcastically explain the metaphor) wishes are like rats. Take a knife with you down that alley, they could turn on you.
Howl. I wish I could. I’m dissatisfied today, and it’s my own fault. I’m not you, I’m not a warrior and I’m not so strong. Maybe if I keep typing, this unfamiliar, hideous insecurity will dissolve. I can tell the Gods disapprove, and fuck them. Hypocrites.
I look at the beat poets, the ones who were unafraid to spill their imperfect guts in the coffee houses and opium dens in New York and San Francisco. They took LSD, and men slept with men, and they wrote about dirty things in dirty places. Some called it obscene; it was the 60’s, after all. The whole decade was confused. The real obscenity? Coldness and judgement. Fuck it. I just wanted harmony, and now I’m pissed.
What can I say? Whatever I want, thanks. It’s not always cute.
And those pennies are still there, miserable, in the blackness. Why do we throw wishes away? Now they’re just gone. The howling you hear is real, and loud. Maybe now you’ll understand and get that sour fucking look off your face. I have to stop now, my dog can hear me and is getting upset.