Bowel.
(with apologies to Allen Ginsberg)
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by mortgages, over-fed, psychotherapised, well-clothed,dragging themselves through the suburban streets at dusk looking for a pleasant burgundy
angelheaded hipsters hanging in the wardrobe, the best of the Ancient Heavenly Collection to the Starry Dynamo on limited-edition boxed CD,
who comfortable and designerlabeled and tired-eyed and high sat up smoking in the pleasantly lit living rooms of Victorian semis floating across the tops of cities contemplating old punk records,
who hid their hearts from Heaven under the oak beams and who wondered whether or not to call the police about those Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated again,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes exuding Home Counties and Tennyson-light flirting among the scholars of the Peace Studies Department
who graduated from the academies slightly unbalanced but never once having published obscene odes on the windows of a skull
who lay on futons in designer-stubble rooms in sexyenough underwear, stuffing their money into pensionplans and listening to the Cure through their surround sound systems,
who once got cautioned in their pubic beads returning through Brixton with an eighth of hash for Stoke Newington,
who ate guacamole in quaint B&Bs or drank Jameson's in Chaucer Close, or worked out their torsos gym after gym
with plans, with vitamin supplements, with visioning exercises, the odd bit of skunk and half-cocked tantric orgasms,
incomparable bland streets of shuddering net curtains and sunshine in the mind leaping toward poles of Scotland and Loch Lomond, highlighting the trafficbound world of Time between,
Gin and tonic fluidity of halls, rooftop garden green tree riverside dawns, chilled wine on the veranda, shopfront boroughs of mid-afternoon car-ride dusty sunbeam traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the gentle winter dusks of Hammersmith, ashtray arguments and witty prince light of wind...
… Tony Blair! I am with you in lslington
where you're smarter than I am
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you must feel very pleased
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you imitate the shade of my headmaster
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you've charmed twelve secretaries
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you smile at some invisible joke
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where we are mediocre popstars on the same well-meaning guitar
I'm with you in Islington
where we wake up anaesthetised out of the coma by our own souls' betrayal blushing over the rooftops we're going to drop angelic bombs the private hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls solidify O skinny legions are kept out of sight and mind O land of hope&glory in pride the eternal smile is here O victory change your underwear we're all smarmy as shit now
(with apologies to Allen Ginsberg)
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by mortgages, over-fed, psychotherapised, well-clothed,dragging themselves through the suburban streets at dusk looking for a pleasant burgundy
angelheaded hipsters hanging in the wardrobe, the best of the Ancient Heavenly Collection to the Starry Dynamo on limited-edition boxed CD,
who comfortable and designerlabeled and tired-eyed and high sat up smoking in the pleasantly lit living rooms of Victorian semis floating across the tops of cities contemplating old punk records,
who hid their hearts from Heaven under the oak beams and who wondered whether or not to call the police about those Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated again,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes exuding Home Counties and Tennyson-light flirting among the scholars of the Peace Studies Department
who graduated from the academies slightly unbalanced but never once having published obscene odes on the windows of a skull
who lay on futons in designer-stubble rooms in sexyenough underwear, stuffing their money into pensionplans and listening to the Cure through their surround sound systems,
who once got cautioned in their pubic beads returning through Brixton with an eighth of hash for Stoke Newington,
who ate guacamole in quaint B&Bs or drank Jameson's in Chaucer Close, or worked out their torsos gym after gym
with plans, with vitamin supplements, with visioning exercises, the odd bit of skunk and half-cocked tantric orgasms,
incomparable bland streets of shuddering net curtains and sunshine in the mind leaping toward poles of Scotland and Loch Lomond, highlighting the trafficbound world of Time between,
Gin and tonic fluidity of halls, rooftop garden green tree riverside dawns, chilled wine on the veranda, shopfront boroughs of mid-afternoon car-ride dusty sunbeam traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the gentle winter dusks of Hammersmith, ashtray arguments and witty prince light of wind...
… Tony Blair! I am with you in lslington
where you're smarter than I am
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you must feel very pleased
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you imitate the shade of my headmaster
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you've charmed twelve secretaries
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where you smile at some invisible joke
… Tony Blair! I am with you in Islington
where we are mediocre popstars on the same well-meaning guitar
I'm with you in Islington
where we wake up anaesthetised out of the coma by our own souls' betrayal blushing over the rooftops we're going to drop angelic bombs the private hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls solidify O skinny legions are kept out of sight and mind O land of hope&glory in pride the eternal smile is here O victory change your underwear we're all smarmy as shit now
