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About

Just a poem a wrote after reading a bunch of Ginsberg's stuff
Published:
The Last Sermon
In the shadows of scattered sun,spirits are busily feedingthe night-crawlers of society’s fleshwhich are held carelesslyfrom outstretched armsweightless on the minds of passersby,who have their headsto the ground, listeningfor those who fallin step and follow,like skeletons, unliving,set free from closetsleft open, and theclank, clank, whooshof their timeless shufflingthat makes it’s way to the doorand their they siton the front porch chewingthe fat of dogs and waitingfor the door to openup the minds that long agowere eaten by society’s wormsthat went unfed for a timewhile the ghost farmerswere going door to doorselling Armageddonto fearful parents of idealswho no longer answercalls of freedombecause it is all oneof Satan’s big jokesas he walks among the skeleton crews, laughingboisterously at the tight-lippedgrins on the pockmarked facesof world leaders who knownot the hour or the dayor need to care, the loco-motive is drawing near, blastingit’s triumphant notesturning heads of all sightless followers and brainless teachersof low morality throwndown like soiled garmentsto be picked up byan overworked Fatherwho has sent his Childfar to the East to cleanaway the shadowsmaking the sun’s risesafe once again.