Allan Ginsburg: Poet, Pedophile, Drug Advocate

Alan Ginsburg, celebrated NAMBLA member and author of some of the best poetry (or "one of the best poems"...might be easier to defend) America has produced. I knew Howl before I read Howl from The Simpsons and They Might be Giants. I can't say I liked the poem, but I did appreciate the, well...beat.

So, I tried to copy that beat, and was unsuccessful. I also tried to discuss the topic of basic human greed and all the garbage that topic encompasses. I'm 45 now. I'm getting to the age where, under normal circumstances, most people at least toy with the idea of voting conservatively, but the GOP whiffed that easy lob long ago. I used to be pretty idealistic, is what I'm saying, and for the most part, that is still true. So, this idealism...what's left of it in the age of pussy-grabber politics...is railing against what disgusts me. Homelessness, inhumanity, McDonald's, rape, despair. The five daemons we must slay to advance and survive as a species. 

Anywho, you've been Boned again. You should probably stop making a habit out of it, or you might wind up in diapers. Until that time, here's a free poem:

Never, Always Again

I’ve seen shackles wreaked wreaths

while we, drunk on the hatred

of foolish impotent struggle, full of

not-knowing impoverished over-ego,

blameless/brainless, slumped

meaningless eyeglasses in hands,

a fool’s embargo of common sense

ignored for thin drink, razor-like,

nonsense greasy as fried food, all too

willing to become marginalized,

beaten unwilling, unraped, synthetic due to clean

thoughts of self-genocide bleeding

as

clocks continue to strike unforgiven

plagiarism caught in the near-too four-square

wood-bottomed legs-crossed chest-heaved

neck-broke teeth shattered eyes gouged ears closed,

so they could (or could not) react to what they

don’t (or won’t) even attempt to know to be true.

And I, I amongst them, I, locked arms with them,

at no uncertain level, at no unknowing

embedded jeers hurled my way pockets, pistons

stoked fires and far away daydreams

before them at times, teeth bared

in the process of chanting what I thought was truth

at myself, at them, at chair wall chain structure

event horizon pulverizing a spine spent

crying, head down

tear-stained.

Roy DePape is a Child-murdering Pedophile

Hi Everyone!

The Bone here. Long before I knew what a persona poem was, I came up with a...presence...whose name was Grittnore the Bombay Pedophile. I shortened his name to Roy DePape, which is the same, or similar, to a character in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'. So, that's how old DePape is, but Grittnore is much older.

I've always been fascinated by monsters. I've interacted with plenty of them. Bullies that want to hurt you. You know the type. King's monsters were a welcome distraction from the real thing, so I guess I named him DePape as homage.

Anyway, I was writing these poems, and I want(ed) them to be more of a character study than a recounting of the crimes. I mean, how does a child-murdering pedophile sleep at night? Or (make love? have sex? Bone?) get romantic with their partner? That's so weird.

On my drive of lost poems, I found several about Ol' Roy. Here's one I decided to omit from something. I can't remember if it was a manuscript or what, but I erased some notes about how this piece wasn't good or to my liking. So, I thought I'd give it to you for free, on my blog!

Don't say I never gave you anything.

(you) Love,

The Bone Inside

Pressure

He smells rotten meat

at night when the air’s on

and he traces his wife’s earlobe

with his left hand.  He wants

to be filled with something

other than this tonight.  He pushes

the denim quilt down

and slides out of bed. 

There are pills on the nightstand.

He dry-swallows two.  Head back

he sees, in shadows,

the slow rotation

of the ceiling fan.  Head forward

he can trace

the slats of the wooden floor

by the dim kitchen light.  It shines

for the sons who may want

something to drink in the night.

Under the bed

in a cardboard box

are brown hair locks.

He has handcuffs,

assorted license plates

and wood blocks

in the trunk

of his ’87 Buick Skylark.