WRITE LIKE THE FIRST OR THE LAST ?

[Robert Morpheal, Morphealism, Bob Ezergailis]

"Rather, I think one should write, as nearly as possible, as if he
were the first person on earth and was humbly and sincerly putting on
paper that which he saw and experienced and loved and lost; what his
passing thoughts were and his sorrows and desires."
-Neal Cassady to Jack Kerouac

I disagree with Neal.

I know, from experience, that one ought to always write as if one is
the last person on Earth,
trying to say all those things Neal mentions, to whomever might read
what is written, and
maybe understand something of it. Writing to that other species that
doesn't know it, and doesn't write it. Something likenable to
Nietzsche's "last man" and still hopelessly hoping that something in
the writing of it might resurrect one's own species from its own
endless being destroyed and destruction, and from no more than beaten,
broken, and ultimately down to dust and ashes, among uncomprehending
and incomprehensible aliens who are taking over.

Beat is not about idolizing gone beat poets, and repeating their ever
longer ago lines, and that's all there is, no more and it is history,
over and done, finished, ta da, drum roll, and a shout of hooray.
No.... if you are really beat, you write. And you write. And you
write. And you write like you are the last person of your species left
in the world.... but you still write it, even if it is only because
something or someone wants to stop you and doesn't want you to write
it, you write it. Even if to spite them, you write it. Beat is about
doing it. Not one of the beat poets of history would have wanted it to
stop only with them, and become no more than a historical epochal
movement stuck in a niche of time. No... they would have said write,
write, write and keep writing it. Keep the beat going. Don't ever let
it stop, because when the beat stops, the heart of it all stops, then
there is nothing but cold, still, silent, death.

Cheers.

Robert Morpheal

It's 3 AM.... I need some sleep.

Here are some poems..... and the aliens will chastise me saying they
are not "beat" enough.
Hell, I don't care what the aliens think, say, or believe about them.



301108A
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They have taken away
all my courage,
by making you despise it.

They have taken your’s,
replacing it
with the commonest patterns.

I am too experienced
to be that programmed,
so I remain isolated.

You are too inexperienced
to ever break free
so you remain within it.

What is common now,
was never common before,
and it perishes us.

You cannot know me,
I cannot know you,
and anyone else can tell us that.

What is so very forgotten,
is the simple fact
that it was not always that way.

-------------------------------------

301108B
-----------

They have made me
invisible.
I can walk around the room,
not catching even one eye.
I have become a ghost,
dancer in the night,
of your endless wars.

The fact that you were warm
tells me you will be cold.
It is the way we are reminded
that death stalks us,
striking at any expectations,
killing the various moments
of when we try to escape it.

If we chanced together,
everything will then conspire
to divide us apart,
until we no longer attempt
crossings of the wasteland
knowing the minefield
would inflict its routine damage.

---------------------------------------

301108C
-----------

You have already massacred me,
with your own beliefs,
only to offer me the dregs
from a near to empty cup,
of your piss and vinegar,
as a pretense of generosity.

You seek to make me hungry,
in your zeal to make me beg
for a stale crust of your mercy,
baiting and teasing with that too,
claiming it makes your ugliness
into something beautiful.

I can only hope to hurt you,
by saying I never believed in you,
even when you forced your words
from my mutilated tongue.
I would hurt you with a mortal wound,
for every forced syllable.

You always seek to make waste
whatever I chance to be able to do,
telling me there is utterly nothing
that can ever be done,
but you know I love to do
the kinds of things you say you hate.

You took what I found,
and then you offered your dung
into the wound of that emptiness,
leaving me only the infection,
given as if it is a precious gift
meant to replace everything else.

You wanted another small trophy
for your own collection of prizes,
luring me with a chance of winning
whatever can never be won,
but I was never really a gambler
and you always want it all at stake.

I can no longer distinguish
the savagery of your failed politics
from the brutality of your religion,
your small talk would make me vomit
and your best is so vilely deformed,
all I know is a sense of horror.

-------------------------------------------

301108D
-----------

When I seek to devote myself
to the complex simplicity of an art,
you always want to tangle me up
to consumed with every other struggle,
in the violence of anything else.

You want to make me so poor
I can feel your teeth chewing
relentlessly on my bones,
your ideological flail having stripped
away any intimacy of flesh.

It is impossible to conceal what I like,
so you torment me with opposition,
until every day is another funeral,
with only one mourner,
burying something that you killed.

The singular and unique honor
of being the first original abstraction
to be declared completely off limits,
for chancing outside associative rules
as to any predestined meanings.

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