Thursday, September 6, 2012
I just went to the Beat Museum
These poets are obviously dead,
These were sardonic, original men,
Not fit for anything else, than what they did.
I guess it's good they left something behind,
After all, the world needs some kind of sign,
How could we calculate variable pain,
Raising its head through motorcycle chain?
Strip joints surround the Beat Museum,
Porno particles as you arrive,
You can buy original copies of whatever they wrote,
And see a car like the car Kerouac used to drive.
Topic(s) of this poem: poetry