Bowery Blues Poem by Jack Kerouac

Bowery Blues

Rating: 4.8

The story of man
Makes me sick
Inside, outside,
I don't know why
Something so conditional
And all talk
Should hurt me so.

I am hurt
I am scared
I want to live
I want to die
I don't know
Where to turn
In the Void
And when
To cut

For no Church told me
No Guru holds me
No advice
Just stone
Of New York
And on the cafeteria
We hear
The saxophone
O dead Ruby
Died of Shot
In Thirty Two,
Sounding like old times
And de bombed
Empty decapitated
Murder by the clock.

And I see Shadows
Dancing into Doom
In love, holding
TIght the lovely asses
Of the little girls
In love with sex
Showing themselves
In white undergarments
At elevated windows
Hoping for the Worst.

I can't take it
If I can't hold
My little behind
To me in my room

Then it's goodbye
For me
Girls aren't as good
As they look
And Samadhi
Is better
Than you think
When it starts in
Hitting your head
In with Buzz
Of glittergold
Heaven's Angels


We've been waiting for you
Since Morning, Jack
Why were you so long
Dallying in the sooty room?
This transcendental Brilliance
Is the better part
(of Nothingness
I sing)


Bernard F. Asuncion 19 November 2018

Such a well crafted poem by Jack Kerouac....................

1 2 Reply
Mahtab Bangalee 19 November 2018

Little and little great and small feelings of likable sorrow of amendable delineated here /// its straightforward poetic style /// like it

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Kumarmani Mahakul 19 November 2018

This is a beautiful poem having touching expression and nice collocation.

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Richard Wlodarski 20 September 2022

The Great Kerouac! Brilliant writer, poet and musician!

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L Milton Hankins 16 September 2020

This is typical Kerouac...rambling, anxious, stark, sensual...full of unexplained imagery. I am only a fan of stream of consciousness writing when it has a location and a destination. Words on a page do not necessarily poetry make!

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Edward Kofi Louis 19 November 2019

I am hurt! ! ! ! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

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Uche Nwanze 19 November 2019

Beautifully crafted and insightful piece of art.

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Michael Walker 19 November 2018

Very much a street poem of New York City, quite pessimistic. Also visionary in some lines, 'For no church told me/ No guru holds me/ Just stone of New York'.

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Jack Kerouac

Jack Kerouac

Lowell, Massachusetts
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