Dear Ginsberg - Poem by Hannah Whittington
These are my confessions to you, God of Poets,
Who projected screaming films of his insane mother(s)
These are my movies,
Of my own,
Martyr Lu weeping in an alcoholic basement
her children teleported to some gray book
street, picking up fallen coal behind trucks,
keep warm, keep warm
survive with the help from the father,
of the son who is the Holy Ghost
who grew up to sic his infamous heroin wolves,
to kill my brother in the kudzu
that lines the traintracks I was born by.
Of obese fingers slapping
the flesh of her own chubby
revival survival, feeding him
Devils and Burger King.
Of 50,000 moving boxes,
sticky coca cola covered pennies,
But none for your thoughts maam,
of being piss poor, and not raising your hand
Of the little girls I loved,
from 7 to 11, luring them into bathtubs
High and pulsating to Pink Floyd,
strobe lighting in secret.
Of the second life, of the mustached star gazer
conquered by his demons, unstruggling
Sprinkling sleepy dust into the eyes of his children
(he loves more than anything but she can't know)
Of space heaters, of marijuana in the freezer.
(Will the Easter Bunny come tonight? Only if you sleep.)
Of my interrupted love affair
With the paranormal, with indigo,
with dead relatives, with voices,
with hands in the clouds. Of them all being frightened away
by Towering Reality.
Of my father's one prisoner tear,
escaping in the airport, of my brother's dialated pupils,
of all the LieTruths in the World dancing on his eyelids,
stealing his sanity and one tooth.
Of the boys I knew, in 50 shades of blue,
of acidic ramblings and stolen words
of blank pages that will always enslave him,
of collages for the Bermuda Triangle of love.
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