Burroughs is writing with his eyes closed,
blinded by the flickering dream machine,
twelve flashes each second,
mimicking the brains alpha pulsebeat,
inducing epileptic activity,
and Ginsberg's red typewriter spews,
spills sheets of sequenced outpourings,
gliding on Parisien zephyrs,
settling down on stacked manuscripts,
such intellectual proclivity,
such events now lost in time forever.

There is a homage to Khali taking place,
large blank canvas pure white paper,
three Japanese brushes and a grid roller,
painting fast and furious squirming yellow glyphs,
followed by large orange splashes edged in green,
then the blue grid roller over it all,
dribbling Pollocklike curves and swishes,
imposing a restraint on vibrating beauty,
painting finished rip the paper complete elation,
there is no destruction,
without creation.

Up the dirty tidal estuary to the great city,
jammed in water hyacinth rafts and choked,
split bamboo structures six stories high,
propped on beams hammered to the roots,
overhanging the convoluted railroad streets,
and arcades of warm Tangiers rain,
that falls in a sizzle of tiny heartbeats,
coastal people drift in the warm steam of night,
shifting patterns of colours under arc lights,
communicating with gentle catatonic gestures,
and episodes of immobile silent might.

Fracturing the clear surface of reality,
subjecting the images of everyday life,
to the power of random factors,
using words as effective weapons,
against the advance of control agencies,
and their fact assessing instruments,
the reflex cringes slowly dies by increments,
in a room of deconditioning agent,
seduced by a new form of psychotherapy,
seeing reality clearly without nostalgic sentiment.

When things close for good one spring,
there will be a grey cat so sad there,
watching amongst the Madames geraniums,
they will then retire away both together,
and be old and be grey and be sad,
fading away from lifes bad act forever.