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Array
(
[sid] => 3763
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Recipe Seed Philharmonic
[time] => 2002-09-13 05:57:58
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I saw the best minds of my
generation never really develop in the first place. Ginsberg you lucky frugal b***ard! (To rub it in he steals my initials). "Get off it kid my name was never Allen," he says, "it's always been Fred since I can remember." Great memories as these smear together like the scent of finger- paints over lost Salvador's gifts to mankind. I can only be too happy to stamp your certificate on this occasion. I saw the Harpo of my comedy team look up from the rocks beneath the bridge. He is me, and he's been silent far too long. The Christs, the Franklins and the Hitlers, becoming heroes of their gender. Mary must have flown to Paris and fell in love with Baudelaire. "You son," he says, "are the hybrid of an invention known as the canoe." "That's fine and all," I reply "but the only water I've ever been able to walk on was frozen." The perfect ridicule. "A poem is worth a thousand pictures." She forgot to mention what the pictures where of. "There is an unwritten silence in the spoken word," I announce to a house full of silent stars. I had to develop my own constellation in expressing the horrors found in a contemporary's soliloquy. The simple millions exchange their greeting cards for sake of meat and potatoes. I conjure up a gallery and twenty things in letters laughing. With the world of again Lenny Bruce, we dance and draw chalk lines around our instruments. He asks, "you dig it jim?" Someone says, "no," and the dream is over. Gallery canceled. Twenty things jumping ship. Reviving lost moments in various places with artistically positioned camera angles, the faces continue to suffocate their hosts. (Hell, I know I can't breathe). I lay my head down to on-coming traffic. "What are you doing?" ask their eyes. "Just filming," I respond, "just filming." Then Thelma Todd tries to save me with her love, but I guess that's my fault because she never returns my calls. A trinket falls from the ear to a splash, in the ink of Unknown, the artist and the poet. Hidden between the mediocre libel we emerge one by one to eat cherries and dry ice. (I figured a simple definition fared appropriate for secret prize. You damn well know where my vote is cast; to the whole truth of this matter, where nothing does matter, for it is all just that). Yes, I've seen the minds of generations too Kitten. You can thank my pen for this. And for Chuck's typewriter I can still call you names, because for all the silent stars I love, I've waited. These are the minds you lucky suckers. These are the minds, (worth the pictures, just filming). [comments] => 1 [counter] => 153 [topic] => 30 [informant] => Adam_Gaucher [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => PoemsonBeauty )
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