It’s actually Wednesday this week and not even being completely dead after the writers society residential has stopped me. I wrote this poem while studying the Beat Generation for my dissertation, it is called ‘Beat Down’. I thought it’d be a good one to post as the Beatific feeling of the residential – writing, chatting, and staying up until dawn.
Where is my Joan Kerouac, my Nellie Cassady?
My bitter bloated woman dead on train tracks
After years of sweetening the world’s snatch.
Leaving a lover in every town and every port
With a wailing scrunch-faced baby to support.
Drinking and fucking and self-medicating drugs.
Where is my grotesque Godiva riding a boxcar?
Always visceral and vivid and naked in verse.
Poetry written through the windows of the skull
About her lays, and her conquests, and her cunt.
Picking out reams of inconsequential words.
Published and made it: released from the suburbs.
Where is my great American heroine in tapered slacks?
A button-down shirt gaping over her chest.
Her breasts bared to the hot sun of false field poverty.
Ready to be written up on the rim of a coffee cup.
A pack of fags on the sun-beached dashboard,
Leaving her heartache in the dust and the ash.