Burroughs Birthday
Posted: February 5th, 2011, 10:28 pm
Before I found Naked Lunch
that Pan pipe afternoon, at seventeen
before I decided I had to make myself a poet
before I opened that paper back copy of Lunch
I might of had a hunch about the language he
used, diced, spiced, mixed, cut the headlines
I lived my young life through the looking glass
I walked around town looking through the trees
looking past the prehistoric leaves, I saw jazz
I saw slow musics sweeping the dwindling sky
before I turned the first dangerous page of Naked
I had roamed that neither neither world of twilight
zones, had drank of the fruit of the vine, and fallen
like one of those iconoclastic leaves into the heap
The jazz had swept my soul through the leap of fire
had torn down my defenses as my spirit flitted gyre
hither and tither I drifted over the town of my tears
before all those pulp dime novel covers had reeked
havoc on my childhoods, before the dime bag face
that one copy my dad left under the mattress,' H is
for Heroin' about teenager hipsters on junk, before
things got too elaborate, I found Blonde on Blonde
the radio on the radio told be how cool I could be
the TV on TV had sent me to the Beatnik school
I had been out of sight and out of mind, LSD fine
before, Lunch, there was hep cats and rat finks
and that was the ever living end, man oh man.
that Pan pipe afternoon, at seventeen
before I decided I had to make myself a poet
before I opened that paper back copy of Lunch
I might of had a hunch about the language he
used, diced, spiced, mixed, cut the headlines
I lived my young life through the looking glass
I walked around town looking through the trees
looking past the prehistoric leaves, I saw jazz
I saw slow musics sweeping the dwindling sky
before I turned the first dangerous page of Naked
I had roamed that neither neither world of twilight
zones, had drank of the fruit of the vine, and fallen
like one of those iconoclastic leaves into the heap
The jazz had swept my soul through the leap of fire
had torn down my defenses as my spirit flitted gyre
hither and tither I drifted over the town of my tears
before all those pulp dime novel covers had reeked
havoc on my childhoods, before the dime bag face
that one copy my dad left under the mattress,' H is
for Heroin' about teenager hipsters on junk, before
things got too elaborate, I found Blonde on Blonde
the radio on the radio told be how cool I could be
the TV on TV had sent me to the Beatnik school
I had been out of sight and out of mind, LSD fine
before, Lunch, there was hep cats and rat finks
and that was the ever living end, man oh man.
