collegiate diversion

I tried pastige - ing Allen Ginsberg’s style. This is entitled “Brain Soup.” 

Her brain turned to soup,

Can I judge her for that?

Her back went stiff,

Can’t you help her with that?

Her heightened sense of smell,

and no Motrin,

Left a room of hell masked by burnt dreams and rotten groceries.

Someone take the trash out!

Sore sores in her left eye

Judgement of a democracy too quick to be accurate-

So it’s an honest lie.

Why won’t you help her with that?

Opened eyes and a drunken rant,

Closed for a drunk spirit that whining doesn’t suit.

I heard your footsteps in the ceiling

And romanticized a truth.

All you left behind in your body was a reminder

And some aching youth.

Tired and exhaustive.

A pain in her face that boils like something’s about to pop,

A merry cherry fell from the tree.

But you didn’t call me

- back so my back bunched up.

A leap of faith and we’re bungee jumping again

Off of a bridge too far

into a gap and then back up.

I wonder where you are

Apart, wide and across.

The New York Times said 20 down would solve it,

But nothing was fixed so

the news was a bore,

your story I abhorred,

and my brain felt sore.

It’s soupy from the smudged print,

over some expertly chosen word.

Someone please help her with that!

I say if I could have,

You know I would have.

But we’re a dying breed,

the honest ones,

And they retreated to Houston half a century ago,

or so,

for jazz or sex or soup.

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