my ice skates on a wall
luster of stumps washes his lavender horizon
he's got a handsome face of a lousy kid
rooming houses dirty fingers
whistled in the shadow
"Wait for me at the detour."
river...snow...someone vague faded in a mirror
filigree of trade winds
cold white as lace circling the pepper trees
the film is finished
memory died when their photos weather worn points of
polluted water under the tees in the mist shadow of
boys by the daybreak in the peony fields cold lost
marbles in the room carnations three ampoules of
morphine little blue-eyed twilight grins between his
legs yellow fingers blue stars erect boys of sleep
have frozen dreams for I am a teenager pass it on
flesh and bones withheld too long yes oui oui
craps last map...lake...a canoe...rose tornado in
City night fences dead fingers you in your own body
around and maybe a boy skin spreads to something
else on Long Island the dogs are quiet.
I read this last night just before going to bed. Wasn't sure what I thought about it at the time, but this morning I woke up, read it again and it blew me away. Something about the rhythm, almost desperately seeking sanity rhythm, that I liked alot so I thought I'd share it with you guys. As noted above, it's written by William S Burroughs who was a writer during the beat generation. I copied this from; THE BEAT BOOK which was edited by; Anne Waldman with a foreward by Allen Ginsberg. Good stuff if you want to check it out.