"On The Highways and Bi-Ways God Built" wrote

No surprise.

style?

The poem points to "Howl", which pretty much set the "beat" style:

i have seen the worst minds of my generation
decrepid, decaying
laying in the nuclear afterglow of four thousand years of oppresion
laughing to themselves
joined in communion with the freakminded corpses
swimming in the industrial waste of a world gone slightly sane
while the buddhamachinery short-circuits
in ways we did not intend
sat on the edge of conformity and cut myself
bled on the papaver soul of the immortal burroughs
and smothered the screams of the innocent
licked the vaginal offerings of the cocksucker godladies
hating the broken and limp motherfuckers
with their speed and their catnip-padded joints
and their blank sheets of paper sold as acid
puked a resin of syrian rue down my chest
and rolled in the trails of saliva
which my love angry-hearted tried to clean
twisted the huxleyblake mind of infinity
arguing paradigms with kuhn
as illuminati stalkers chanted crowley in the restrooms
killed the ethical ego squirting junk
up the nose of the hourglass vistas
where prostitutes kneeled shivering
with 45s to their heads
and their hands to their crotches
and pondered the sweet paranoid
as his stomach trembled in time
to the childhood memories of oceanlost traumas
which came prematurely in latex
tried not to listen when the vagrant and lost
whimpered entreats for the trumpeter
to play the music i have hidden
in the heating ducts of my stale apartment
shaken hands with the golden apple factories
of mutant biochemistries
splicing the cheap adrenochrome memories of my ancestors
to the higher transfinite ordinals of love
mocking rimbaud and gide
choken on combustion faulty reaction chambers
where there is no reaction

no matter how hard she shakes him
losing myself once again

i have listened to the wind blowing over the desert floor
day after day
to see if an answer would come

and nothing came

there once was a dark rain
forests of deep glowing amber
rivers awash in the bloodsemen fantasies of lepers
contemplating the end of the world
einstein was a rock star
running through the thousand year redwoods
to the synthesised euphoria of charge black holes
there are pages of the necronomicon which have not been found
chaldean songs remembered by children
playing with the insect people of dawn
but never voiced
do we scream with the schizos in their bellevue haze
howling for the dead god to rise and stop
for just one moment
this slaughtering reality?
or do we whimper with the white trash
single mother trailer park hussies
lose ourselves in routine?
forget the dreams?
and cry?

the curanderos await

cougar-eyes in the trees

my ancestors iboga

hide from me

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galathaea: prankster, fablist, magician, liar