Picture Credit: Jordan Lewington
Fyodor’s broke-down superman broods,
disturbed by the un-crime;
moldering on a filthy sofa
in the half light
of his paranoia.
And Hunter S T, who travels the whole
of a shelf, cannot die
there for the troubled thoughts,
dark like hallucinated wings,
cure themselves with sober pureness
within the clean pages –
ink and page rejuvenate
the roaming recidivist
of highways. Kerouac strikes a note
so lonely through the lonely end
of the shelf, whereupon the Beats,
gin juice haunts, wandering,
wayward men on roads like gray
ghosts, and desolated
angels quest after answers to nothing.
Protective dustiness buries
those Tom Hardy texts of torture
that hold captive
all the deluded sinners of
Jude too obscure, maddening crowds,
whores and black-tongued kids, lost idols;
they shun the penance prayer.
Organized fictitious lives
fleshed that they may rise
from bindings that cannot bind them.
These books breathe in me.
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