(Disclaimer: I have immense respect and admiration for the beat poets of the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. That being said, when hipsters of today try to emulate those beat poets, they often get the addiction without the insight. Kerouac died at 47 due to years of heavy drinking. The question is; Can we recapture the voice of the beats without killing ourselves in the bargain?) Also, I took a little artistic license here, “One The Road” was written between 1947 and 1950. Joan Vollmer was not shot in the head by William S. Burroughs until September 6, 1951.
Beat Poets, what pretentious pricks. The stand before you with a morally objectionable bag of tricks.
They use words like, “masturbation”, or “copulation” to hold attentions, and throw in just for flavor, a few “not to mentions”.
And the smoking, smoking, smoking of unfiltered cigarettes. Don’t bother flicking the ash off the end, the bigger the ash, the better, and when it falls in your soup, no cause to offend.
And what, just what in hell, do they put in their vein? Never met a fat beat poet… And they will try to convince you that you are the one who’s insane.
That sticky brown goo, or that colorful pill. Brother can you spare a dime, so we can buy more of this swill?
They wear their berets and spew forth nonsensical crap. When they’re finished, don’t be square man, make sure that you snap.
So, you went to Denver, then San Francisco on your trip. I guess you heard that your friend down in Mexico shot his wife, in the head, with the gun from his hip.
Be prepared, that’s the motto, and what a handy little knife. Used it to stab the boy, when he tried to make you his wife.
Oh the beats, the beats, the beats, what a cool little high. I don’t mean to preach, your freedom I would not deny.
Stream of consciousness, that’s the real problem. Now where was I, how else do you rob them?
You write books, then you use your own voice to record your books. Oh how much more powder could I snort, if, my book was so offensive that they took me to court.
And hey, I will marry you in Frisco, my sweet little honey. Then in Texas I’ll ditch you, when we spend all of your gas money.
But don’t worry, dear friends, as I write my bold little book. I’ll change all your names, so the coppers won’t look. So brave we are. Had your finger on the pulse of our mind, but at 47, it’s your pulse they won’t find.
I’m 57, ten years older than you will ever be. And when I retire, I’ll follow your trek Kerouac. But, I’ll take the new caddy, the hobos can ride in the back.
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