The Censor (In praise of Ginsberg)


Words are hollow when void of intent
Vehicles of idea’s often removed from the road
Save for the words of sanctimonious incontinent
Orated by contemptuous preachers of pyrite alters
Clandestine crowds scream repent like an empty echo
Indoctrinated by their own fears
My words enjoy freedom
My inner thoughts cannot be dissected or infected
Censure me until I howl
Howl at the best minds of all generations
I will shout from the bowels of my entrails
Fuck you!
Now erase that from your mindless pomposity of egotistic rhetoric my censor
Whence erased I will whisper it thrice more
Fuck you fuck you fuck you!
Let the vulgarity resound across the echoes of self righteousness
For what is a whisper but an echo from the past
Uttered then forgotten
I watched as your angels staggered the hallway of red luminescence
Hoping to be bathed away in sabbatical confession
Winged followers staggering out by the dozen
Damning the practitioners of asexual dreams
Scorning the interracial existence bound for destiny
Yet lifting up the sanctimony of the matrimonial betrayed
Praising the scholars of death by war
In the cathedral of the absurd where hallowed rain murdered vulgarity
Buried its words in a tomb of satin linen
Laced with nylon garters of impropriety
With his blessing go forth
To sin once again
Void of intent

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