“Howl” written by Allen Ginsberg is the greatest poem ever written.

Objectively speaking.

I wrapped myself in The Essential Ginsberg for a continual bout in wordsmithing; as noir jazz, dusty lamplight and frosted mugs of matcha tea will do to you on a cool starry Saturday. “Howl” is my favorite poem of his, and it never ever fails to tickle the sidekick inside of my viscera who wants me to be something anything really. 

As I snuggled into grandfather night and eyeball kicks, I thought to myself:

It’s about damn time I made a tribute. 

After all. Today would have marked the 90th year, 7th month and 28th day of Allen Ginsberg’s life if he had still his life handy.

So I took the scrawly underlines and boxes and exclamation marks and asterisks graffiti-ing the pages of genius and formed them with my chalky chapped palms into the following lines of less-than brilliance.

Please read “Howl“. But if you cannot, or would very much enjoy a precursor to the mastery of the master, please read the following:

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Angelheaded hipsters

machinery of other skeletons

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table

who demanded sanity trials

who crashed through their minds in jail,

 

Platonic conversationalists,

dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom

obsessed with sudden flash of alchemy

where we wake up electrified out of the coma

by our own soul’s airplanes roaring over the roof,

 

The madman bum and the angel beat in time

contemplating jazz

forced to open antique stores

hydrogen jukebox

to recreate syntax and measure of poor human prose,

 

                             O victory forget your

underwear we’re free

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