THE LONELINESS OF THE ITINERANT DOGWALKER
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THEBEATPOET
Author’s Note: Alan Ginsberg’s poetic write – Howl – still provokes thought, analysis and controversy – surely, the focus of the poet.
I suppose this piece is kind of my vain tribute but there is not a word in it that does not make me want to HOWL – howl TWICE and then keep on howling !!!

THE BICKER WOMEN .. .
Who wears best this shawl of uncertainty
whose mind is trained of fears furrow
to bow at noon – the bells of the Angelus
when blackened clouds of hell descend
around the fair shoulders of the puissant
burnished shields adorn their defence
within realms of hope and trial, honour gracious
worn heavy-knit her skin battles fields of care
for tis’ only soldiers that do not wonder
who were the authors of their answered prayer
and the Bicker women
not cultural stereotypes or
horror film characatures
taken from some ancient, dusty books
not plastic, elastic bimbos
the Bicker women
local born and bred
born to Bicker
who live long in Bicker
lives until the ‘she’ is dead
her splayed black dress
her woolen scarf
wrapped around her head
she speaks few words
yet kneels to pray
Bicker woman
of highest feminine degree
who went to school at age of five
with childhood peers, all years
her teacher aged
much talked of life
Yet no one teaches Bicker woman
how to be an honest wife
it is inbred, assumed by sight
the law of wolves and nature
understanding, words unsaid
Conscripts travel to their debt
fair soldiers of regret they line
the fields of shame, those fit, healthy
will remain after nights of sordid pain
have robbed their mothers of their love
none revive yet memory keeps all alive
and there the Bicker woman
dressed in morbid black
her body no less fragile
her beauty rests beneath her shroud
of shapely legs and cuni
her chest adorned of breasts
she is not an animal to scorn
or mount within the farmers field
Bicker woman
made of sterner stuff
not given to the vagaries of snuff
or perfumed trinkets
Bicker woman
the least and last to bicker
or to gossip or to blather
she has no time for sentimentality
or lust of thought
she is happy with her lot
The guardian angels who return
carry their dead and wounded
Jerusalem hath fallen for today
there are animals now in trail
who carry broken boys to their
mothers for burial or for death
but then the Bicker women
collecting souls from the glen
where lie generals spent forces
dead and dying in the heather
tragedy haunts the Bicker women
their smiles as gentle as their dead
©edenbraytoday06.10.2022
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The Heart of the BEAT POET Is free you do not tell the BEAT POET what to write .. .

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The Clyde she passes by the Gorbals
south-side of that pulsing city
out where the old slum sits
they dressed her in respectability
but she is a sow on heat with 14 teats
Swam long – the Rubicon
water shallow an’ ’twas muddied
of decisions laid long-side the shoreline
torn hearts and corpses bloodied
I have never been in Rome
Or sat by the banks of Purus River
where there is still sweet water
west of one unspoilt tree savanah
the axe is sharper when it’s clean
the worst murders – those unseen
Travelled to St Louis to see another river
laid my roots down by Maggie’s farm
strange that I reverse my decision to disarm
that day the bomb struck in Kiev
children died, others arms were severed
Floating down the Tigris River
with no desire to kill or maim
I noticed there a crocodile ‘ere teeth so sharp
a sign hung over his scarred head
It read ‘kill or be killed, till you are dead’
When I was young so full o’spunk
dreamed I to re-populate the earth
mama said ‘your balls too big for your head’
‘we all swam in that particular river’
mama’s words a shotgun to my head
I won’t swim the Harlem River
8 mile long it could damage your liver
outfits full a’blood with striped bass and the flounder
junk-business floats, it makes you shiver
I have never been to Harlem – no never
To trace the Yara to its origin
you will find it always muddy
upside-down and full of bodies
Yarro-yarro, indigenous, holy
sink a place of truth and dares
We squander liberty, forfeit heat
to journey up the Glåmaq
the vastness of Gudbrandsdalen valley
in the land of the midnight sun
to wear Norse legend and mythology
I must return to Shoreditch, to Botafago
to Harlem in the midst of where we left them
drug-lords prosper those rivers of convenience
turn the stone on this obscene prohibition
oust Custer needs be fifth amendment too
©edenbraytoday19.07.2022
KEALING .. .
kealing .. .
I was John Betjeman
I was Mata Hari
executed at dawn
thieves to the left of me
saints in red robes to the right
absorbed into the darkness
today you will be with me
you will kiss my cheek
thirty dollars
release Barabas
killers all go free
send me to the gallows
I have this obsession with freedom
with wild-west guns and slaves
their sweated, black faces
with justice and righteousness
with emancipation
decolonisation and absolutism
where the intellectual wins an argument
for once in his goddam life
before some ayatollah waves his wand
some totalitarian fuck-stik
and some freaky human parasite
changes all the rules…
©edenbraytoday04.11.2022
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