The Beat Generation

my book is for sale!!!

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 00:39:06 GMT

CLICK TO BUY!!!

taylor
Date: Jul 23, 2008 1:13 PM

im new

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 01:30:54 GMT

a beat-ish poem i just wrote

"dreamed"

the manner in which i live,fuck or write is beyond the superficial glare of aging hipsters in LA.
i breath with the sun,moon and ink that come from my pen and spills to the paper.
no one knows me or my ideas of gratitude and brilliance.
i gravitate toward the deaf,blind and sullen creatures.
my higher power has been a slave to the grind and has not been seen in my town.
forever seems shorter as i sleep to dream of fantasies untold or rituals unspoken.
night life is habitual as is carnage.
sacred ruins and forbidden love are the destiny i pray to.
forgive me satan for i have dreamed.
lost and loathing i find a friend in my semi cautious mind.
lasting features and soft baby skin linger through space and religion.
i fear not who iam.

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Fri, 26 Jan 2007 20:10:11 GMT

You make me feel like a cockroach
dancing in the scum
loving every inch of the sewer
always on the run

the world is ours to discover
what triggers the endorphins
what lies beneath the covers
when we exchange fluids

don't you say
that you're confused
don't you feel
like you've been used
because it's not
it's not true

you make me feel like a rat
scurrying in the street
looking through the trash
for someone's rotten meat

the world is ours to destroy
with our dangerous ideals
I wanna take you to the backseat
and show you something real

you make me feel like a vampire
craving HIV blood
running around sharing needles
unprotected sex with a hooker

This is a song I've written. It might reveal that I've read too much burroughs. Please take a listen
http://www.myspace.com/stevekrishna

The song title is "cockroach"

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 05 Dec 2006 07:07:02 GMT

Hey all.

This is stars_crashing. I was having some security issues with my other journal so I apologise for any inconveniences. This is the fourth and hopefully final time this will happen.

<3Cal

Yage isn't as fun as it's cracked up to be.

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Sat, 11 Nov 2006 12:34:15 GMT

I woke up this morning

and realised that I need to meet someone who's willing to take me with them.

Around the world, out of my mind, away from here.

I don't care anymore.

I'm full of vodka, a new sense of self, and a seventh hole in my head.

I think that maybe, just maybe, I can do this!

Despite feeling completely and totally (WARNING: EMO CONTENT AHEAD) hollow-fake-I really do; I'm seeing this whole life thing as more of an extended vacation. I keep expecting to get a phone call from someone in the States or wake up staring someone in the face or walking out the door and down the hill or down the road and hanging out!-I'm thinking that there's just enough of me left to be completely and totally me. For the first time, in a long time.

Maybe it'll be you! Who knows!

If you're willing to take me to Shanghai, hole up for a few days in a hotel and talk, drink tea, go on a twelvehour train ride, then let's go!

There's a whole country at my fingertips! Tiptoes!

I'm dangling my feet off the edge of reality!

If you can afford the trip then I'll show you a good time!

Yage! Not fun but still an attraction!

Temples! Incense and biting mountain air!

I know who I want to go! I think you do too!

But also I kind of think maybe you don't want to come-that there's too much for you at home. That's alright! I'll come back and we can go skibble and skidder around like two craaazy cats and supplement our own insanity with the elixir of gods of years past!

We'll go back to Mexico!

We'll go crazy! Have fun! Live on the road again!

This sounds like a plan to me!

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 06:50:56 GMT

Download any of these great albums at
Click: ShareJazzMusic
a new LJ Community.

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 25 Apr 2006 03:06:37 GMT

On top of that valise
That dog is living better than me
Under these seven stars
That light his mistress’s eyes
Eyes with moondust
Gray dust
Smoke from long travel
Perhaps in yearning
Perhaps from the police
Or a lover’s unwanted commitment

On top of her valise
That dog like peppermint cherry drop
Thrown on top her clothes
Draws attention from the seven stars
That threaten to reveal her
Seven stars that chased her from Fresno to Portland
And left her
With small brown dog
Atop her valise
That dog is living better than she is

Her living room is lit with seven stars
She draws smoke
From a lighted claro
Looks at small brown dog and grins
He is her familiar
She travels in his skin
He travels in her valise

Dollar Face

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Wed, 19 Apr 2006 16:27:48 GMT

He got a mouthfull of shiny presents for you
just smell them shoes
them shoes and that gold
Old Dollar Face all wrapped up
put a bow on.
Smell it.

Tissue box and harmony
bones and tinfoil on the old red carpet
the old man looks sad
policeman is crying
refuses to look up
"what's that over there?" you ask
Poor boy's covered in hungry birds
"that was my party," he mutters to his toes.

Gone the girl and sweet
like fresh cream
here mysterious ache,
lonely and scratching
missing Old Dollar Face on TV
"what'd you buy?" he asks,
he wipes his nose on his sleeve
the cold has you both tired,
"I bought us some fresh cream," you say,
and wipe it on your sleeve.

That friend you call Cambodian Skinny Boy
because hungry people are funny
wastes his vigilance looking for obvious enemies
under a blanket of cancer
like asking if there is enough disease to go around
"maybe not, but you could always put a plastic bag over your head,
there's always enough plastic to go around," you say
just being helpful.

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 04:04:47 GMT

From streets of solemn midnight where ravens
Fissioned skies with their ominous calls
I saw blind destiny and grimmest fate
Arise from a double bed
Disguise themselves as beggars and walk the neon night
As accomplices despair and longing
Sedated hope
And stole his alarm clock

Truth is a dense weight
Is inconceivably hard to digest
Truth is a wait
A seat on a streetcorner
With winos and whores and desperate men
Whose bodies are inscriptions of truth
Carved in neon sigils that tattooed secrets on the wind
Of souls cut quick by enigmatic desire
And wrote bloody inscriptions on latrine walls
The Lateran walls of cavernous grief

Neon reflects oilslicks
Gasoline rainbows splashed colors into alleys and seedy bars
Screamed children’s hunger to lowering stars
Lit and mocked an anile smile
An old woman waits for a bus that like her dreams never arrives
And through gin stained eyes
Gasoline rainbows reflect Raphael
Stained glass windows
And the songs of angels
Barking dogs in wayside gutters

I saw blind destiny and grimmest fate
Arise from their double bed
Disguise themselves as beggars and walk the neon night
Having struck hope dead
We wait for the third day

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 04:00:44 GMT

I saw Walt Whitman
Sitting on the Boston Common
I saw Walt Whitman
From the bench opposite me tip large slouch hat
Smile elder eyes grin through white long beard
We knew who each other was
Though I had not seen him
Since Homer’s Iliad
Tore pages from Leaves of Grass and sailed them from that garret window
That he leaped to save
Courted his death
Run over by a train
Decapitated
I saw Walt Whitman die
Bach cantatas were played at his funeral
I saw Walt Whitman sitting in the Boston Common
Smoking a briar pipe
Listening to Miles Davis
Reciting the Body Electric

He told me
Condos were in the making
At Walden pond
A subdivision in the deer meadow
Private property
No tresspassing
Thoreau had gone to Woodstock
Had gone to Venice, California
Was cruising Sunset Boulevard tuned in to Jerry Garcia
But no bearded transcendentalists there you said
Only rowdy teenagers who hinted at bliss

On the Boston Common
I saw Walt Whitman
Nostalgic glad that voice is still heard
Over the trampling footsteps that have crushed Thoreau’s cabin
And distilled the wilderness into bottles of spring water
I saw Walt Whitman
Graybearded father
Slouch hat tipped in recognition leaning on a cane
Smoking a briar pipe
Listening to Velvet Underground

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 05:08:12 GMT

This is a revision of a poem I wrote for a workshop a few years back. the theme was to take famous quotes from existentialis philosophers and describe ourinterpretations of it. This was one of them.

“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full”--- Marcel Proust

Desolate angels
There is too much love in heaven to bear
Too much heaven in love to bear

It is not enough that your hearts crack and shatter on the anvil of doubt
Here
Everyone’s heart is broken
It is insufficient that your tears are blood bitter as Qumran’s soils
Or that your dreams are plucked and broken as your wings

Desolate angels
Dashed headlong to earth’s rushing course
It is not enough for your desires to be forged white hot
Impassioned
Here
All passion is inadequate to cthonic need
And the hottest needles of desire stab lame and mute through gelid night

Desolate angels
Too much love in heaven to bear
Too much heaven in love to bear
Embracing strong words and stronger wine
Drunken in bliss and never kissed
By the rapture of ruptured romance
A diamond ground to powder made the Milky Way
And set you reeling on its course

One way is the same as another
All roads lead nowhere but to heaven
Desolate angels
Too much love in heaven to bear
Too much heaven in love to bear
You cannot show anyone what has not already been seen

Desolate heaven
Full of love and rapture wine
Bound in servitude to love with hearts plucked strings
Forged in midnight longing where God is vanished
Reeling along the Milky Way
Along the dead roads that lead us on

Desolate angels
Can you bear the weight of heaven?
Is love too much heaven to bear?

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 14 Feb 2006 21:27:11 GMT

Hello dear friends:)))
I'm searching for subtitles for movie about Beat Generation The Source (1999) Directed By Chuck Workman

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Sun, 25 Dec 2005 08:39:50 GMT

Should I feel selfish because I'm unpleasant because I'm cold,
when this poor bastard next to me is rummaging through the garbage for reciepts to scam retail stores for smack?

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 13 Dec 2005 05:56:37 GMT

Young man stands beneath streetlamp glow
Under skies at midnight clock
Nothing in his pockets but tobacco dust
And outside them drifts crystal snow

Under his breath an icy mutter shudders
Body cold as the glow of incandescence
Reflecting off the dusty snow
Drifting from skies that rock

In the wind that sways the street lamp
Tobacco smoke from a briar pipe
Glows in his nostrils flares them wide
As the midnight skies that open

As tobacco dust falls from desperate pockets
Snow drifts from desperate skies
Glowing rosy incandescent clouds
His nostrils flare inhaling snow

Across the street a saxophone blows
Drifting wails
Brings frozen tears to glow
On incandescent cheeks

Pulling up socks he pulls a harmonica
From boots as desperate as his breath
And pulls a sound that mates with the saxophone
And drifts under incadescent street lamps

Toward a man with a briar pipe
Standing under incandescent glare
Who shudders at the young man’s stare
As he wails for one of the taxis
Drifting by in incandescent snow

Flamenco Poetry

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 13 Dec 2005 05:14:01 GMT

The Spanish poet Garcia Lorca was strongly influenced by the music and lyricism of the Andalucian Gypsies. One of their most beautiful forms was a song called a "saeta" or "sajeta", an word that means an arrow; it was designed to be both terse and poignant. The following is an attempt at a successful sajeta.

SAJETA

The rodeo grounds deserted
Hot sands volcanize rigorous thoughts
And turn them igneous
Fevered and molten
Hoofbeats on parched earth
Are substitutes of long vanished thunder
Sandfilled nostrils suffocate breath
Of pale blue horses
Hammered out on the blacksmith’s forge
My body is adamantine and obsidian
In the shadows made brittle by caustic sun
A flamenco guitar
Begins the solea
No blood red moisture redeems
Duneswept sheep corrals
Sand fills their eyes and stifles their sleep
Under burning ghat skies
The solea incriminates and blames
As midnight forges cautious allies
A moon as cool as water
Trickles stories into mouths parched by molten tears
To name their ghosts and recover lost dreams

Solemn words are departed from dessicated throats
Where only wind sweeps dunes to cover
Dead bones of coyotes who howled too long at aeolian blasts
As it stripped
Life away
Clutched tight to its air
Left arid moments hanging in dying cyclonic silence
As the solea’s breath mingled with dunes across the wastelands
It wept waterless tears
Through this penetrant wind
Wailing wild knowledge as it tore flesh from bone
Bone from blood
Blood from body
Body from breath
And breath from death

Flamenca Dura

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Fri, 09 Dec 2005 06:29:25 GMT

Dark Andalusian eyes are two cups of Mateus
And soft skin the blood of roses
And illusioned eyes weep the reflection of dawn
Hair insinuating charcoal vapor and flame
Eyes have seen the ocean
Sipped the dew of roses before the dawn could sneak in
Solitary guitar
Begins solea as dancers take their poses
Dark Andalusian eyes sing a lyric that drowns
In the cold ocean spray
Of that yesterday beach
And illusioned eyes black obsidian green jade
Warm waving watered silk
Eyes are cantina lamps
Tormented by the wind
Clouds of charcoal and flame part as she combs her hair
Guitar incriminates
Midnight forges caution
Moon as cool as Mateus trickles songs into mouths
Parched by tears hoarse from blame
Dark Andalusian eyes are two wrestling lovers
Sweating their whispered truth
Hinted at in two tears
And illusioned eyes watch the zapateado
As guitars sense the dawn
That must murder their notes
Eyes wave across the room
The final fandango dies away on the dawn
As the solea’s breath
Mingles with dunes and waves
Dark Andalusian eyes
Hair of charcoal and flame
Pillowed against the dawn
And illusioned eyes fail mute as the gypsies
Go home to their cliffside caves
Eyes are two cups of wine
Dark and illusioned eyes empty of dance and song
The charcoal and flame
Gray vapor with roses
Waved on penitent wind

A DEBATE WITH THREE CATS ON KNOWLEDGE,POWER AND FREE WILL

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Thu, 08 Dec 2005 02:22:38 GMT

As I pen this poem I am watched intently by three cats
sleek siamese,pomous persian ,black tabby with mike tyson muscle
perhaps they are spies for an international poetry cartel
perhaps they are bored
perhaps they are waiting for my story

you see, this poem is not about them
this poem is about how the game is rigged
why the coyote can never catch the roadrunner
and why he never starves although he should resemble a Somalian cadaver

it is not that he is stupid or the roadrunner faster
the fix was in from the beginning: God wrote the coyote as loser

the siamese nods in zen haiku agreement
he understands perfectly the game is void
the persian objects with zarthustran duality
the coyote loses because his heart is evil
mike tyson shrugs tawny shoulders
and yawns. He only knows he's hungry

the debate is as old as job
despite limitless access to the deus ex machina of cartoons that is ACME
god has stacked the deck
can coyote have free will or be destined by cartoon kismet
to be always one step behind

i want god to blink
i want him to turn his back for just a moment
i want that arrogant roadrunner to be toast

all three cats agree
god plays poker with a marked deck...

F-I-R-E-I-N-C-A-I-R-O (cure?)

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Wed, 07 Dec 2005 20:32:31 GMT

F-I-R-E-I-N-C-A-I-R-O [05 Dec 2005|04:42am]
[ music | 'Dancin - Patty Smythe ]
Apple was a biblical reference, so we laughed.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.

YOU REALLY THINK "I want the new playstation"

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????

With just mes-sy mag-ic My Triculation,

I balanced on creative stimulation.

They're screaming now, proud BoylstonT ravlection,

I balanced on creative stimulation.

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Wed, 30 Nov 2005 06:34:00 GMT

FRAGMENT OF A GRECIAN URN

Undiscovered muse lost for the centuries of lyric time
that down caverns large loom before firelight’s dawning
You wept when you saw galleons of gypsies chained
to tearful raging poverty
of ancient ravening dreams by
Prophetic moonlight
A solemn guitar strums strings taut
the hangman ‘s noose taught
lessons of courage against armored disaster
How long did footsteps echo
eldered and widowed corridors made now sterile
by banditry’s theft of lofty feeling
And sentimental despair reigned
as monarch rained butterflies
like the dawn cascading memories of lost mutters
Muffling the sound
of wagoned horses and mules weaving patterns of stony cadenzas
into well worn tracks of
Memories rutting desire.

love music, man?

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 15 Nov 2005 19:45:23 GMT

do you love all sorts of music? want to discuss it with like-minded folk?

apply at sound_rationale!

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Wed, 02 Nov 2005 04:34:04 GMT

Hello cool cats, thought I'd say hi because i just joined. I have no meaningful contribution (to the world?) at this time, so this entire post is a waste of your time, but you're reading it anyway. Wow, I come off so weird yet I compulsively continue. See yas around chickadees.

Test Posting...

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Tue, 25 Oct 2005 17:41:11 GMT

Test Posting...

Walk Into My Voice: American Beat Poetry with Harold Budd + more

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Fri, 21 Oct 2005 19:02:56 GMT

For all the beat fans...

Sunday, November 6; 7 PM; all ages
Walk Into My Voice: American Beat Poetry @ Barnsdall Gallery Theater
(4800 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles - Los Feliz, 90027)

Buy tickets.

In 1986, Budd attracted well-deserved attention for his collaboration with The Cocteau Twins on "The Moon and the Melodies". It was followed by the acclaimed "Lovely Thunder" and his Opal Records debut, "The White Arcades". With "By the Dawn's Early Light" in 1991, Budd introduced spoken poetry into his music. While 1992's "Music for 3 Pianos" (with Ruben Garcia and Daniel Lentz) is again only instrumental, 1994's "She Is a Phantom" continues the music and poetry direction of "Dawn's" and marks a return to composing for ensemble. Released at nearly the same time as "She Is a Phantom", "Through the Hill" was a first-time collaboration with Andy Partridge of XTC, which Budd says "sounds like strangers who spent the afternoon together."

Listen to samples

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Mon, 03 Oct 2005 03:39:48 GMT

REVERIE ON THE ROAD TO LAWRENCE,
KANSAS AUGUST, 1978

All of the greatness has gone; all of the angels
fallen brown and I think of birds of paradise
passenger pigeons
images of Old Ironsides rusting in port
An elegant wreck is still a wreck none the less.
Lawrence ,Kansas haunts me; photo of Bill Burroughs
haunts me
poetry of a decade haunts me
existing out there
I wanted him here
tangible

Extinction stares behind the eyes of that photo
Burroughs
pariah patriarch
abstract Abrahm
weary
sad,
grim
determined to fight and frighten
Death bare knuckeled and bloody
bruised
raging roughhouse
through cicada-toed night
he’s an elegant wreck.
His hollow voice is Poe’s raven voice
Homer’s voice
James Joyce’s Ulysses voice strong as heroin
oak and juniper woodlands stripped bare-boned intense

Suffocated by humidity so far from his pleasant Tangiers
Crushed by illegitimate moralities
his face
endangered battlefield of scorched earth
Ruts as deep as the Marianas Trench ruffle
on his furrowed head
bare sleeved arms covered over
with centipede track marks.

The monastery of open meadows becomes
habitat for empire who logged bison like trees
Elk herds exsanguined on that open savannah
They were fire damaged forests burning up the page
Their diaspora catches an endemic flame
We who laid our eggs in the nests of other birds
become cuckolded cuckoos under maverick
impulse pervers
, no larger than a child’s brief hand

. Overhead he could see
Poe’s raven at the end of the highway eating
roadkill lemurs
roadkill dodos
roadkill bison
roadkill poems inscribed in ale and stale urine
Art is a three letter word
illegible;
Extinction is a three syllable word
endless
as the wheatfield plains surrounding Lawrence, Kansas
where George Catlin painted vanished Americans.
At what U R L can the dead be reached?
Go West
Do you travel fast in the Western Lands
lost Joan?
Can I write you out of death?
Could I write bison?
Or change the shipwreck of my centipede -scar face?

All of the greatness has gone
suicide angels
killed by too much love in heaven for them to bear
too much heaven in love for them to bear unless
extinction is a form of salvation’s graces
Madame Rachou still tends bar
her face fades to smoke
Where are Brion
Allen
Kiki
Ian
Mikey?
We’re all elegant wrecks
but wrecks none the less

Lawrence, Kansas haunts me with all these ghosts returned
Indians say fireflies are returned dead spirits
They dance at land’s end over the blurred horizon
where the Kaw River flows brown as bulge-eyed locusts
Overhead
no moon lit the Kansas prairie night
A single star auditioned for the muse
Elsewhere
the sky was dark
If it became extinct
would the wasteland
plunged in darkness
redeem itself

The highway spans neon red
no yellow brick road
Ruby incandescent headlights
Dorothy’s slippers
Click three times you’re on your way home
no home no more
for seven lonely hitchhikers looking for Oz
The billboards read Liberal only thirty miles
Highway seems endless through prairie night
a snow owl
transfixed by headlights and crushed by wheels
dies slowly.
Extinction is always slow
Poe’s raven takes time
that it took for cancer to devour withered flesh,
body haunted by ghosts in every single room:
Brion
Allen
Joan
Ian
Mikey
Jack
Burroughs
himself an intangible yearning to be touched.

I can feel the weather changing to rain
can sense
my bones and blood changing to black
burned brittle weeds
in roadside ditches
Sunlight strikes oblique angles
The landscape is faded sepia photographs
In shadows dead Pawnees strike archaic poses
mugshots for their imprisonment in paradise
Forever sketched in outline of a pecan grove

Their story is yours, made up as we go along
with no contingent continuous narrative
Like Burroughs now the captive of dead kodachrome

alexlt13@hotmail.com — Thu, 29 Sep 2005 03:22:09 GMT

Remember when Little Egypt danced the hootchi-cootchi
And chucked the chin of Samson in a loincloth
Remember the days of the dog-faced boy
And the Live Reptile Show
Where were you when the giant rat blazed in neon on the midway air
And the seductive roller coaster rolled on over adolescent angst
Remember it was called the Wild Chipmunk we all dared each other to ride
Little Egypt and the Circassian amazons
Hercules the strong man
Jo-Jo the Wild Boy
And the scabby snake woman
Exotic pinheads human oddities giants and dwarves
Mannequins telling fortunes impersonating Gypsies
Dressed like Eleanor Roosevelt
And T-shirts with Elvis sold like hot dogs with mustard
As the midway dreams you at midnight walking in fogged out neon
Toward the freak show tent
Remember the endless rows of cheap cotton stuffed animals
Seducing us to win them by ring toss or air rifle shot
Stuffed ourselves with cotton candy
Taunted by carneys dressed as clowns
Who knew we’d never win
Agents in our own amusement sponsors of our deceit
Good natured suckers who knew the bearded lady had hormonal problems
That the Great Whatisit was really a Black sharecropper named Joe Smith
That Elvis dreams on at Graceland He’s Arthur at Avalon
As long as his buttons sell
Remember the carnival beckons the midway dreams us into its life
Seduced to know what the cards say Miss Cleo take a back row seat
Deranged at Coney Island besieged by neon ice cream
And the Live Reptile Show