Allen Ginsberg sang the slow poetry of the technological age before its time. He took the time to wallow in the horrors of the banal that flit by us as fast as we can click thru. With Whitman as his muse, he turned our eyes from nature to our fractured nature, and held our gaze. I don’t even especially like Ginsberg’s poetry. Give me Hopkins any day. But the torrent of measured fitfulness poured out as a fruitless libation, sterile poetry stank with death, demise, burrowing in little rat holes for faint hope; well there’s more there there than the internet, right?
I saw the best minds of mah generation Hurtling down the intertubes Captioning photos of felines in bold sans serif cuteness aplenty, lolling all over myself Eager to disprove or win by force your momma, mah bukkit, bukkake Full of fail Let us read this treatise on the death star, how it is like unto a womb. THIS POEM HAS BEEN RICK-ROLLED I could bury you with a staggering inventory of despicable instaculture