Rayndy P. Valcin II's Page

Messianic Fink

Dedicated to the festered and running carnality of Allen Ginsberg


Have they died too now, the poorly educated raiders of The City Lights,
Not taking the meter stick to the tendons for objections on ethics and choices of words,
Who unknowingly from grade school rudimentary learning
Paid no mind that the voice of the wolf wraiths through the obstacles of trees.
On the way of our deserting Haas House I took my shirt off and felt relapse again, we Stumbled running down Alder Alley, hallway pushed with drunk aesthetics and Dalits Talking like teenage Russians about God and nothing else.
Attention on vitality displaced
The Breathless Generation
When it was the top of the hill we so sought to reach, breathless and cold
...
Reached, then still breathless and cold, yet a bit warmer, non troppo.
For my kin abandoned distraught energized though tried to teach not leaving age eight,
Father died that year
I do not have wings, never heard such, such that now I am above when
It did us no good but to mock the ones from below who bring goods to the ones above.
When we had that conversation about being the despot of any conversation
It was always that archaic pandemic that yelled them away then boasted for its troubles
With starting the new reign of polytheistic persuaders who looked upon us, standing Upon hooves and only tilting their heads, now soundless and mendacious bringing Us laughter until the vomit landed on a presupposed place of pollen of hemlock,
Urushiol and cigarettes itching our throats. Seeing that the children were in fact Contagiously excitable, men call it morale, I asked
Sovonga vos al temps de mon dolor, when juniper bark aided my blood
After all the gin-wine pissed itself away into worthless vinegar and the cows did not fit
For our internal salvation. Don from the test of poverty, the lictor* with his little staff who Tapped twice
And sanitized the arena of nude men learning and brawling in equal parts,
Masturbating in front of the Pascha now, not knowing what a door does, while his ones At home sit around liberating themselves watching television and eating pashka.
It was only once, yet we were blamed for every breaking of nauseating artifacts
We watched the Cartagena noria spin in foul odors left by residue left by jacanas birds Proving Egyptian manners, leading the women from their nest not knowing
It takes much to abandon the pondering of the oddity of the existence that glass is.
An attritional war, that is man coming back unto himself, cumming on himself
After weeping in front of El and Ah discussing taking a cut to the first atom, then they Did, then she,
Who said that it was my jazz singing, I was only speaking, oh
Poor homosexuality that aped the parricide of Irwin the Suppliant, the Blakeous Suppliant of the beat.

Rayndy P. Valcin II