Death to Dylan!

To conjure the smile of the beyond again.
Smoking roll ups with old images.
Betty by my side and Syd on the floor.
Eastern protest, wayward philosophy
initiated by the fearless minds of another age.
Although nothing is sacred.
Today I murdered Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg.
Dancing celluloid myth and
silent nervous reality at Kerouac's grave.
And the crazed remains of Rimbaud chainsmoking
while Richard Gere hides his nipples from the local law enforcement.
Hurricane bloom as the lighter implodes within
a psychotic world of swirling purple terrorists.
I reclaim the neoconservative word like a voodoo doll.
Poke Margaret Thatcher in the eye with a hatpin.
Word is born and any symphony is mine for the taking.
The Prophet revolutionary Jesus
spoke of delicate emptiness.
My mother dreams of being released from the endless gravy boat.
Death stalks our kitchen,
words manipulated like chess pieces underwater.
Breathing down to the hara I see elongated batteries,
an ever changing heartbeat beneath the smokescreen.
There is no need to break open the door,
it is already there.