Angel Headed Hipsters

Henry in a shit-hole, not suicidal,  just holding on—a hand full of nothing. 

Microscopic razor-blades, intercellular antagonist flowing through his veins.   

Henry at Wah Wah coffee shop, he stopped in from time to time. Chocolate and coffee for breakfast offering temporary relief from pain, even cocaine was temporary, everything was. 

Reading “HOWL” by Allen Ginsburg—

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…”

Henry thinking on  “HOWL” some —a poem of desperation,  pathos about modern revolutionary heroes, victims of excess and predators of the “Negro night?”

Henry’s mind a space ship flying no-where he thought. 

Reading over today’s writings he realised his mind was gone, afloat on a  river of shit, and so it goes. 

It Did His Pain In

Henry one eye open and one eye closed, he could pick and choose this way. The same with his mind, open to some closed to the others, he had a “Cross-eyed heart.”

Born with a good ear, at times he felt music could heal him, it took him away.

Henry hardly on fire,  no burning issues on the table, frankly he didn’t care.

Having told all his stories, lacking fire in the gut, it made it hard for Henry to write.

It was sad that he had nothing after a life-time of G-d knows what? 

The ghastly nothingness  Henry felt in old age was reminiscent of Sartre— the cool soberness of existentialism—Henry’s final stop in life before death. 

 “Most of the time, because of their failure to fasten on to words, my thoughts remain misty and nebulous. They assume vague, amusing shapes and are then swallowed up: I promptly forget them.”

Quote from Sartre’s “Nausea.” 

Existentialism the soul-eating virus that changed the equation of life in old age—Henry would meet it face to face— it was nothing he thought.

Henry pitied the writers, the spinners of yarns, the glorious fiction, the mystery, the spy, the ghoulish stuff.  Writing fiction was lying for him.  

Telling the truth was tantamount  for Henry— it did his pain in.