An odd poem I just wrote-what do you think of it? Criticism welcome, and it's really long?

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-It’s a simple beat thrumming in me temple
simple chords in repetition and recognition
I’ve felt this before
laying on my back in the garden by the fire
thin shafts of roses rise high to intertwine
with sunflower beauties who-
hm, seem to be smiling down on me-I smile
and wave in response. There’s a party going on,
to which I was invited and came, and
there was something in the coffee-love?-some
intoxicating feeling to which I all but feel myself
relaxed and at ease-saki? A foot away a man is
busy drinking red wine and bellowing
out woodsman’s lumberjack poems-a smiling
Japanese haiku scholar sits there with him
grinning at interjecting “ois” in between
pauses in breath. I watch a man and a woman
strip down and expect to hear the soft sighs
of love-making, alas no such pleasure
occurs-I was hoping for a dreamy picture
of Eden-instead they stand and talk and smile
pale and the woman long-haired in the darkness,
the man shifting foot to foot and attempting to
read from a book on Antonin Artaud and his
impact on nonsense-the woman nods sagely
and responds with a poem by Ginsberg titled
“A Supermarket in California”, a fitting
assumption from a lady of Berkely proper-
suddenly I find myself bombarded with questions from young idealists looking
eager-they appear young queers looking for
a night with a poet and the wonders of
free peyote and opium, which is smoked from
a can that used to be used canning beans from
Mexico-I quickly assert my love for women, to
which the young boys look away dejectedly
and turn to solemnly sulk in the night
weeping for lost love and the
segregation forced upon them-by sorry hate-
sullied individuals who preach the word in
roman castles of stone and spackle-I turn over
to trace the shoulder bone of a sleeping lady
in the grass, in the manner of the wooden fences swirls and curls-she shudders and
awakes to blearily eye the stranger touching
her in drunken self-exile, a poor man
down and out and in need of some making-
to which she responds-“nakedness is a sorry
state I often find myself in”. I nod sadly and
reply, “Surely love is found in a young
Bodhidharma as yourself”-we love and go
separate ways, now I am told she was a
high-ranking woman from an individual law firm
looking for some weekend intellect and love-making, no such Zen mass in
her as I had previously believed in my stupor.
My love is a waterfall and is free, to often we
price what we fear to lose.

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ronald h

I’m sorry but it just doesn’t hold my interest. It is too long too wordy and strays all over the place. There are a lot of excellent points in the poem but they need isolated and each needs expanded upon. I’ll bet you could create 6 to 8 great poems out of the material included in this one.


Loved it. Thank you.

Suzy Creamcheese (RIP Jimmy :( )

It is odd indeed! But it’s very alluring.. It’s like there are run on lines that make you want to keeeep reading it. I like it very much [as usual – I like all of your material I’ve seen!]. Will you publish a book for me? 😛


I found your poem colorful, fun, yet it sparked my curiosity and slightly fightened me (in a good way!).
I am no pro, and hardly a valid critic, but I felt like “you” (“i”) were moving around a lot. I pictured at first the poem being from the point of view of a person watching people, either from their apartment window or in a coffee shop… so the fact that “you” were in different places quite rapidly throughout the poem sort of tore me away from the enjoyment of hearing about all the other characters you were bringing up; I was left a little confused on who YOU were.
Maybe you can bless us with a little background on you (the author) or what the theme was? Again, you have a gift for description, and I really like your diction.


You crazy beatnik hippies
with your bongo drums and your eightfold path
and your Bashō
and your francophone theater of cruelty!
I was at a party where we grilled processed meat sticks
With hydrocarbons
Drank thin yellow American beers
Ate thick yellow American potato salad.
Nakedness is a sorry state we like to avoid in public
(Also quoting Ginsberg, we avoid that too
Communist pedophile that he was, bless his soul).
Your love is a waterfall but our love is a high-def television
Tuned to ESPN.
You with your sake and your opium,
Us with our jet-skis and homoerotic pugilism.
The “something” in our coffee is Jim Beam rye.


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