Beat Poets

He was a new poet with the dew of youth on his cheeks and childishness in his words. He spoke of his God, of love, and of truth, with a pony-tailed naïveté which implored. Bicycles pedal through his posies chords. He smiled, when he spoke of A. Ginsberg, man ... nicotine stained the fingers on his hand. Thinking of the beat poets, Rexroth he'd read, tales in smoke-rings round his brow like a garland. Dean was resurrected in the cock of his head. This new rooster was just twenty-four, one earring, bow lips and shy of pretense; he wrote in a leather-bound book of war. Yet, he was all about peace, and innocence; for the world, the world, held troubles immense. A rebel of peace, so like Siddhartha to war he'd not go, not follow father. A poet primed a new man with a calling trying once again to call each man brother; scrying with blood to stop mankind's falling. *Double Dizain