To The Left Hon. Allen Ginsberg

 

TO THE LEFT HONOURABLE ALLEN GINSBERG (in his knifeless realm)

1
to the night zenith                       to the knifeless realm

I have to follow

the nightwatchman and the beetle’s hum

                                                                         into a
                                                                           poet’s
                                                                            O
                                                                        blivion

to be examined in the lens 
                                        of a magnifying-glass
                                                                         moon

for indebtedness and pettiness             a
                                                          celtic-catholic 
                                                                               lack
of thousandmind             
                                  of beetlehum        

                                                               and the silver rims
                                                               of
                                                                   nightlights

of firebowls
of honeywax

                                  of hum

 2

I have to cough a London toxin
in thanks
who made the ball of London roll
brought to the apex of Primrose Hill
by the glass-eyed Merovingian 
adding to the lore
a lore
too big? too elite? to be added to? 

                                or at Blake’s deathbed in back of Savoy
                                with the boy subterranean
                                discarding the holy logos
 
                                                          
from his un-American paws

3

                                        but in the night zenith
when I look at the thousand-windowed hospital’s
invisible stars degenerating into mad gleams
somehow free in physical and metaphysical health
I feel the gold gratitude again – in lieu – 
for thine Alvah Goldbook-cum-Carlo Marx
diagnostic of the doom the drone
come from the city as dragon-noise
or the hum of
the thousand CCTVs under Eros  
you as Leo Moon Leo Rising
to heal
knots in godly shoulderblades
and flower the tombs 
of Dies and co.

4

I wish your furry ghost could do more for me

like fix my teeth          or deal        or slash my gibberish

but the courage you lend
                                           is mightier than alcohol’s

in the midst of the bow-tied emptiness
                                                                    of space

your book is
                          International Space Station
                                                                      sized

bordello-ish
red-lit
thumbed a thousand
years from now

    so
thanks
                leonine and empowering and tendered

                                                           for appearing the way
                                   you did
                                                           not at the embassy
                                                           not frenchified
but naked
      as
           vocal            

                               a
                                    trash-city
                                                 cherub                          

                              
                                 baptising
                                                and
                                                        anabaptising

our toxin-rich lungs to a many-childed
                                                           hope

at the beginning of our gangplank

                                                     our    

                                                  ‘queer’      

                                                                                                  careers

 Niall McDevitt

 


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