AND THE POET DIDN'T SHAVE



Ginsberg, I’m in Africa
And I have not one of your words to sleep with
I saw Kerouac’s Dharma bums in Dar es Salaam
And I could have bought it
But I want poetry
So I am writing some
For the two of us
Ginsberg I’m in Africa
Sexless with broken back
And nearly 27
I know bits of your poetry off by heart
But I want to read it loud from city lights
Ginsberg, I’m in Africa
And I’m alive and you are dead
But I think of you a lot
Like when I write these words
Or when I saw that mad man
Speaking Afrikaans to himself
He looked a bit like you
Maybe it was you
On your way back from Rimbaud’s house perhaps.

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