Dead Poet Sobriety

Where are you taking me, Allen Ginsberg?
How much have we had to drink to-night?
Are you trying to get into my head?
Or my pants?
Either way, I’m too far gone to fight.

And so we wander the solitary streets,
With the pale, yellow, bulbous lights
You thought it would be funny to pee into
That Starbucks cup we found in the street.

Tomorrow someone will find it.
Still yellow, foamy, or perhaps
Brown, salty, dried-up in the sun.
Maybe that’s why it’s so funny.
You’re thinking about the future.

Chaos.

So we sit in a circle,
Beating off with twenty-nine generations of poets.
Thirty if you count mine.
Do you?

Frost doesn’t.
We read our poems to each other, and all he can say is:

“You might want to check your meter.”
Check this, you pretentious cunt.

But now I can’t take my eyes off Emily Dickinson.
She fingers herself in the full-moonlight
She howls.
Look at her go.
She would not stop even for Death.

Coated in starlit, murky, love-syrup.
We are as one now.
Children of the night.

Wordsworth agrees.
“We are thirty.”
We are all dead.
Yet we all live.

Each night, we raise the dead
With our poetry,
And we read to one another
Deaf and bland.