Here are some poems I wrote that were inspired by the Beatniks. I imagine most of their poems sounded something like these. Keep in mind that at poetry readings people snapped their fingers to show approval, they didn't clap. Please snap after reading each poem. Also there should be a bongo accompanying these poems.
What's a Beatnik?? Follow this link to the blog I wrote explaining everything Beatnik.
Wall Street Monsters
The cold wind of corporate America blows
and kills the flowers of my freedom.
"The Man" pollutes the river of dreams
and turns plentiful hopes into endangered thoughts.
You use the colors of your soul, grey and black
to paint over my heart with hypocrite paint.
The only thing you don't own is my soul,
and you can't tax what you don't own.
Clothes Are A Prison
I won't be confined!
I won't be conformed!
Keep your prison!
Let me be free!
Clothes are a prison!
I'll wear what I want,
and what I want are my
I'll make my own clothes
out of wheat grass,
but only after it dies
of natural causes because
I won't kill a living being.
Conform if you must...
I refuse to wear deodorant.
I refuse to shower.
I refuse to get a job.
I refuse to pay taxes.
I refuse to pay for goods and services.
I refuse to be a part of society.
I refuse to eat food.
I refuse to drink water.
I refuse to breathe air.
The State of the Union
Corporate Juggernaut, oh I think not!
Free enterprise, won't fool these eyes!
Goatee, go free, hypocracy.
Stereotype zombie, seen wearing Abercrombie.
What craves, these mindless slaves?
Hear the lies, as nature dies!
Highs and lows, step on my toes!
Beatnik Paradise (Greenwich Village)
I wake up, when I feel like it,
and I put on my turtle neck and leggings.
I look into water because I refuse to own a mirror.
I don't comb my hair because it is being free
and living how it wants to live.
I put on my beret and sunglasses.
I make sure my goatee is looking especially Beatnik-ish.
I walk out of my apartment into the oasis of
New York City that is,
a Beatnik's paradise, Greenwich Village.
I head to the local coffee house to hear poetry.
They all know my name there and I know theirs, but
I refuse to use them because you can't own a name man.
I listen to the poetry and I snap for their effort.
I say, pass the bongos Daddy-O and I help the others.
I know the man wants me to get a job, and make a living,
but that's not living for the Beat Generation.
I can not die as long as I live in a Beatnik's paradise.
Downtown Coolsville On A Saturday Night
Focus your audio my Gin Mill Cowboys and you will hear a tale.
I went out quail hunting and found a shape in a drape.
I was just a pearl diver with a lead sled but
she was a true hepcat and she knew I was everything plus.
I could tell this bird really knew her groceries.
We had a large charge and got Dixie fried at a real red onion.
We snapped at some jazz cats and then things got crazy.
She told me to keep my hands above the Mason-Dixon line.
I was out of bread so I used hanging papers and we left.
I felt like she would someday be strutting down
varicose alley, because she was slated for crashville,
yet that night we threw babies out the balcony!
We had a real tickle at some squares.
She was amazing at back seat bingo and she's got ways like a mowing machine for sure.
I was digging her and she was digging me.
The real zonk on the head was when she wanted to
jungle up together to get away from her handcuffs.
Turns out, her Big Daddy was the driver of a Fuzz Rod!
I've got x-ray eyes for these sorts of things
and I had to noodle it out.
The chick knew I was interviewing my brain so she left me alone.
Man, she had bright disease, she was a cube in my orbs
and I would have paid a yard to get rid of her.
I had to cherry tree and told her
I had a plucked chicken waiting at home for me.
She said she was hip to me
and would head back to her wasteland.
She told me the night had been a groove and the ginchiest
but she was going to fall out. And that was The End.