Outside the window, in grey streets at dusk
that spread all across a jilted nation,
people tune into the white noise station;
the new catatonia, the Fear,
as it sneaks up and peers through the front door
with lobotomy smiles and nerve gas.
From the gutter, up the high rise towers;
corruption climbs the concrete like ivy.
The depressed onlookers all stop to stare as
the last book is thrown from the window and
hits the floor, cracking in two, exploding,
sending sparks in every direction.
Down shaded alleys at the red sky dusk,
where the blood graffiti of Ginsberg lies,
a kid first sees the confusion of truth,
with the low cobweb roof blown off his head,
opens his glazed grey eyes to the sunrise
and the poet screams out loud ‘it is done‘