Tuesday, August 21, 2012

A Four-Part Poem by David B. McCoy

--after Alberta Turner


Beat up
Beat down
Beat it out

* * *

The beat goes on….
Industrialization, commercialization, standardization
Can you hear that beat? --Can you feel it?
They’re beating the life out of us.
"So I guess you might say we're a beat generation."

* * *

We’ll beat them at their own game.
We’ll flip, we’ll wig out, we’ll cut out of their dullsville society.
Like sputnik, baby, we’ll get sky high.


as in to lower temperature
To lose the heat of excitement, of passion
To calm down
To take it easy
To cool one’s heels
To blow one’s cool
To be detached, aloof
To be calm, to be fresh
To be done well
To be very good
To be Hot!


Dig into dirt flesh one’s past
Dig into dreams
Dig what they’re telling you
--‘Cause, man, you’re in a hole
You’re in a rut
You’re in over your head
Exhume yourself, baby!
Dig free of the nowhere shit and
get it together.
Can you dig what I’m sayin’?


The action was being put on
by the hipster with a sharp axe—
I mean he could blow!
But if you paid him no mind,
he’d freak. Like today,
that cat was hip on a ‘Trane side,
but we wanted to watch the eye.
He got so salty the squares
next door called the fuzz.
That was a gas!
Turns out that jive-ass turkey
has been five-fingering all over town
to grease his buzz.

After words, we all piled into our rods
and hit the passion pit
for a Dean flick.
I was hoping to score
this hot chick I hooked up with
at the grind, but she was
just puttin’ me on.
When we hit my pad
I was so bummed
I wanted to blast off.

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