Poetical Abstract Masterpiece

Oh, the streets of Hollywood
Are filled with fallen Stars,
Their ancient Footprints
In front of Chinese theaters,
Nearby bars
And hotel rooms.

Hurrying back to my hotel room
Where I got me a date with Mary
Who takes my breath away ;
Steams the bathroom
When I taste her
In a hot steamed shower.

She promised
She’d be here all night
With me
Even while I write that
Poetical Abstract Masterpiece.

Hours well spent typing
In that back seat
In that car going over 80mph,
Jay after Jay passing,
Not wasting anytime.
Here with two other men
Running like Rebels
With Liquid Imaginations.

Building managers
From infiltration
To extortion,
‘Forget that! Pay me!
My bombings no longer Free!’

They’re always ready
On Arrival,
Lock and loaded;
Pigs in Blue Blankets
Are too late.
Bodies Already
Body traced
For the whole world to see.
Sounds like
Gangster Rhapsodies (doesn’t it?)
When I write this
Poetical Abstract Masterpiece.

Sidewalk surfing
Jim Morrison’s Paradise
Where it’s also
Dirty and filthy.
Female mermaids
Becoming beautiful sand people
In shopping baskets
While homeless faces
Gaze through their cardboard castles.

Where Jesus Freaks
Try to save souks
While men steal purses
And Poet’s steal from life,
Goin’ complete BONKERS
Off the Fear and Loathing
From the edges of the Abyss . . .
It’s Skid Row
Where zombies roam the streets
With their minds and thoughts
In other galaxies,
Not worried about
The world coming to an end
Or to be invaded.
In this Nation,
Street codes and zip codes
Is the only thing they’ll
Ever know.

Their Insides scream so loud
To stop their nasty fix
But it gets them walkin’
On sunshine.

When they come back
To the Land of Reality
Where Dreams become
They’ll roam streets singin’;
‘Hey Mr. Tambourine Man
Play a song for me?’
On their merrily way
To get their next fix.
The Last Bookstore
Remains in the Heart
Of Downtown Los Angeles,
Empty Bukowski shelves
Along with Kerouac
And Cobain,

Journalists going Gonzo
In backseats,
Had to be held down by L.A.P.D
They got nothing on em.

We left L.A.
In the rear view mirror
And wound up tangled
In swerve Grape Vines

Full of Lost Souls
In carriages and wagons;
Stuck in Purgatory’s Belly
Watching cars go by safely.

Back to the Home of the Ash Tree
Where all we are
Is dust in the wind,
Where we are
Profoundly human
In our suffering – --

Watering grounds with tears
But it’s not enough to enjoy life . . .
What gives this life meaning?
But someday
Everything’s goin to be
When I write that
Poetical Abstract Masterpiece.

Note: dedicated to the Underground Artists
Gonzo The Poet / Poet and Journalist
MC Wicks / Local Fresno MC
Pazr/ Paint Bomber/artist
Enzolio/ Painter/Poet
‘What a long strange trip it’s been’

--Gonzo P., Adult