We Romantics

Neo-Romantic/Action Poetry/Beatnik Word Vomit


1. We Romantics

We romantics we;

We romantics we;

We who clamber up mountains and stand clutching swordhilts like

Zarathustra and thus he spake------------------

God Is Dead

Atop the mountain looking o’er cloudy moisture field

We romantics we;

We loners in dinner jackets preaching empty pages to the aesthetically blind

Showing them oil paintings frescoes wet plaster of sex and irony, saying

This is beauty my children and

We romantics we;

Who sit naked in corroded cars zipping

Hitchhiking on sketchy trucks to the Pacific

Hiding on boats to the Old World

We romantics we;

Packing our pipes full, we opium-eating addicts hooked on the weed and the kick and the acid

Society’s shit pumped into our veins through crooked angry needles

We dazed bloodshot pair of spinning eyeballs

Drenching, crying, pouring tears of intoxicated sweat and tainted blood

We romantics we…


We romantics we;

We with silk hands caressing on beds of fresh linens

Stroking thumbs o’er rosebud cheeks, taffy lips pursed


Kneeling bearing ring are we

We romantics we…

And after fucking in parking lots, on monuments,

Great cocks are monuments to our honesty

Salty vagina atmosphere in our literary-mobiles as we peruse the streets

Steeping them in our madness!

Washing down brilliance with straight whiskey

Shouting freed verse, our slave drivers with liquor chasers

Burning dreams and screwing childhoods are

We romantics we;

This misunderstood mass of perpetual youth

Victims to square fingers pointing shouting

Immaturity radicals fornicators and we are

We are we are we are we are

We are all they in their connotations say

For theirs is an enclosed world, one of prejudices and faulty “masculine” expectations

And ours one of truth and art our gods!

We let them humble themselves to idols statues and phony bits of bread clouding their nuclear minds with perfection

Asking truth and art to cleanse us of our lies our existential blasphemes our charismatic accolades of literature and paint and notes ringing loud are our communion

Letting them bow down to God’s bloody doppelganger hanging crucified yet still We suffer and thus is our condition…

We Romantics

We romantics we;

Forsaking these conventions for freedom

Neglecting our convicting institutions of constitutional propaganda and collegiate masterminds for none but ourselves so  that we may binge on poison and madness and literature and intellect true intellect flying through impressionist skies

Our morning dreary daguerreotypes

Our nights swirling Van Goghs for we

We romantics we;

We scant literary martyrs burning on sutured computer stakes reeling in our former glory

We gypsy souls in hardcover caravans

Copulating in the rain, shooting up by light bulbs hanging by a noose…

We negated automatons freed from this aesthetic matrix, to be hung reflexively from ceiling fans, paint                              murals with our brain matter stink up basements and old apartments with the vomit from our overdose

We infinitesimal malignities

We angelic sirens in tattered suitcoats

We rambling scarves and cardigans

We indie radio stations and mac books and starbucks coffee cups

Snobbery sodomy debauchery an illicit aesthetic  trapped in a hall of mirrors tainted with Satanic rhythms written in our blood, extracted through empty inkwell pens

We who write the sort of literature that whilst we read we forget the world

But when we finish reminds us we are alive


We romantics we;

It is we, we who are left, we few

We romantics we;

All we who cry reel or shake or become excited by visions of open roads and backpacks full of few and only belongings setting out on endless treks

All we like me bored with existence searching for more

Against all those who condemn truth as vulgarity

Change as inconceivable

We romantics we;

We beacons of candlelight in a world of electric bulbs

Free flowing river of minds, forever a low tide that moves away from the sea and deep to the recesses of                           humanity 

We are great…we are lost…we are dead

But life is our bitch




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