Post #1512953

As I was musing alone one hot afternoon, In tlie shade of a vine on a bright day in .Fiine ; Not a sound in the air but the hum of the bees, Nor a zephyr to sway the tops of the trees ; The cricket seemed tired of the shrill noise he made. The butterfly folded his wings in the shade. The flowers, so fragrant when day had begun, No longer breathed perfume before the fierce sun : O'er nature a dull sleepy silence had grown, And even the clouds seemed moveless as stone. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, …