In the light of the reading lamp

On the bed, early Friday evening

and the black of winter night a wall behind every window,

water flowing to the sink in the kitchen

to keep the pipes from freezing and bursting,

and in 1944 New York rag-tag losers stumbling to murder

inside the yellow covers of the novel I'm reading.

I have no sympathy for Lucien Carr.

An awful killing, drowning a wounded victim,

makes sympathy impossible.

Somehow they are all lacking something essential

to humanity, these damaged people

rising to greatness in literature -

Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kerouac and the lot.

Somehow they could not see themselves,

hands bound, bleeding from chest wounds,

regaining consciousness in the cold, dirty river water

with trousers' pockets full of stones.

They failed there. Fuck you Lucien Carr, you little rat.

Fuck you and fuck your loyal friends.

22.01.2016