Note: This was just an assignment for my poetry class. We were told to use Allen's style of writing, so here is my own version of Howl.

I watched Heaven’s angels get exiled and bathed in a baptism of fire,

shredding innocence onto the dirt paths where hungry mouths sleep,

prostituting, dating the fellow hot head that walks towards his grave, dragging feet like cigarettes where a halo arises and falls into cinders,

who gave into the masochist of humanity, craving messy sheets turned body bags lining the streets,

whose corpse hangs from the telephone pole, still reeking with the smell of midnight’s eve, jolting at

every sensation of publishing their face in the newspapers,

who smokes their forty-seventh last blunt, underwear around their knees and the governor sucking his

cock, burning money hour after hour at the Hilton,

who plays Miles Davis but lives the Bohemian Rhapsody, crushing vodka bottles on the hallucination of

the weak,

who sunk themselves in a bathtub of blood, seeking shelter within a porcelain casket, cradling endless

nightmares of waking in their sleep

who vanish in the bull market with beer-bellied men, shoving continuous arguments down the throats of

the submissive, choking on the feeling of oppression but refusing to gag,

grinding against the next one who lags, recalling a night of ecstasy and wine, slim bodies crawling towards the head,

who choose to drown themselves in the intoxication of The Man, wishing to run through 9¾ without

hitting a wall of rejection, trying to escape into a fictional world while blood sucking parasites

latch onto their skin,

who dressed in women’s clothing, trying to get their dick to relax, boner after boner as another man

passes by with a nice ass,

who laughed at the skeletons in the closet falling onto the floor as if they haven’t been there five or six

times before,

who slept in motels, bearing nakedness of empty dinners accompanied by a waitress stoned out of her

mind, the Scarlet Letter in her eyes replaying the blur of faces prior to her shift,

who attended Sunday mass with closed eyes, drifting in and out, in and out, of boredom and lies,

women crying, desiring to be saved by an unholy hand,

whose protests of the government were muted by moans of little daisies playing instruments of eyes

rolling back and semen and balls,

who were kicked out by “the land of the free”, regretting stepping foot on that boat and conceiving,

birthing another American bastard to an alien mother,

who are driven into insanity of sirens and meth, screaming soliloquies and sermons, jerking off to the

nation’s anthem, feeling as high as our warheads in the Middle East,

whose poetry is nothing but rhetorical bullshit influenced by the political mutiny, vomiting every standard

they had to meet, finding themselves after countless surgeries and therapy sessions, another

puppet to have their strings cut,

who cries over the ashes of the angels, damned to a wasteland of words, drifting away from any

innocence there was.