The Bride of Kookenstein

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    The Bride of Kookenstein

    I died last June, I
    saw her deflowered, her
    bloom, my bride, I died when
    she opened her throne, a tone
    shattered mr mind's eye, blown
    did I shy, hush now, let go
    my bride, dark seeds you planted
    and madly you ranted, allowing
    no silence in, when I break
    these vows can fake a eulogy
    as I have descepencies, ask not
    why.
    Deny the accusation, resort to
    mental masturbation, this love
    wasnt donation, creation of union,
    God's mute an holy divination
    while love is a fluke, could I believe
    that one cherishes the kook, decieve
    and it's one last look.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Vampire’s Poems (100)

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