So I've been listening to Ginsberg all day and I came up with this. Its based on his poem 'America', hopefully without sounding too derivative.

Father the Children
Not yours, you were sure of that
Father these Children die, these drowned Children

I see them through a screen, the one's you stopped
you stopped before but they crawl here now, through the dirt
they crawl here now and they rise, crying in my ear
asking why I did, nothing for them
What didn't I do, what could I do, i ask back

And they stare blank, and weep in my right ear
And father you, stand on my left shoulder and laugh
And wrap your arm around, and plug my right ear
Fill it with chatter, the divorces, the award shows

The latest love song, C-F-C-G, C-F-C-G
And I complain
So you throw in an E and sharpen a G
And I say "Father a G sharp isn't art"

And all the while the children cry
And so do I, with them
And in a sweet voice you murmur "Sh Sh"
And I want to listen

I want to listen
It feels so good to listen
But I can't

So you wrap, your legs around my neck, and you
slide a bag over my head
The Children scream, and tear the bag of off me

So i walk outside, I see the people
I wonder if they see me too, the way I see them
but I look closely, and I find
your tentacles, in their eyes, and ears

So i check myself, until I'm satisfied
That what I see, is really what I see

Or maybe it's not

Father what do you do, with these souls you steal
Do you let them loose, do they wander
Father, home of the wanderers.
Father, the graveyard.

Father these Children, Father these spirits, I must hear them but it hurts
Father Help me hear, what they whimper in my ear
Father get that bag away from me

Father I am miserable now

Father, land of spirits, and other spirits
Father, hallowed land

Father you are rotten

Father you are dead

Rest in peace Father
Last edited by mitrak at Feb 15, 2016,
Creepy, but I like it.
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