angelheaded hipster

by pieces of moments

Discovering the poetry of Allen Ginsberg was a revolutionary moment for me. I remember feeling my heart twist, being rung like anxious hands. I wanted to weep for the loss of innocence. At the time, I had a number of acquaintances that were Bright Young Things, rubbed raw in the space between the beautiful and the imperfect. We were trying to make sense of things. Youthful. Hopeful. Starving. Howl.

Happy birthday, Mr. Ginsberg.

Advertisements