For Sinclair Beiles
The tyranny of rhyme–
the shivering branch,
the perishing flower–
makes everything a crime.
Cops and finks who comb
their hair with signatures
let us know–don’t laugh–
that integrity and sincerity
are not the same.
This unmarked plot of earth
is primeval and infernal–but
we who are as temporary
as plants that fail to flourish
shall therefore give it birth.
Indebted to Vladimir Nabokov,
Frank Scully, André Previn,
and E.M. Foster.
there is a way of taking a knife
and carving from the infinite nothingness of the sky
a solitary cell
in which one spends a lifetime pacing about
occasionally shouting messages
through the barred cell window
at different passers by.
there is a way of trying to create a universe
with all its constellations
from the view of people scurrying by
in the rain with their umbrellas up,
a way of ruling a nation of shadows.
there is a way of imagining
one possesses all the secrets of the soul
and this gift will provide one with freedom,
a way of imagining all the sights
not yet photographed by the travel agencies
there is a way of believing
one has special dreams …
Bellaart writes further: “As you know, I consider Sinclair the father of cut-up. He certainly considered himself one of the fathers. And that was not just Sinclair’s occasional spell of madness making the claim. His name is still absent from the Beat Hotel plaque“.