The crack of doom on the hydrogen juke box. Eyeball kicks. This is the Howl for the 21st century, a meandering back track of Tangerian bone grindings with the thick diction’d text of brilliance chanting into eternity.
What reading of Howl is this? Late Howl. Ginsberg is adamant! Certain. Full of the poem. Fully realized. A masterpiece delivery. The soundtrack’s atmospheric sketches compliment instead of overlay the text. The whole forceful incantation fully audible.
|Resting briefly in catatonia|
We are all great writers on the same dreadful typewriter.