Oh yeah, Kerouac


Remember how Beatniks were
When that kid, “What did they call him?”
Oh yeah, Kerouac.

When Kerouac for a crazy spell
a world
without the Man’s hand in everything.

Saw a merging of dark and light.
In swing
And beat
Youth in conflict with the collective

Youth culture was born (Again)
in jazz and Jitterbugging

Singing voices. Swinging hips,
high jinks.

An older crowd afraid
of this new craze,

forgetting in their maturity
that they were flappers
in a different age
riding their own wave

My folks in the fifties and sixties
marginalised for preaching

beaten and broken
in the dust of strawberry fields.

Pots calling petals
mellow yellow.

Cocaine, and “We wouldn’t go

Messages still heard in music
and an aging theme.
Culture vultures in scratchy wool ponchos
reading leaf curled novels
of paths well-travelled

Wave after wave they came
The mods
Brighton beach
Jesus freaks
Playing air guitars on dance floors
Where the Jitterbug is extinct.

Punks and ska. Sharp and dull
on a knife edge.
Led by undulating waves of sound. Underground

I look at my own kid.
Nearly grown. Think  “where the hell
he is coming from.”?

I ache for his conflict with my world
I wonder,
on crazy daze.
Is he the swell
building the wave for this
The saviour of

The Skater Kidz

The one to put his people
out of here. God knows
they need a leader.

Then I shake my head
He is just another rude kid
with his head up his ass
doesn’t drink or do grass,
high on air for fuck sake.

Just like that beatnik boy. “What
did they call him?”
Oh yeah,  Kerouac.

History doesn’t cause change
it just shows us
that we’re the same

-Dave Kavanagh

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