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WHITE STilNS ON THE BEDSHEETS

. .
a collection of filthy pornography
by that master of the obscene •••••••

Alan-Boph weberman

The King is Dead
Let 1 s cut out his lungs and smo
the resins
Let's teach that dirty aristocr
a lesson I I
THE BUM-WEDER

THERE 1 s a cop in the park
whose job it is to weed
out bums sleeping in the
bushes, cam.oflaged as statues and

He makes his rounds of
suspicious-looking buehe·s:· ,j
and thicl trees
(for some have learned to sleep st anding-up}
with night stick in hand and
legal quatazions on his lips :

"Okay wise-guy-F.lanagan, wev 1e got
you again. Th.is brings it up to t en.
And last week when they turned on the hoses
And started to water a bed of roses
who should start to bloom'1
It was you, wise-guy-F.l.anagen and
soakin wet. "

"Okay Manuel l\:r:inte?:, it 1 s time to rise,
The sun has long agor !"isen to the middle of the sky
And it 1s time for you to move along·
.And get off your 8Panish ass and
Martinez, Don 1t · 1et me catch you sleeping
on the grass"

So· the bums shuffled dow. their
lonely path, to panhandle
passerbys for misley nickels
and hustle fickle Salvation ~y
temprance t eachers, and irrate
itinerate sidewalk preachers
So they can cont:inue to live and
hope

That maybe- someday the bumwe ede~
will miss his mark
and let them sleep-away their wast ed lives·
On the grass
In the park

Alan-Boph Weberman
Bryant Stp.iare Park
Mid-Septembre 1064
DE.AR SWEET DESI' INY: FUCK-YOU

Oh dear sweet rosey unconquerable destenj:
sweet hemp can't d~flect your march
alcohol can't stem your· tide
even lysergic acid is powerless
to stop you.

Oh dear sweet destiny
vhen will you catch up with me
and look me in the eye
and shake my shoulders
and awaken me?
Oh dear sweet destiny
what highWa.y leads away f.Dom you
in what :furnished room will
I not find you in?
Which passageway of the mind
can I loose you in?
Oh dear sweet una:tterable destiny
I love you
for you are my destiny
and no-onex elses
So fuck-you Middle CJ.ass America
And f'uck-you Russia
and fuck-you fullar
and fuck-youl
Poet's comment: the above poem reeks with :ilnµlature
petty emotionalism. But I am an jm-
mature petty emotionalist who re-
ref'uses to be bothered with labels.
The Poet

New York T:imes Says: Upon first glance it see:rp.s to be worthless, but after caref'uJl
examination we find that it isn't even worthless.
Bosley Cr.owl"°
666
',.I

When Love Breaks and Enters and S;tops and Searches Without Warrept

When Loves breaks and enters and stops and seaches without warrent
A shuffiing band deep in pocket passerby
Without even explination
And the doors open to destiny
Like elect.r ic eye superma)dd)t doors
All :in moments when life seems transparent
and the morning air is filled with promise
and the thorn between the thigh tickles
with passion and sends tingles 'bo the toes
and through the m.ind

It shall be then, when a4;e rushing water of reason
breaks the dam of mass produced emotion and assembly-line
magic,
when the burden of the past lightens
and t ear filled laligb.ter· pt-egnent witfu godliness replaces
screams of breathi:hg agony
on the gray-sheeted bed of re birth

It· shall be then, the pessimistic smile of thought vanishes,
vanquished by loves sli.mlt, slimey·hope.

Alan Jules Weberman
The Ena of Septembre
1964.
A Solution lies amid the stars •••

TJte ari-sw·m··· to
your vexing existence
beyond the- horizen
not far from where you are encamped
lies
Covered-over
By the gray-green grass of time too long past·
:imperceptible to man's slight
eyes
With blick.<.w eeds,
Death, Doom and Destruction
Cont:inuaJJ.Y gnaw:ing at its
seeds and roots
unsla.khble :in its thirst for human waste
devoid of self correcting or diserning
taste
as its constant force makes haste to ruin

Hunger, want, need and disease
aid and abet it in its war
Ha.te,distain, and misplaced emotion
aggrevate the sore
Ma~s lln.lrder, freedoms abortion and dogmatic belief
conspire and cause the cut to fest er
and become a wound
Enthusiastically gangerine sneaks :in
without a sound
its virus giving birth
to fever and infection
with engulfs the entire earth

But the answer that lay afar
Where can we receive an answer to the unansvrable?
And when ve have learned it
to whom shall we teach
that the sih]iutiOn to the riddle
of existence
is not within mans reach ?

From-AFTER'WORDAEPIC POEM OF LOVE AND
DECEPI'lON-1964

Al.an-Boph "Webernan
,.'The Great Escapist

Soon, swiftly and silently
I shall abandon this world
of strained consciousness
Into the waittllig abyss
of hypnotic detached stupor
Where unknowingly we connnit
crdmes of the worst order
slaughtering half-truths
and social illusions
Condem:i.ng the Past
and sentencing the future
While lost in a surrealist
dream-universe
f'ull of futfl:e attempts
to light another joint

from The Uonfessions of a YQu.ng Pot-Heasi

author unknovm at present
Conresaions of a Poor Poet
"Who :wou1d rather ):!low Ppt.
Someday I shall be brought before a botery
and reluctently admit I 'Write third rate pe~try
in f ront of those I wish to impress
and those I wish to caress
and those I wish to obsess
Then it shall be doctr:ine
that I am a has been
And my time has been spent all to soon
:in the underheated room
of certa:in death and eventual doom
*********
My fate foretold on the bud of a flower
In f'urnished rooms where I shall cower ·
in fear
waiting to heair the echoes of footsj}eps
scaling the stone- s:f)eps
one-by-one
and love·· ·· entering my a:bode stre"tom
with remnants of the hazy pa-st
blown by an arbitrary wind
which exits silently
through my m:inds·
confused passageways
************
Soon, swiftly and silently I shall abandon this world of strained
consciousness
Into the waiting abyss of hypnotic detached stupor where_.lie unknowlligly ~vt
commit
Grimes of the worst order, slaughtering half-truths and social iJJ.usions
condemnin~
~he past and sentenc:ing the :f'trlrure, while lost in a perscion dream-universe
of futile aptempts· to light another joint

Heads Lament
I'll give you a golden leaf for a block of keif
Or a thousand in cash for a block of hash
Or an awf'ul lot for a nickel of pot
A weeks· pay for a dynamite jay
An autographed hardball for a tuinal
~copy of<·the·. pschidel±c review for a tube of §lue.
ISll stop su:rferin i f you lay on a buf'f'erin
...
ODE TO MILLERS HIGH LIE'E BEER

Perhaps it not in the serious poet's repotiore
to extol the virtues of an ale
I c&m can hear the cries of' commercialism
and screams of scDJ'ldel in my ears
When th,. the critics r ead a poem dedicated to beer.
Ah, but i owe it so much
as I suspect ethers are afraid to say
it loosed my toungv and opened my fly
during my first lay
and aidtid me inexpressibly
to forget.
My thumb has been cut-open by its flip-top 'Cap
My clothes have been stained by it's yellow tan
l4y money has been consumed by its bloated price
.And my virutes have forsakerl me, and vice
replaced 'em
Maybe some day I w:i.11 renounce it
and in place of it consumme alcohol purely distilled
but until that day
A day which holds no hidden fear
I will still consume my daily qua:Dt of beer
Ah, but m owe it so much
as I suspect others are afraid to say
like ~he time I became courageous
and defended that spllde-cat in that bloody fray
and it strelized my wounds
now helled
l1v mind has been poisened, my body wrected
4~rAs the glass bottle stands erect
~ I raise my voice to protect
the sacrosactity of its holiness
to the multidues who pour it do'm there gullets
But when it shall be no crime to fear doom
and the heavans lift around the emtpy womb
in the under heated room
of many a miscarrage
then, and only then, like t he ancient Buddi st Monk
sha11 we know what it is to be drunk••

Alan Jules Weberman
Ineruate Inebrate
1964,.
.',
...
At-.wits Ena Garner .

adapted from a r.eligous street poem
distributed by a foiij;y~second street
. angry evangilist · ·

Are you standing at Wit's ind Gomer
A christian with.troubled brow?
With one hand in your~ pocket
and your head hanging low
Well dig it E>J!e-· man, don't turn to god
even if the whole world seems agaillst yo:u
Just·. smoke some pot · ·
and go on the nod

Are yoiJ>s:t;anding at Wit's End Corner
BJ.in~ with wearing pain?
Feeling as i f you can no longer go ,on
and can no longer: bear the .strain
Well· dig it man, don 1t turn. to Goa
Just cop tea
And you 111 be like me
On the nod· ·
(; .
Are· you standing at Wits End orner
Bent out·of your mind
Head banging low and Slllrile on yourfac"'
As· i f you have no more truth .to find
Well, I see you haven't .turned to· GOd
But youve copped some tea
and gone on the nod·